I closed the set with the Bobby character. Terry's mom had sewed me a bonnet to wear. I would then drop my pants to reveal towels tucked into my underpants, giving the impression I was wearing a diaper. I immediately launched into a series of filthy observations in that cute little falsetto.

Nothing but brilliance. It was worth every penny of that $17 they paid me. It was so exciting. I thought I had arrived. I was a featured act. I was being paid. I was on the marquee, even though you had to walk downstairs to actually see the marquee. I truly loved being the featured act for that week, and by the way, Terry truly loved the George Harrison concert.

By the following week, life had returned to normal. I continued to hang out at the club every night, doing my comedy sets in the regular lineup.

Life was good. Terry was great, so I decided to take it to the next level. I asked her to marry me. Actually, that sounds a lot more romantic than it was. One night after my set, we went across the street to Meyers Delicatessen. She ordered a corned beef sandwich. I had the pastrami. When the sandwiches arrived, I told her I had to go to the men's room. As I got up from the table, I reached into my pocket, pulled out a diamond my father had helped me purchase, threw it on the table, and said, "If you want to make an engagement ring out of that, let me know. I'll be right back, I gotta p.i.s.s." I don't know why Hallmark never hired me.

As cra.s.s as this may sound, I want you to know that Terry is one of the least romantic people I've ever met, so as unromantic as this sounds, it happens to be who we are. Over the past thirty years, I've brought home flowers once. Her response was "Who gave you these?" You would think her response to this landmark gesture would've been, "Wow, how romantic, these are beautiful." Truth be told, they were given to me by the set decorator on St. Elsewhere St. Elsewhere, who was going to throw them out anyway. Terry knows me too well.

In 1979, I decided to take a week off work and visit Los Angeles, for no other reason than it sounded like a great vacation. I had never been anywhere but Toronto and Miami.

Our tour group consisted of me, Terry, Lou Dinos, and two of our noncomedy friends, Jeff Weiman and Cindy Kleinberg. We landed in sunny Southern California, which seemed so culturally different from anything I had ever experienced. This trip was supposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime sightseeing vacation. As I sit here thirty years later, I feel like Gilligan. In 1979, I was embarking on what was supposed to be my three-hour tour. Yet here I am marooned in the midst of a beautiful life and unbelievable career. You have no idea how far this is from what I ever dreamed I would be doing. I'd always figured that if I were ever lucky enough to be writing a book at this stage of my life, chapter 5 would likely focus on the wearability of s.h.a.g carpet.

One of the top tourist destinations in Los Angeles was the world-famous Comedy Store. It seemed that everybody who was anybody in comedy was being discovered there: Freddie Prinze from Chico and the Man Chico and the Man, Jimmie Walker from Good Times Good Times, and Robin Williams of Mork & Mindy. Mork & Mindy.

As luck would have it, the night we happened on the Comedy Store was amateur night, which featured lesser-known comedians. I saw people outside I recognized. One of these was Mike Binder, a young comedian from Detroit whom I had met at Yuk Yuk's. He was now living in Los Angeles and told me that he was a regular on a comedy game show called Make Me Laugh. Make Me Laugh.

This was a half-hour syndicated show that did not air in Canada. It was hosted by Bobby Van and featured three comedians who would be on every night for an entire week. Each comedian would take a minute to entertain a contestant. The challenge was to not laugh. For every minute they didn't laugh, the contestants would win money. As if comedy is not hard enough, why not perform for people who are paid not to laugh? That being said, it was a hugely entertaining show.

Mike told me about the show and introduced me to the executive producer, George Foster, who also happened to be there that night. Mike knew the ropes at the Comedy Store, so he helped me sign up for a set. I just thought of this as another fun moment in my vacation. In no way was I aspiring to move my career along. I don't think that I was aware there was a career to be had.

After regaling the American audience with my five-minute Yuk Yuk's routine, Mike told me that George Foster thought I was a good candidate for Make Me Laugh. Make Me Laugh. I was invited to his office the next day. This trip was turning out to be much more than I had envisioned. I was invited to his office the next day. This trip was turning out to be much more than I had envisioned.

The next day I showed up at the gates of KTLA, an independent local TV station that was also the locale for numerous TV productions. I had been on the Universal Studios tour, where I don't believe I got anywhere near real show business. The closest I had gotten was a plastic-looking shark jumping out of a lagoon and splashing our tram. Here there were no tours, just giant warehouses filled with people making television shows. When I got to George's office, he told me that I was very funny and ordered me to make his secretary laugh. I can't remember what I did, but apparently it was worthy of being invited to appear on the show.

I was asked to make myself available for one day. The show taped five episodes in a day, which aired over the course of a week. I flew home and had a great story to tell about my vacation.

At this point, my father and I were in the lighting business together. The company had expanded to the point where we had a very nice downtown office and a sales staff of fifteen, including Lou Dinos.

One day at the office, I got a call at three in the afternoon asking if I was available to do an impromptu show at seven that same night. Without hesitation, I said yes. I had committed. I asked for directions to the club. And then came the details.

It was not going to be at a club. The venue would be slightly bigger. I was to perform at Maple Leaf Gardens, Toronto's largest indoor arena, and be the opener for Earth, Wind & Fire's sold-out concert. As I listened to the details, I was sure somebody had to be playing a joke on me. This was 1979, and I was not that well-known. But as it turned out, I was what the promoters needed.

A few weeks earlier at a concert for the Who, eleven fans had been trampled to death in Cincinnati. The papers attributed the tragedy to crowd mismanagement. The promoter had just realized that Earth, Wind & Fire's production setup was running behind schedule. Rather than pushing the show back a half hour and holding the huge crowd outside, risking a repeat of what had happened in Cincinnati, they came up with the brilliant idea of putting a comedian on the stage. The comedian would perform as they continued to complete the setup.

They explained the procedure for the show to me. The lights would go down, and I would take the stage. Behind me in the darkness, the crew would continue the final preparations for the show. They would then signal me that the band was ready to play, and I would wrap up.

I thought, Maple Leaf Gardens! That's where the Toronto Maple Leafs play. This is my hometown. I excitedly called Terry. She and a group of our friends came down. The entire experience was surreal.

I had to finish my work at the office first, so I arrived backstage just minutes before the show. I had hoped to meet Earth, Wind & Fire, but there was no time. As the lights went down, I heard the deafening roar of fifteen thousand people. It seemed as if the voice of G.o.d came over the PA system and announced, "Before Earth, Wind and Fire takes the stage, please welcome local comedian Howie Mandel!"

The roar dulled, but it still remained louder than anything I had ever heard for me. As I walked onto the giant stage, I was blinded by a spotlight. I looked out into an endless abyss of darkness and began my act. I don't remember the specifics, but it was not going over that well. So like most young, inexperienced comics when the going gets tough, I went for the filth. I started using the f-word. The laughs came. These were young concertgoers. The laughter began to build. Not that I was particularly funny-they were responding to the vulgarity alone.

My confidence returned. I veered back into my regular routine. Once again, I could hear the roar of fifteen thousand people. I had them in the palm of my hand. As I finished one particular piece, I noticed I didn't get a response. I moved on. In the midst of the next piece, I began to feel the audience wasn't listening to me. They began chanting, "Earth, Wind and Fire! Earth, Wind and Fire!" I had lost them. It was as if I weren't even there. I figured if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, so I chanted, "Earth, Wind and Fire!"

When I was six months old, the only thing coming between me and the world was plastic. To you it's just a sheet of plastic; to me it's my destiny.

This is me at four years old with "the baby" in the cage behind me.

My prizewinning smile on the vacation in Miami during which I was bitten by a sand fly.

I think Mom and Dad wanted my brother Steve and me either to be flight attendants or to work for Century 21. Early 1960s.

At fifteen, I always overdressed for picture day.

The most amazing couple ever, my parents, Al and Evy Mandel.

I don't know if this is me at my bar mitzvah or just a Canadian Jew wearing a hat and scarf.

This is Terry, the beauty I finally convinced to go out with me. You can see the excitement in her face.

April 19, 1978. Yuk Yuk's, Toronto, Canada. My very first performance ever on my way to becoming an author.

My first marquee, for my first real job in comedy, September 1979.

Backstage at Yuk Yuk's minutes before I took the stage for my first paid gig.

Working toward my $150 doing Donny the half man, half chicken at Yuk Yuk's during my feature.

Left: A rubber glove, a handbag, a career, sometime in 1982. A rubber glove, a handbag, a career, sometime in 1982.

Below left: My first night at Caesars Palace opening for Diana Ross. I'm standing in a paper bag doing my impression of groceries, and contemplating the silence. My first night at Caesars Palace opening for Diana Ross. I'm standing in a paper bag doing my impression of groceries, and contemplating the silence.

Below right: Doing what I believe is my big closing. About to find out it's not over. Doing what I believe is my big closing. About to find out it's not over.

Mid-1980s at the Bismarck Theatre in Chicago, shooting my North American Watusi Tour for HBO.

My very first billboard on Sunset Boulevard, 1984. A star is born.

Look, Mom, I am a doctor doctor! (Some of the cast, clockwise from top left: William Daniels, Ed Flanders, Denzel Washington, Ed Begley Jr., David Morse, Ellen Bry, Cynthia Sykes and moi moi.) I always wanted a mustache, but not under my nose. It's real, folks. I kept it for three months.

On the set of A Fine Mess A Fine Mess, being regaled with stories from the legendary Blake Edwards.

I looked over to my left, and there was a stagehand frantically motioning me over to him. I couldn't just walk off in front of fifteen thousand people in the middle of a routine. Then it hit me. This must be my signal that they were ready. This had to be the moment I was supposed to introduce Earth, Wind & Fire.

So I quickly segued to my closing, throughout which the audience continued to chant. With a combination of relief and excitement, I screamed into the microphone, "Ladies and gentlemen, enjoy Earth, Wind and Fire!" No one even flinched. They just continued chanting, "Earth, Wind and Fire!"

I ran offstage, confused. The stagehand ushered me through the backstage hallways to a hockey dressing room. He told me to wait there and then slammed the door behind me.

I waited for a few moments. Finally, I tried to open the door. It was locked. I started to panic. I had no idea what had happened. I was just onstage a minute ago, and now I was locked in a hockey dressing room. I could hear the entire Maple Leaf Gardens arena reverberating with the chant "Earth, Wind and Fire!"

As I was banging on the door, trying to get out, a booming announcement began: "Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention. Earth, Wind and Fire would like to separate themselves from the vulgarity of the opening act, so the concert will be delayed by twenty minutes."

I was in a state of shock. I was banging and kicking against the door. It was as if I were trapped in an insane asylum. I wanted to run out there and trample eleven people. After the announcement, one of the crew members unlocked the door. I found Terry and ran home in a haze of public humiliation.

I realized that if I'd had a chance to meet Earth, Wind & Fire, none of this would've happened. Apparently, at this time they were very spiritual and religious. One of the reasons they were unavailable to meet me was that they were in a room praying. I found out that as soon as my first vulgarity was uttered, production was instructed to pull the plug on the microphone. When I spoke into the mike, I could hear my voice through a small monitor at my feet. I had no sense of how it sounded in the arena. I now realized how I had gone from fifteen thousand people loving me and laughing with me to being so completely turned off. It wasn't the audience who was turned off; it was the sound. Hence they began to chant. I was disgraced and hung out to dry in my own hometown. As devastating as this may sound, I took solace in the fact that I had played the stage at Maple Leaf Gardens, and I was indeed in show business.

In hindsight, I believe this was G.o.d's way of giving me a taste of my own medicine. I can't remember any other time in my life when someone wanted to be separated from me because I was the dirty one.

Within a few weeks, I got a call from NBC. They said d.i.c.k Shawn had seen me on Make Me Laugh Make Me Laugh and wanted to use me for his pilot. I told them I knew nothing about planes and was embarra.s.sed to find out "pilot" was the term for a test episode of a new TV series. I happened to be a big fan. He was great in the movie and wanted to use me for his pilot. I told them I knew nothing about planes and was embarra.s.sed to find out "pilot" was the term for a test episode of a new TV series. I happened to be a big fan. He was great in the movie The Producers The Producers as. .h.i.tler in the play within the movie. His stand-up was also legendary. as. .h.i.tler in the play within the movie. His stand-up was also legendary.

Without hesitation, I told my dad I would have to take more time off and fly back to L.A. Again, I a.s.sure you I just considered this a happening. I will admit I found it really cool to be able to tell everyone, "I have to fly to L.A." I had never met someone who had to be in L.A. for anything.

Not long after that, I got a call from The Mike Douglas Show. The Mike Douglas Show. The booker there had also seen The booker there had also seen Make Me Laugh Make Me Laugh and wanted me to appear on his show. This call was even more thrilling because I had watched Mike Douglas's talk show every day of my life. He was one of the early pioneers of daytime talk shows. One week, John Lennon and Yoko Ono had co-hosted with Mike. It seemed surreal. I again told my father, "I have to fly to L.A." The guests on that episode were Bobby Vinton, Adolfo "Shabba-Doo" Quinones, who would go on to star in a movie called and wanted me to appear on his show. This call was even more thrilling because I had watched Mike Douglas's talk show every day of my life. He was one of the early pioneers of daytime talk shows. One week, John Lennon and Yoko Ono had co-hosted with Mike. It seemed surreal. I again told my father, "I have to fly to L.A." The guests on that episode were Bobby Vinton, Adolfo "Shabba-Doo" Quinones, who would go on to star in a movie called Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo, a singing bird, and a twenty-three-year-old engaged lighting salesman living with his parents in Toronto, Canada, by the name of Howie Mandel.

My stage act was expanding. One night, because I had nothing else to do-yet another blank moment of terror onstage-I pulled out a rubber glove I carried for germ protection and thought, I'll pull it over my head.

At first, I did a rooster impression. The audience laughed. I then pulled the glove even farther down below my eyebrows and over my nose. As I was breathing through my nose, the fingers were going up and down. More laughter. Next, I decided to exhale through my nose and inflate the glove until it popped. The audience roared. I thought, Oh, my gosh, I have a new closing.

For years after that, I was known as "the guy who put the rubber glove on his head." There was no talent involved, but people would still request it. They'd yell, "Do the glove!" It became my signature piece.

What I have come to realize is that you can't decide something will be your signature piece. You just do something, and it becomes your signature. The things that you become known for and the things that bring the biggest response can't be planned.

Not too long after that appearance, Alan Thicke called and asked me to come and tape many segments on his new nighttime variety show in Vancouver. Alan's show segued into Thicke of the Night Thicke of the Night for American consumption, and eventually he starred in for American consumption, and eventually he starred in Growing Pains Growing Pains, which you all remember I was never a part of. I returned to my father's office and told him once again, "I have to fly to L.A." I just thought that sounded better than Vancouver.

For all these appearances, I was being paid what is known in the business as "scale." Scale in show business is considered minimum wage, but I can a.s.sure you that scale is nowhere near real minimum wage. For an appearance on a show like Mike Douglas Mike Douglas, acting silly for a couple of minutes and answering two or three questions, I was paid something like $300. At Yuk Yuk's, I had to do eighteen shows to earn that kind of money.

So here's how my mind worked. If I am constantly being called and asked to spend a few minutes with people for $300, can you imagine how much I would make if I decided to do this full-time? I'm young. I have my whole life ahead of me. I can always rejoin my father's business. I've got nothing to lose.

I remember heading into my father's office, saying, "Dad-"

"Don't tell me," he interrupted me. "You have to fly to L.A."

"Yes, but this time it's different," I said.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I'm not coming back."

I don't think he said anything, but then again what could he say? He would never tell me not to go. He would never say that it was a crazy idea. Like my mother, he would only support me and love me unconditionally. That had always been my parents' way.

Now, I don't know if you remember this, but I happened to be engaged, and there was a wedding being planned for March 16, 1980, by the bride's family. I've never been one for etiquette, but I think it's customary for the groom to inform the future in-laws that he will be quitting his job and moving their daughter to California.

Terry's parents were horrified. I thought their fears were ridiculous. Now that I'm a parent of two daughters, I understand. But at that time, most people growing up in suburban Toronto never moved out of town even for college, much less to Los Angeles without a job. My basic pitch to them was: "Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to take your daughter two thousand miles away to another culture and try to care for her by putting a rubber glove on my head. Don't worry." This sounded great to me, and this also ensured that our wedding would have out-of-town guests: us.

December 15, 1979, was the date that Terry and I moved permanently to Los Angeles. I quickly learned that jobs weren't as easy to come by as those random phone calls I was receiving in Toronto. I would do odd sets here and there for $50 or $75. We virtually lived off of our savings.

As for accommodations, we made a deal with the manager of the Holiday Inn at the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland. The roof of the hotel had a revolving restaurant with a view of the entire city. Traditionally, revolving restaurants are propelled by a huge, noisy motor. I know this because for a very good price we were given the room with the motor. Needless to say, that didn't last very long. After a few pit stops, we ended up with a quaint apartment in Studio City. We bought a hibachi and fed ourselves cheaply most nights. If we wanted to splurge once a week, we could afford to go to Art's Deli and split a double-decker sandwich.

There are no words to describe how exciting that time was for both of us. We were living in California. For the first time, we had our own place. And we were hanging out at the Comedy Store every night.

Before we knew it, March 16 had arrived. We flew to Toronto on an overdrawn credit card to attend our wedding. Luckily, our parents had asked most of the guests to give us cash in lieu of gifts, so we were able to repay our credit card and retain some savings.

I had a lot of fun at my own wedding. I wore a top hat and tails and carried a white cane. I remember coming down the aisle tapping that cane as if I were blind, mumbling to guests in the sanctuary, "Can anybody see her? Is she pretty?"

During the ceremony, the rabbi asked me to repeat after him: "I take Terry ..." I repeated, "You take Terry ..." He said, "No, you take Terry." I said, "Forget it, you take her." The rabbi did not find me funny.

The evening turned out to be one of the highlights and best decisions I made in my life. The honeymoon, not so much. I just outlined my financial circ.u.mstances, so you will be able to understand. Before we flew in, I had negotiated a deal with Mark Breslin in order to make this wedding trip a twofer. I would fly in for the wedding, therefore he would not have to pay for my travel, as he did for other out-of-town acts, and I would be a featured headliner at Yuk Yuk's for three nights.

From a business standpoint, this was a very good deal. Personally, not so much. The night following my wedding, I was performing on the stage at Yuk Yuk's-with my bride on a stool next to me. I informed the audience that I had gotten married the previous night and they were all taking part in our honeymoon. In subsequent years, we have traveled and seen the world but have never actually gone on a designated honeymoon. I'll let you in on a little secret: I have decided to bring Terry on the book tour to promote this book as a second honeymoon.

So here's how the story goes up until now. Boy meets girl. Boy finds comedy. Boy brings girl to comedy club. Boy marries girl. Boy brings girl back to comedy club for honeymoon. Boy and girl move on to new chapter.

Up until this point, I had been a guy who did comedy-but now I was a comedian. comedian. An unemployed comedian. An unemployed comedian with a wife, who was also unemployed. An unemployed comedian with an unemployed wife living off of our wedding cash. To those people who didn't receive thank-you notes, I can't tell you how grateful I am for your contribution. An unemployed comedian. An unemployed comedian with a wife, who was also unemployed. An unemployed comedian with an unemployed wife living off of our wedding cash. To those people who didn't receive thank-you notes, I can't tell you how grateful I am for your contribution.

Our whole life became centered around the Comedy Store. This was the mecca. Anybody who was anyone in show business was either in the audience or performing. This was the place to be and be seen. The caliber of comedy was top-notch. On any given night, the lineup could've included Steve Martin, Billy Crystal, Robin Williams, or Rodney Danger-field working out his Tonight Show Tonight Show routine. The MC might've been an up-and-coming comedian by the name of David Letterman. There was always a huge crowd lined up along the Sunset Strip waiting to get in. Being part of this was not only exciting, it changed how I approached comedy. routine. The MC might've been an up-and-coming comedian by the name of David Letterman. There was always a huge crowd lined up along the Sunset Strip waiting to get in. Being part of this was not only exciting, it changed how I approached comedy.

Richard Pryor had also been showing up nightly to hone his act before filming his concert movie Live on the Sunset Strip. Live on the Sunset Strip. It was amazing to watch him create something from nothing. On one particular night, I believe I witnessed the epitome of brilliance. I can't remember the exact wording of the routine, and I'm not going to do it justice, but it had a profound impact on me. It was amazing to watch him create something from nothing. On one particular night, I believe I witnessed the epitome of brilliance. I can't remember the exact wording of the routine, and I'm not going to do it justice, but it had a profound impact on me.

Pryor is onstage portraying himself as the Lord. The audience is responding with convulsive, euphoric laughter. He then tells the audience that he has to leave and get back to doing the Lord's work. He's down here only to pick up his son. The laughter continues, and so does Richard.

"Where is my son?" he asks, looking out into the audience. "Have you seen him? He's a young Jewish-looking boy with long hair and a beard. Has anybody seen Jesus?" He pauses and waits for an answer from the audience.

The laughter begins to die down. Everyone is waiting to see where this is going. Then he listens, as though someone is answering him silently. A look of horror appears on his face. A long, uncomfortable pause as realization sets in.

"What the f.u.c.k did you do with my son?" He pauses. "You did what?" His eyes start to fill with tears, and he starts to scream in pain, "How the f.u.c.k could you do that? That's my son, that's my baby. That's my boy. What the f.u.c.k is wrong with you people?"

He then gathers himself and says, "All right, I need to talk to Saint Peter. Bring him here now. Where is he?" The laughter is now completely gone. His eyes widen. As if in total disbelief, he says, "Him too?" Pause. Then with painful resolve, he says, "Okay, then I need to talk to Martin Luther King." Pause. "Where's Dr. King? What? ... When? ... Are you f.u.c.king kidding me?"

Tears are now running down his cheeks. As he seems to be physically writhing in agony, he turns his back to the audience. The tension in the room builds. He slowly turns back to face us as he implores us to bring him John F. Kennedy. Pause. He looks at us and screams, "How could you? No! No!" Then silence. Then tears.

His eyes look like daggers piercing each and every audience member. He sweeps his arms, pointing at everybody in the audience as if he were accusing each and every one of us. Through his tears, he says, "You're on your own." And he walks off the stage, down the center aisle, and out of that room in silence.

Everyone sat there emotionally paralyzed. They had just been confronted with the reality that humanity has been destroying itself. Within the span of five minutes, we had gone from the heights of convulsive laughter to the depths of dark despair-and he had controlled that. It was the most brilliant moment I had ever seen in performance.

That night changed my approach to performing. Aside from being emotionally moving, what Pryor had done was incredibly brave. It was unheard of in the world of comedy to try to elicit anything but laughter. Even if it was thought-provoking, it was usually laughter just the same. To go up onstage and share an incredibly dark truth and elicit tears goes far beyond the realm of comedy. That bravery inspires me to this day to push my own comedic envelope. That being said, I don't believe I have the capacity ever to create anything even close to the brilliance of Richard Pryor.

I was now hanging in this world among the great and soon-to-be-great comedians. As fun as this place was to be, it wasn't very warm. Each comedian was vying for his own moment in the sun. The only person who ever talked to me was Jay Leno, whom I'd met at Yuk Yuk's. He would provide me with transportation. Can you believe it, Jay Leno actually had a car. He would pick me up and take me to other clubs, where we would do our acts. He's always been a good, down-to-earth guy and remains that same person today.

Each week was devoted to landing spots at the club. You would call the Comedy Store on Monday with your availabilities. Getting a spot was intensely compet.i.tive. You would then call back on Tuesday morning to find out the days and times of your spots. Landing each spot was like winning the lottery.

I would usually end up with about five spots for the week. I always hoped one would be on a Thursday night, when producers and casting directors from the various networks and shows would be in the audience to handpick talent. Just about every job I got at that time, such as Norm Crosby's Comedy Shop Norm Crosby's Comedy Shop, Showtime's Laugh-a-thon Laugh-a-thon, and The Merv Griffin Show The Merv Griffin Show, was from being seen on Thursday.

I operated like an entrepreneur. I realized more than anything this was a business. If I was booked on a show, I would send out flyers to the casting people to make sure they tuned in. The call from Merv Griffin Merv Griffin came in at two in the afternoon for a four o'clock taping that same day. I (almost) didn't want to do it, because I wouldn't have time to publicize my appearance before the show aired the following day. There was no time to take out a small ad in came in at two in the afternoon for a four o'clock taping that same day. I (almost) didn't want to do it, because I wouldn't have time to publicize my appearance before the show aired the following day. There was no time to take out a small ad in Variety Variety, and I was upset that my name wouldn't be in TV Guide. TV Guide. This was way before TiVo, so I was afraid n.o.body in the business would see me. It was still very exciting for me to be appearing on This was way before TiVo, so I was afraid n.o.body in the business would see me. It was still very exciting for me to be appearing on Merv Griffin Merv Griffin and working with the lead guest, Desi Arnaz, who'd played Ricky on and working with the lead guest, Desi Arnaz, who'd played Ricky on I Love Lucy. I Love Lucy.

Terry and I called Toronto and told our parents to watch. As soon as the show aired, my parents called and told me how proud they were. Terry's parents didn't call. They didn't call the following day, either. Finally she called them, but they didn't mention the show.

At last Terry asked, "Did you see Howie on Merv Griffin?" Merv Griffin?"

"Yes," her mother replied. "So what happened?"

"What do you mean?" Terry said.

"Well, we turned it on the next day, and he was gone ... he got fired, didn't he?" she said.

It took them a while to grasp this whole show business deal.