There is a moderately interesting piece on Jerry Lewis in GQ. It’s a pretty favorable portrait and makes we want to go back and watch all his brilliant masterpieces, until I remember that I’ve seen some of them, not in quite some time, but still, and never particularly liked them. I also have a vague memory that they made me uncomfortable in some sort of undefined way.
Because the article is about comedy and pre-1975 Hollywood there is an obligatory Milton Berle has a huge cock story:
Once, probably sometime in the late 1940s, there was a birthday party for Eddie Cantor’s wife, Ida. Among the guests: Fanny Brice, Leo Durocher, Danny Kaye, Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, Jack Benny, George Burns, Gracie Allen, Milton Berle, and Lewis. Everyone’s eating and talking and carrying on when, between the hors d’oeuvres and the brisket, Berle emerges from the kitchen with a tray of chopped liver.
“Milton comes out—you know where this is going, don’t you?” Lewis asks. I nod. If it’s a Milton Berle story, you can assume it involves Berle’s legendary schlong. “It’s laying on top of the chopped liver, surrounded by all the garnish!” Lewis exclaims, utterly delighted. “And he’s walking around to each person at the party: ‘Do you want some? Do you want some chopped liver?’ He made fifteen to eighteen moves, and everyone is crippled with laughter. Crippled. I couldn’t do anything but stare at it. I said, ‘Jesus Christ. It’s true.’ “
Also, apparently Jerry Lewis schtupped EVERYBODY in Hollywood (at least according to him). Really? Jerry Lewis?