Inexplicably, that would be Borscht Belt comic Myron Cohen.
It's not like they ever saw this guy perform. But, for about a year when I was a kid, the above record album was all my folks ever played on the hi-fi. I have only very isolated moments where I actually saw my folks enjoying something together and laughing in tandem.
Myron Cohen was one of them. I have no idea how they connected with this guy, except he used to show up a lot on the Ed Sullivan Show. The guy's delivery was as Jewish as they come. Full of dialects and Yiddish phrases. What was all this about? My parents were as white bread as they come.
My mother picked up Cohen's first record album at Brodbeck's Record Store on Fourth Avenue in Mount Vernon, New York. She got the recording home and played it. She was doubled up on the couch in laughter.
Mom? Is that you?
I listened along and most of the humor went over my nine-year-old head. There was one joke that I remember to this day. It took me several times to get the gag.
"Two ladies are sitting at a bar, having a smart cocktail. One lady says to the other, 'Are you having another?' The other lady says, 'no, it's just the way the coat is buttoned.'"
Weeks later, I got it. Oh.
By then, the comedy train had left the station as far as my folks were concerned. This record was played over and over and over.
And over.
To make matters worse, my parents suddenly got into the sharing mode. No matter where they went or who they visited, Myron Cohen's record album went along. Suddenly, the centerpiece of any gathering was the group enjoyment of this humor.
"This is the Klopman Diamond. It comes with a curse. Mr. Klopman."
Ba-da-bing.
Meanwhile, I don't think a single listener in our midst was even remotely Jewish.
I started to parrot some of the jokes myself, complete with phony Yiddish accent. If this was funny stuff for my parents and their chums, the humor must be universal, right?
Um, not so much. I repeated some of my "favorite" Myron Cohen jokes for my buddies up the block on Fifteenth Avenue. Their reactions were uniformly the same.
"Huh?"
My fifth grade tenure as a little junior Sunshine Boy came to an abrupt and untimely end. Nobody my age seemed to have the affinity for Myron Cohen that my folks' generation did.
In retrospect, there was something very sweet about the community of laughs that gathered around my parents and their record album. When was the last time a bunch of adults sat around a hi-fi and participated as a group responding to a comedy record? You definitely don't see that happening today.
Whether I got the jokes or not, I pretty much knew the record album by heart. And, then, just as it seemed that my folks had pretty much exhausted their universe with Myron Cohen's platter, the unthinkable happened...
He released a second one.
Oy vey iz mir.
The cycle began all over again. My mom picking up the newfound gold at Brodbeck's. The constant playing in the house for a week or two. And then the scheduling of visits to friends and relatives near and far so they, too, could laugh along with them.
In a day when most people were waiting for the next Beatles' release, my parents were lining up for the new offerings from Myron Cohen.
Flash forward to years later, I was living on my own and enjoying newfound status as a HBO subscriber. Flipping through the TV Guide, I noticed that they had taped a Myron Cohen nightclub performance. Hmmm. This would be ideal entertainment for the folks when they came over at Thanksgiving. I popped one of those ancient tape cartridges into my clunky RCA VCR and recorded the event. Here is a short excerpt from that very show.
I was very proud to unveil my new find when they came over for turkey and stuffing. I thought this would be a wonderful touchstone for days gone by.
They sat and watched in stone silence.
Now some of the gags were the very same from the record albums. How did they work so well twenty years ago and not now? My dad's answer was succinct.
"It's not the same."
I thought about that afterward. And realized it sure wasn't.
A lot of my parents' friends? No longer in that classification.
Some of those relatives? No longer around in one shape or another.
My own parents? Amicably divorced.
Yep. It wasn't the same.
So, in the true sense of the adage, I guess you had to be there.
Dinner last night: Italian sub from Jersey Mike's.
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