To this day, people will approach me and say, "I loved the Gizmo voice." I'm not trying to burst their bubble when I tell them that the Gizmo sound is the same sound I use for Bobby in Bobby's World. Bobby's World. Not to drag it down any further, but the Bobby voice is the same sound I used for Skeeter on Not to drag it down any further, but the Bobby voice is the same sound I used for Skeeter on Muppet Babies. Muppet Babies. It's not as if I don't have a vast array of sounds. I was also Bunsen Honeydoo and Animal on It's not as if I don't have a vast array of sounds. I was also Bunsen Honeydoo and Animal on Muppet Babies. Muppet Babies.

I eventually started to turn down roles. It was so hard for me to relinquish control and sit on set for three months and then wait another six months for an audience reaction. Eventually, film offers stopped coming my way. I can say with near certainty that there will never be a Howie Mandel Film Festival.

By the end of the 1980s, I had sold out comedy concerts, done dramatic acting on a critically acclaimed medical series, and starred in various motion pictures. And now once again, another turn. I was approached by two old friends, Jim Staahl and Jim Fisher, who had a deal at Fox Kids Network. They wanted to develop the Bobby character into a Sat.u.r.day morning cartoon series.

Up until now, Bobby was a voice I was doing at the foot of my parents' bed and a vulgar-spewing little boy in my stand-up act. I had no idea how to hone this into a program for kids. Purely out of a lack of ideas, we started talking about things that happened to us in childhood and to our own children. These stories became the background for the show. Bobby's World Bobby's World was eventually nominated for Emmys, was syndicated worldwide, and became a Happy Meal. Wow, s.h.i.t happens. was eventually nominated for Emmys, was syndicated worldwide, and became a Happy Meal. Wow, s.h.i.t happens.

n.o.body was more excited about my career than my father. When I was shooting on set, he would fly to L.A. and hang out on the soundstage of St. Elsewhere St. Elsewhere or any movie I was doing. He also loved being on the road. When I toured, he would fly to my shows. He'd stand in the wings, always laughing no matter how many times he had heard the same routine. If I was featured in a small article in or any movie I was doing. He also loved being on the road. When I toured, he would fly to my shows. He'd stand in the wings, always laughing no matter how many times he had heard the same routine. If I was featured in a small article in People People, he would go into every 7-Eleven and open the magazine to the page with me on it. I felt as though all of it-every performance, my entire career-was just for my dad. I had come a long way from standing at the end of his bed trying to make him giggle.

One day in January 1989, my mother called me in tears. "I think there is something definitely wrong with your father," she said.

My heart dropped.

My father, who had been a smoker until five years earlier, had a cough that wouldn't go away, so he went to our family doctor. He got an "uh-oh." The doctor sent him for a lung X-ray. When my parents called for the results, the doctor asked them to come in for a meeting. They both knew that it was a bad sign if they couldn't get the results over the phone.

I tried to put on an optimistic face. I told my mom that we didn't know what the results were and that I would fly in and meet the doctor with them. I got to Toronto the next day and went directly to the doctor's office.

We were sitting in the waiting room. I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Without my parents knowing, I went into the doctor's office and told him that I was Albert Mandel's son. I asked him what he had seen on the X-ray. He said that my father had inoperable lung cancer. The doctor then informed me that my father had no more than one month to live. There couldn't have been a more dire diagnosis. Those words shook me to my core.

"Okay, I'm going to get down on my knees and beg," I said to the doctor. "You cannot tell them that he has one month to live."

"What?" he said.

"You cannot tell them," I repeated. "Don't lie, but avoid telling him he's dying."

"I don't believe in that," he said.

"I do."

I believe the only thing that can help people through tough times is hope. If they are going to die, they are going to die anyway. They die the moment you tell them, because they lose hope. People always say, "You have to get your affairs in order." I don't know what that means. Maybe that's because I don't care about material things. What's important to me is the quality of life right to the end.

I begged the doctor not to tell them. I think the fact that he had seen me on TV playing a doctor helped, because he finally agreed that only if they didn't ask directly, he would not deliver the death sentence.

I returned to the waiting room. It was the hardest acting I've ever had to do. In the face of the worst news I had ever heard in my life, I regained my composure and sat back down next to my parents. They had always been there for me. Now, for the first time in my life, I was trying to be there for them.

They didn't know I had gone into the doctor's office. My mom asked what took so long. I told her some lame joke about having a bladder infection because it wouldn't come out. I made a few more jokes. They were the hardest jokes I have ever made, and they weren't the least bit funny. I was just trying to act as though I hadn't heard what I'd just heard.

When the receptionist called my father, we all went into the office where I had just met with the doctor. Very professionally, he clipped my father's X-rays to the backlit wall. No layman could conclude anything by looking at them.

The doctor measured his words. "How do you feel?" he asked my father, who responded that he was congested. The doctor nodded and took out his prescription pad. "I'm going to prescribe these pills, which may open up your airways," he said. "If you take this pill, you should feel better." My mother and father were both too scared of the answer to ask the question. I knew the doctor wouldn't lie and that if they had asked if it was cancer, he would've had to say yes.

The fact that he had told my father to take some pills to help his breathing made all the difference in the world. When my parents walked out of that office, my father had a little hop in his step even though he was coughing and could barely breathe. They had obviously expected the worst and now with no mention of cancer had a glimmer of hope.

We got in the car and drove to Max Milk, a convenience store. My father bought a lottery ticket. Nothing says hope and future like a lottery ticket. We went home. He clearly didn't feel well, but he hadn't been given a death sentence.

My feeling is that what you don't know doesn't bother you. I've never believed more in my life that ignorance is bliss. We all know we are going to die. I don't need to know when. I don't need a date. I couldn't live knowing when I was going to die. There are a lot of people who think it's better to know all the details, and I respect that. But it seems that everybody should call that for themselves, instead of a doctor making that decision for them.

My father became progressively sicker. Ten days later, he was hospitalized. I took him to the ER and admitted him. They checked him into a room and helped him undress and put on a hospital gown. They gave him a plastic bag for his belongings, sweatpants, shirt, and gla.s.ses. To this day, I have that bag on a shelf in my bedroom.

My mom and I went home that night from the hospital, and I told her the prognosis. I'm pretty sure that she already knew, but not having heard it from the doctor, she hadn't been forced to face it.

Lung cancer is a cruel disease, and for the next three weeks, I witnessed the most harrowing things happen to my father. It was like watching somebody slowly drown or choke to death. I can't think of anything more horrific. I was in his room at his bedside, and I watched him die. It was horrible. There aren't words to describe that feeling.

My father was gone, and it was so hard to fathom that I would never see my dad again. I now believe in the afterlife, but I didn't up until that moment. Even on a scientific level, energy cannot be destroyed, it can only change form. There is no more tactile an energy than the life force.

I don't know if you've ever sat in a quiet room at a desk doing work and felt that somebody was watching you. There wasn't a noise, you just had a sense, and I'm not talking about sound or sight. You turn around and there is a person there. You didn't hear or smell that person; you just felt his life energy.

When my father was p.r.o.nounced dead, I had a feeling that he was still there. He wasn't in his body, but he was in the room. Four or five minutes had pa.s.sed. The nurses were disconnecting various medical machines from the body. Impulsively, for reasons I can't explain, I screamed, "Dad, please, Dad!" at some ent.i.ty I felt in the room. I sensed that energy come back down into his body, and then he took one more huge gasp and released. Everyone in the room was taken aback, because he had been p.r.o.nounced dead minutes earlier. He was gone, but from that moment on, I have always felt he is constantly with me.

I had never even been to a funeral, and now I had to help arrange one. I was amazed at how things were all taken care of in a very businesslike manner. The funeral home director began telling me what I would need. In the Jewish religion, we sit shiva, which is a seven-day period of mourning. There are certain rituals involved in this, and everything needed was available for rent from the funeral home. Most people probably find that convenient, but I found it really strange.

The mortician made his pitch. "People will come to your apartment to visit you after the burial, so for twelve dollars a week you can rent a big plastic container where people can put their boots," he explained. "For an extra sixteen dollars, we can include a coatrack."

This is not a bad thing, but it truly is a little like a used-car lot. I'm not knocking the mortician, because he is providing a service. I just find shopping for coffins weird. It's a wooden box that goes into the ground, never to be seen again. There was one with a Star of David on top and another with bra.s.s hinges for an extra $300-does it really matter?

After we buried my father, we returned to my parents' apartment to sit shiva. As is customary, friends send trays of food to comfort and feed the mourning family. They had worked out a schedule between them: "You take lunch on Tuesday, I will handle Wednesday." Each day, we thanked the people who brought the trays and then spent the rest of the afternoon talking about how great the lox was. "His death was terrible, but you know something, this fish is tremendous."

For seven days, there was a constant flow of people in and out of the apartment paying their respects. On one particular afternoon, an elderly man approached me and asked if I was the son. I said that I was.

"Can I just say your father was a great man," he said.

"Thank you very much, sir," I said.

"I'll never forget your father up on that hill in Acapulco," the man said. "Boy, could he sing."

I nodded politely until I realized what he had said. "My father didn't sing."

"What?" he asked.

"I don't think my father sang, and I don't remember him going to Acapulco."

The man looked confused and then asked, "Is this the Levinson shiva?"

"No, that's on the sixth floor," I said.

"Please excuse me," he said.

Instead of leaving, he made his way over to the fish platter, took another serving, wrapped it in a napkin, and then left for the Levinson affair.

On shiva day four, a man my father's age approached.

"You're Howie," he said.

"Yes," I said.

"I was good friends with your father, and I just want to say he will be sorely missed."

I was about to say, "Nice to meet you," but all I got out was "Nice to-" as he then turned on a dime and ran out of the apartment. I wasn't sure what had happened or if I had done something wrong.

As he was running toward the door, I noticed that he had dropped something. It looked like a piece of candy in a shiny cellophane wrapper. I bent down to pick it up. As I touched it, my fingers sank into the candy. I held it closer to my face to smell the substance. It hit me: Oh, my G.o.d, it's s.h.i.t! This guy just s.h.i.t his pants. The t.u.r.d had dropped down his pant leg onto our living room carpet. As bad as that might sound, it was much worse. This man's s.h.i.t was now all over my fingers. I couldn't talk. I couldn't breathe. I just began to scream.

My mom rushed to my side. "What's wrong? What's wrong?"

I couldn't get the words out of my mouth. "There's sh ... sh ... s.h.i.t on my hands!"

"What happened?" she asked.

"That man, that man s.h.i.t on the carpet," I managed to say.

She held my hand away from my body and led me into the bathroom like a two-year-old. She turned on scalding water and put my hands under the faucet. She went to the bar in the living room and grabbed the vodka and tequila and whatever other alcohol was available. She then came back into the bathroom and doused my hands with the liquor. I was screaming, and so was she.

"Oh, my G.o.d! Oh, my G.o.d!" I wailed.

"Please, please, Howie, calm down," she said.

The mourners in the other room were listening to us wailing, thinking that we had been overcome by grief. I was was devastated. Talk about a bad week. I had just buried my father, which made me feel like a piece of s.h.i.t-and now to make matters worse, on my fingers was an actual piece of s.h.i.t. I guess s.h.i.t happens. devastated. Talk about a bad week. I had just buried my father, which made me feel like a piece of s.h.i.t-and now to make matters worse, on my fingers was an actual piece of s.h.i.t. I guess s.h.i.t happens.

So many things personal and professional continuously change in one's life. My one constant has been stand-up. From that moment on April 19, 1978, when I took the stage at Yuk Yuk's, I realized that my comfort zone was standing onstage behind a mike with a light shining on me. Many people in show business use stand-up as a stepping-stone to other things, whether it's movies, TV series, directing, or hosting a late-night talk show. Jim Carrey, David Letterman, and Mike Nichols are just a few examples. Once they find success in that new field, they abandon stand-up. For me, whether I was in the midst of St. Elsewhere St. Elsewhere, filming a movie, or creating Bobby's World Bobby's World, my real home continued to be onstage.

I can remember only one time where it didn't feel right. That was after the loss of my father, which was the darkest moment of my life. I can remember my first time back onstage. The introduction might as well have been, "Ladies and gentlemen, Socko the Clown." I certainly didn't feel funny. Being silly and making a few thousand strangers laugh felt somewhat awkward. I would look to the wings and search for my father. Not seeing him standing there watching me was even more devastating. It felt so wrong, but I had obligations to meet.

In the Jewish religion, it is traditional to say a prayer before sundown each and every night for a year to commemorate the memory of the deceased. This prayer is to be done with at least ten men. I had never been that observant, but I wanted to show respect for my father. I had it written into my contract that no concert would start before sundown, and the promoter was to find me a group of ten Jewish men for my prayer service. Was this too much to ask? Apparently, yes.

The problem was that in many of the small midwestern towns, there were no synagogues and very few Jews. When a promoter couldn't find ten Jews for me to pray with, he would check the death notices in the local paper, pick me up at the airport, and drive me to a funeral of strangers. I would ask if they minded if I prayed with them before I went off and did my comedy show.

Eventually, I worked my way back into feeling comfortably uncomfortable onstage. The discomfort of which I speak is the all-encompa.s.sing fear I crave. The fear that drew me to this career. The fear of not knowing what's going to happen next. The fear of not being accepted by the audience. You might ask yourself, "Why would any human subject himself to this?"

My a.n.a.logy has always been of a roller coaster. I happen to love roller coasters. If I rode a roller coaster that glided smoothly past a couple of trees, I would probably never go on it again. On the other hand, the scarier it is, the closer you think you are coming to death, the more physically uncomfortable it is, the more fun the ride is. That's exactly how I felt the first night onstage at Yuk Yuk's. That's the feeling I've chased every night since. I continually wanted to get back on that roller coaster. Fear is my fuel.

I've read some self-help books like The Power of Now The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle. The basic philosophy of this book is that all of us live either in the past or in the future. We make our decisions based on what has happened or what might happen. You make the decision not to show up at a party for fear an ex-girlfriend might be there. Or you avoid the party because last time it was boring. Just because the party was boring last time doesn't mean it won't be fun this time, and the ex may never show up. If you base your decision on these thoughts, the only guarantee is that you will miss the party and the opportunity to meet someone who could end up being a positive in your life. by Eckhart Tolle. The basic philosophy of this book is that all of us live either in the past or in the future. We make our decisions based on what has happened or what might happen. You make the decision not to show up at a party for fear an ex-girlfriend might be there. Or you avoid the party because last time it was boring. Just because the party was boring last time doesn't mean it won't be fun this time, and the ex may never show up. If you base your decision on these thoughts, the only guarantee is that you will miss the party and the opportunity to meet someone who could end up being a positive in your life.

As an anxiety-ridden victim of OCD, on any given day you may find me in my hotel room spreading towels so my feet won't touch the carpet out of fear of what might get on them in the minutes to come. I could be scalding myself in the shower to wash off the germs I believe I've picked up in the past hour. If I could just focus on the now, I might realize I'm okay. The only place that I've found the ability to do this is onstage. Every other issue seems to disappear as I live in the moment of performance.

A perfect example of this was my audition for The Tonight Show The Tonight Show in front of Joan Rivers. I was so sick that I believed my future was certain death-until the moment I hit the stage. Then all was forgotten. The adrenaline rushed, and I delivered. But the moment I said good night and walked off the stage, the shadow of death was back upon me. in front of Joan Rivers. I was so sick that I believed my future was certain death-until the moment I hit the stage. Then all was forgotten. The adrenaline rushed, and I delivered. But the moment I said good night and walked off the stage, the shadow of death was back upon me.

This is the reason a good portion of my act is improvised. I do have set material, but what I love is when an audience member or a happening takes me off that beaten path. I would love the microphone to go dead. I would love the lights to go out. I would love for somebody to scream or come toward the stage. My shows are like my interactive thrill ride. I will not let myself be complacent or comfortable. I can't tell you how exciting it is to me to have these happenings force me into the now.

To this end, I have no preparations or rituals when it comes to stand-up. There are times when I'm talking to somebody prior to a show in my dressing room. The stage manager will alert me that we will begin in five minutes. Inevitably, the person I'm with will say, "I'll give you a couple minutes alone." That's the worst thing you can do to me. I have nothing to do, and I don't want any more time with myself. I really don't. All the distractions I look for in life are about trying to get away from myself. And then the moment I crave: I hear my tour manager, Rich, announce, "Ladies and gentlemen, Howie Mandel!" The lights go up and I am enveloped in fear.

As much as I use this fear as a glorious distraction, there are times this discomfort does not serve me. I could be standing in front of an audience of five thousand people who are roaring with laughter. If I happen to notice one person who is not being entertained, my whole evening becomes about that one guy. Every thought, every joke, every gag, is now directed at him. I forget the entire audience, and in my mind I put myself back on Make Me Laugh. Make Me Laugh. The other 4,999 people can give me a standing ovation, yet all I can think about is the one guy who didn't seem to like me. The other 4,999 people can give me a standing ovation, yet all I can think about is the one guy who didn't seem to like me.

I consider my performances giant parties with me just trying to be the center of attention. I want all eyes focused on me, all the time.

One particular night, I had two thousand people in the palm of my hands-except for one man in the front row just off to my left. He seemed to refuse even to look at me. He would look everywhere but at me-left, right, up, down. It was as if someone had dragged him to this concert and he couldn't wait to leave. The rest of the audience was hanging on my every word, convulsing with laughter. Finally and impulsively, I exploded into the now. now.

At this moment, no thought of the past or the future existed. Past: The audience had been laughing for the last hour. Future: What I was about to do could derail the entire show. I could not hold myself back. I didn't have any funny place to go. I just had to get it off my chest.

I said to the audience: "Can I tell you something? This guy sitting in the front row is not paying any attention. He hasn't looked at me once." I pointed to him. "What the h.e.l.l is your problem?"

Everyone was laughing in antic.i.p.ation of where I might be going with the discomfort I was imposing on this poor man. When I end up doing things like this, my mind becomes a blank slate. In no way could I possibly antic.i.p.ate what his answer would be, or my response.

The man just sat there, continued to look away, and did not say anything.

I demanded, "Sir, you with the red shirt, I'm talking to you. you."

Now the audience grew quiet, waiting apprehensively for his response. Finally, like a knife piercing through the silence, the woman sitting beside him screamed, "He's blind."

Oh, my G.o.d. You could hear a collective gasp from the audience. A little piece of me died in that moment. I've never seen humor get sucked out of a room faster. It was like death. I thought, Where do I go from here? I like unpredictable, but this was crazy. I could feel my heart in my underpants-at least I think it was my heart.

I've always believed honesty is the best policy. "Ladies and gentlemen," I started, hoping to work my way past the embarra.s.sment, "you have just witnessed a huge mistake in comedy, and I'm going to be totally honest with you, I don't know how to get out of this. You've enjoyed the show up until this moment. I hope you've gotten your money's worth, because I don't know where it's going from here."

The audience seemed very uneasy, and so was I. Then I thought, I'm already in the s.h.i.thouse, I might as well ask what I'm thinking. Again, pure honesty coupled with impulsiveness. I directed my questioning back to the blind man.

"Sir, I am so sorry. I had no idea you were blind."

He responded, "That's okay."

"But I have one question for you."

You could feel the nervous tension building in the room. Here comes the question: "Why the f.u.c.k does a blind man need front-row seats?"

The audience exploded with laughter, along with the blind man. Whew! I had been pulled back from the brink. I continued to the woman he was with: "You should've saved your money and bought the cheaper balcony seats and just told him he was in the front row."

Those are some of my favorite moments in performance. The audience senses the electricity, an invisible feeling that what is happening now is dangerous, has never happened before, and is never going to happen again. That is the power of now. There is something perversely entertaining about seeing a comedian in trouble. This relates to my interpretation of a sense of humor. If somebody is in trouble and flailing, you've got to find the funny there. I use finding the funny as a coping skill in life.

Throughout the 1990s, I continued to sell out huge venues and multiple shows, some of which were doc.u.mented on various cable specials. I did Howie Mandel on Ice Howie Mandel on Ice for HBO and for HBO and Howie Spent Our Summer Howie Spent Our Summer for Showtime. After for Showtime. After St. Elsewhere St. Elsewhere finished its six-year run, I did about seven pilots for TV shows that never came to fruition. finished its six-year run, I did about seven pilots for TV shows that never came to fruition.

But then in 1996, Michael Gelman, the executive producer of Live with Regis and Kathie Lee Live with Regis and Kathie Lee, started calling and asking me to fill in for Regis. Michael is the consummate producer. It's probably one of the few shows I've ever done where I didn't need any preparation. The guests were booked. If there was going to be any business, it was all preset. I could show up fifteen minutes before the show, powder my forehead, and go on the air. It was such an easy gig. I had a funny repartee with Kathie Lee. She was straitlaced, and I was a crazy comedian.

Michael also knew I liked to prank people, so he suggested we do it on the show. He was the one who gave me a pair of hidden camera gla.s.ses and sent me out into the world.

One piece I remember in particular was when they took me to the Empire State Building and outfitted me as a tour guide. I waited until a family who had been standing in line for three hours reached the front. I could see the antic.i.p.ation in their faces at the prospect of seeing the New York City skyline from the tallest building. I escorted them into the elevator as the tour from h.e.l.l began.

Within the small confines of the elevator, I took out a megaphone and began reading word for word the official tourist pamphlet. My volume was deafening, to say the least. The elevator stopped and I led them out. The tourists seemed somewhat confused. That confusion might have been due to the fact that this was the second floor. You could see the dismay on their faces as they looked out the window at the heads of pa.s.sersby on the street below.

Ever so meekly, the father said, "We came all the way from Des Moines. Can't we go to the top?"

"Not today," I said. "Now, please let me continue with the rich history of this man-made wonder."

I would go on for twenty minutes. People were so polite. They wouldn't interrupt. They would just stand there disappointed. At the end, we revealed that it was a prank and sent them back to the end of the line so they could get a real ride to the top. No, I'm not that mean, people. Off camera, they were escorted directly to the top for free without me.

My appearances on Regis Regis were so well received that I began to get offers to host my own daytime show. This was just another opportunity happening to me. So let's do a recap of my professional life up to this point: carpet salesman, comedian, television and movie actor, Sat.u.r.day morning cartoon, and now daytime talk show host. were so well received that I began to get offers to host my own daytime show. This was just another opportunity happening to me. So let's do a recap of my professional life up to this point: carpet salesman, comedian, television and movie actor, Sat.u.r.day morning cartoon, and now daytime talk show host.

I ended up making a deal with Paramount Television. The people there could not have been more supportive and excited about me. I had never been in a position where the producers served my every whim. The first thing I requested was to move into the old Tonight Show Tonight Show studio. Jay Leno had taken over from Johnny Carson and moved to the stage across the hall. I wanted to put my desk exactly where Johnny Carson had his. Paramount made it happen. studio. Jay Leno had taken over from Johnny Carson and moved to the stage across the hall. I wanted to put my desk exactly where Johnny Carson had his. Paramount made it happen.

The first day we took over the studio, I walked under the bleachers and found the cue cards from Johnny Carson's final broadcast. There were cards for Johnny's monologue, as well as introductions for Robin Williams and Bette Midler. The stagehands apparently had just thrown them down and walked out at the end of the night. I still have them.