I'm not somebody who watches "America's Got Talent," but I will confess to tuning in whenever I see the season finale is advertised. I am naturally curious to see just who in America has got talent. Now, I popped into the other night and saw a little girl ventriloquist win the big prize. It seems like every time I watch the season finale of "America's Got Talent" a ventriloquist grabs the top prize. That is actually refreshing as opposed to some over-the-top singer making a mess of an old Beatles ballad.
I saw nothing of this little kid's act, but the sight of her standing with her arm up the back of some rabbit flashed me back to my younger days. When an only child had to make his own fun all by himself.
And my big friend in the house was Jerry Mahoney. That's not my puppet above. The Jerry I had is long gone. Well, sort of. His head stills rests on a shelf in my New York apartment, hopefully to scare off burglars. But the photo is pretty much what I had around the age of six or seven.
Jerry was a Christmas gift one year and probably my most prized ever. Now this is not to say that my parents were envisioning me to be a gifted voice thrower. Oh, don't get me wrong. I did try that to some small success. I would try out "my act" on the kids up the block, who were the supreme critics.
"I can see your mouth moving."
Yeah, well, okay. It's not like I'm charging you an entertainment fee here.
For about a year or so, Jerry Mahoney and I were inseparable. Effectively, he was the little brother I never had. And, as I laid out sitcom sets in my basement, Jerry was the co-star of most of my "episodes."
I literally dragged him around wherever I went. Which is the very reason why, one day, Jerry's arm horrifically popped off. This naturally prompted the usual comment from Mom and Dad.
"You're too damn rough with your things."
No worries as long as my grandmother was around downstairs. She could sew anything and usually did. Jerry entered her hospital downstairs. She closed the door to the kitchen.
"Don't come in. He's having surgery."
Indeed, Doctor Grandma worked her magic and Jerry was soon on the mend. But, as what happens to most favorite toys of a child, I lost interest fast. Years later, when I found him in an old toy box when I was moving to my first adult apartment, his head had detached from his dusty body. For some reason, I kept it.
The calendar pages fly off and take us to a Christmas about ten years ago in Los Angeles. Back in the day when my friends on the West Coast lavished each other with many Yuletide gifts until we eventually arrive at the point where we run out of clever presents to buy. I had mentioned off-hand to one chum that I had a Jerry Mahoney dummy...um, ventriloquial figure...and that it had been a cherished Christmas gift.
That prompted her to buy me a Howdy Dowdy dummy as a gag. Actually, my roommate and I got a lot of mileage out of it. We would take turns scaring the other one each morning by putting Howdy in a myriad of odd situations.
Hanging from the ceiling fan.
Sitting in the refrigerator.
Duct taped to the dining room chair with a gag in his mouth.
Yes, we were bored comedy writers.
Since Howdy was so well received, my friend presented next Christmas a Charlie McCarthy dummy. And, the next Christmas, in a cry for diversity in our apartment, we wound up with Lester of Willie Tyler fame.
They still sit on a cubbyhole in my new apartment and they come out together to greet guests every Christmas.
Dinner last night: Hot dog at Shake Shack.
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