Can you believe the uproar on the boob tube?
Late night talk show hosts have turned into sulky little boys. Conan O’Brien is Dennis the Menace, refusing to accept a later time slot. He’s taking his marbles and going home. Jay is the Beav, pouting because his 10 p.m., five-nights-a-week experiment crashed and burned.
Jimmy Fallon—let’s call him Opie—is keeping quiet about his show being bumped into insomniac oblivion. David Letterman is Eddie Haskell: He doesn’t care as long as his salary isn’t affected.
I didn’t like Leno’s gig messing up my 10 p.m. shows, specifically “Law & Order SVU.” But that’s as far as it went. Personally, I don’t care if the only show on after 11:30 p.m. is “How to Can Kumquats, Part 4.” By then, I’m either in bed or surfing YouTube for old clips of “The Carol Burnett Show.”
I’m probably prejudiced on the subject, because to me no one will ever fill the shoes of Johnny Carson. I grew up watching him on “The Tonight Show.” Dad liked his predecessor, Jack Paar, but couldn’t stand Carson. “He has too many nervous tics,” Dad said. “I can’t watch him twitch his tie one more time.”
Mama, however, was a fan for life. On special occasions I was allowed to stay up with her, but I had to be quiet after Ed McMahon belted out, “Heeeeeeeere’s Johnny!”
I’d lie on the bed beside her as she stubbed out cigarettes in a crystal ashtray, played solitaire on the bedspread and laughed her head off. “Johnny’s got that dry, Midwestern wit,” she’d say, which sounded awfully sophisticated to this buck-toothed country girl.
I remember several hilarious bloopers. Once, when they still had live commercials, a dog rushed out to eat the Alpo and then gagged it up. Several guests making their grand entrances got tangled up in the stage curtains and thrashed around blindly.
I also saw the infamous skit in which actor/singer Ed Ames, who’s part Native American, gave a tomahawk-throwing demonstration using a wooden silhouette of a man. He threw the tomahawk awkwardly and it struck the silhouette right between the legs. Ames laughed so hard he couldn’t stand upright.
I’ll bet many of you remember that show, too.
A couple of other memorable Carson segments: A diapered baby orangutan, cradled in his arms, puckered its lips and reached up to give him a sensuous smooch. Carson looked the ape in the eyes and went into hysterics. Then he tried to burp it.
The other is my all-time favorite: Singer-songwriter-composer Roger Miller (“Dang Me,” “King of the Road”) was the main guest. He had a show, “Big River,” opening on Broadway.
It was obvious he and Johnny were old friends. As they bantered back and forth, Carson sad, “Roger, you live in New Mexico, far from Nashville and Broadway. Why do you live in New Mexico?”
Miller drawled, “Well, it’s near my house.”
Johnny reared back in his chair, pawed the air and then buckled forward over his desk. He was teary-eyed and speechless with laughter. And my mother howled too, waving her cigarette and scattering cards everywhere.
Conan who?
Julie R. Smith, who is hurtling headlong towards Curmudgeon Street, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.