Hello, Dummy

Knowing that I would be seeing Don Rickles perform last Saturday night, I set up this post in advance and called it "Hello, Dummy" in honor of his 1968 record album. Except I never realized at the time that the post title would be more apropos of the waiter I had that evening. Such is the tale of my adventures at The Grove of Anaheim. But, first, a little back story...

Last fall, when I saw a sneak preview of the HBO documentary on Rickles, "Mr. Warmth," at the LA Film Festival, I got into this whole re-discovery of just how good this guy can be when you see him live. I had seen him perform many, many moons ago at the Westbury Music Fair and I was shocked to see that Don was still doing about 25 tour dates a year. A quick internet search led me to Rickles' website and, lo and behold, he was playing some place in Anaheim on April 5. A perfect notion and an even more ideal Christmas gift for my friend, the Anonymous poster from the Barbara Judith Deluxe Furnished Apartments on Hollywood Boulevard. Slam and dunk.

I rarely venture down to Orange County unless, of course, there are mouse ears involved. The Grove of Anaheim is a curious little supper club that looks more like the airplace hangar from the finale of "Casablanca." It's actually tucked away in the left field corner of the Angel Stadium parking lot and, since there was a game going on at the same time, I could literally watch Diamondvision from my car.

When I ordered these tickets last December, my charge receipt said "Dinner Service Required." Which meant that, besides the cost of the ticket, you also had to show up two hours prior to the show and have dinner. Simple enough. Little did I know that I would be eventually longing for the sanctity of "Panda Express" which I spotted across the street. Because, indeed, the simple act of eating a meal should not be as complicated as engineering the end to the Vietnam War.

The Grove of Anaheim is really a throwback to the old Vegas lounges. It is one big hall with tables and chairs all situated around a stage. The only thing missing were some slot machines and that's probably only because some Indian tribe hasn't yet claimed this area of the Angel parking lot. We got there right on time---two hours prior to the show---and were immediately escorted to a table very close to the front. So far, so good. There was a menu on the table and, though the fare was limited, it was certainly manageable.

And then we met our waiter. David.

Within the next two hours, David would come to represent to us the inadequacies of the Orange County work force, the shortcomings of the Mexican border patrol, and the positive attributes of euthanasia all in one neat package. In a kindly retrospective moment, I would like to think that perhaps this was David's first day on the job. Or the planet. But, never before in my life, have I encountered someone as clearly inept and stupid as David. And, trust me when I write this, I have met a lot of idiots in my time.

It started well. As soon as we sat at our table and perused the menu, David was right there to take our order for drinks, appetizers, and entrees. He said he was going to be back immediately with some rolls and butter. And he was. He brought us butter. The rolls would be a story for the next hour.

I noticed that David had also taken the order for the two tables adjacent to us. And then disappeared. From the premises. For all I know, he might have gone over to the ballpark to watch the middle three innings. Because it would be a long, long, long time before any of us ever saw David again.

Some girl brought us our appetizers. And, then a few moments later, some silverware. The beers, which would have gone very nicely with our shrimp tempura and pork potstickers, were obviously still brewing. I noted that the tables around us were also having similar issues. Except they didn't get the correct appetizers. We had one advantage. We did have butter. But no rolls.

After about twenty minutes, David finally re-emerged from the mist as if he was in "Wuthering Heights" and brought us our beers. Of course, when he inquired as to the mysterious rolls, he said he was going to be right on it. But, first, he needed to address all the things had fouled up at the other two tables. And, then this deaf, dumb and blind plate spinner ramped up his challenge significantly by taking the dinner order for a fourth table. I watched him as he entered this into the kitchen computer and finally realized another of this boy's deficiencies. Given that this kid probably grew up on an X-Box, it was startling to me that it took him almost 15 minutes to input an order. I know kids who probably finished their SAT exams in less time.

And then he disappeared again.

After 45 minutes, we got tired of looking at our appetizer plates. So we bussed our own table. Picked up the plates ourselves and brought them over to a service tray. And then went to another service station and got our own rolls. We considered doing this for the other tables around us and perhaps picking up a few dollars to cover the cost of parking.

By now, David's ineptitude was becoming legend throughout the Grove. The diners at the various tables started to compare their horror stories as if it were September 12, 2001 all over again. I joked that New Orleans got FEMA relief after Katrina faster. We motioned to anybody who even remotely resembled Grove management. We all heard that David was on his way out of the kitchen. By way of Sacramento.

Ironically, the food at the Grove is quite good. Or perhaps it tasted better because nourishment is always more satisfying after you've been on a two week hunger strike. As blood sugar levels started to reach their deepest levels, David finally returned with food. Most of the people at the other table got the wrong orders, but, at this juncture, they didn't care. Everybody ate what was put in front of them whether they liked it or not.

As the show was ready to start, David made his unfortunate rounds to collect money and we all tearfully said our farewells to our credit cards. I envisioned that mine could possibly wind up someplace in Arizona. I listened to David as he did the money transactions. He had an almost robotic disclaimer. "I'm sorry about all the problems. I'm sorry about all the problems. I'm sorry about all the problems." As he spoke with such utter precision, I figured this was the only thing he does correctly every night. Apologize.

Of course, the Bangladesh-like conditions aside, the evening was a pure delight. About 30 minutes prior to the show as we were still trying to determine the nutritional value of our tablecloths, we spotted Don Rickles' manager walking the room and surveying the people in the front rows. And I realized what he was doing. He was "casting" the show. He was looking for an Asian, a Black guy, a fat person, a Mexican, etc. to be Don's targets. I wanted to call him over and tell him where he could find a stupid waiter.

In pure Vegas style, the headliner can't possibly appear without the audience being subjected to some opening act. In our case, the grossly under nourished denizens of Tables 213 through 215 were subjected to somebody or something called Jennifer Joseph. As she was being introduced, some strange chick came over to us and asked if we would cheer loudly when Jennifer appeared. An odd request made even more inappropriate by the severe levels of famine we had just endured.

Jennifer Joseph is one of those Vegas entertainers who has never had a single original moment on stage. In front of the audience in a off-the-shoulder black pant suit and wrapped up with more hair extensions than the Woolworth's cosmetic counter, she was essentially an episode of "The Simpsons." Since she was Miss Nevada some years ago, she broke up her musical set with stories about how much community outreach Miss America contestants do. I thought to myself that, if this was truly the case, Mary Ann Mobley or Bess Myerson should have been here an hour ago with a basket of bread. Every number was a complete rip-off of somebody else's act---from Bobby Darin to Aretha Franklin. When not talking about her talent portion of the Miss America pageant, which might have consisted of a demonstration on how to pack a suitcase without wrinkling your clothes, Jennifer was talking about how much she has learned from watching Don Rickles work. Huh? My guess is that Miss Joseph is chowing down in the local Baja Fresh ten minutes after she gets off stage.

Finally, Don Rickles appears to a thunderous ovation. Hunched over like an 82-year-old would be, Don looks his age. But, he is still razor sharp. His first 15 minutes on stage was like the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. Machine gun fire. One joke after another. Perhaps my most laugh-filled quarter-hour ever on Earth. Sheer brilliance. And since his manager had done the appropriate prep, Don knew exactly where his foils would be. The Chinaman over here. The fat lady over there. The Black guy two rows back. In an age where political correctness has created a stranglehold on anything remotely humorous or creative, only Don Rickles can get away with what he does on stage. He nails them all. Jews. Nazis. Negros. Pollocks. Chinks. Japs. Queers. At the same time, he does more for improved relations between nationalities and races than our politicians could do in a hundred speeches. Because when Rickles talks about us kidding each other, he does so with such sincerity that no one else could begin to muster.

Luckily, there were some B and C list celebrities in the audience that also got to be on the Rickles receiving end. Steven Weber. John Stamos. Jack Klugman. All of them had been served on time. They were obviously not seated at one of David's tables.

After 90 minutes of this truly great performer, I was hungry for more. I wanted to find where Don Rickles was appearing next.

I will, however, eat ahead of time.

Dinner last night: Smoked turkey sausage.