Black Is The New White Part 8

"Don't you know?" Jane says. "You say to her the same things you say to me. You say, 'Hi, Faye, I'm Paul.'"

Fonda can see I'm freaking when we walk up to Dunaway's front door. "It'll be okay, Paul," she whispers to me. "Just pretend Faye is n.o.body. Pretend she's white trash."

Faye Dunaway answers her door and invites us in and says hi all around. "Hi, Faye, I'm Paul," I say. But then she smiles at me and I fall apart. "Jane Fonda tells me you're white trash," I blurt out.

Faye politely declines to go to Asia with us to f.u.c.k the military.

We go without her. The whole tour is modeled on Bob Hope's USO shows. He's the USO, we're the UFO-the United Freedom Organization. Nixon's buddy Bob Hope supports the war and entertains the troops. We figure the best way to support the troops is to be against the war that is killing dozens of them every week.

The military hates us. It tries to sabotage our appearances by putting out fake "corrections" listing the wrong time and place. At the back of every audience there are stone-faced military intelligence spooks looking to intimidate the anti-war GIs.

Fonda describes the show as "antiwar vaudeville." We do a lot of fragging-style humor, like a skit where I play a sergeant to Donald Sutherland's officer.

Sutherland: Sergeant, I want to get a watchdog. Sergeant, I want to get a watchdog.Me: But, sir, you're surrounded by thousands of troops. Why would you need a watchdog? But, sir, you're surrounded by thousands of troops. Why would you need a watchdog?Sutherland: Sergeant, I need a watchdog Sergeant, I need a watchdog because because I'm surrounded by thousands of troops! I'm surrounded by thousands of troops!

On the DC-3 airplane that takes the troupe around Asia, I get up close and personal with Fonda. She has just come off playing a hooker with Donald Sutherland in the movie Klute, Klute, the role that will win her an Oscar. She's living in Malibu, married to Brigitte Bardot's old husband, the French actor and filmmaker Roger Vadim. A real Hollywood girl. the role that will win her an Oscar. She's living in Malibu, married to Brigitte Bardot's old husband, the French actor and filmmaker Roger Vadim. A real Hollywood girl.

Jane Fonda as Bree Daniels in Klute Klute: "For an hour, I'm the best actress in the world, and the best f.u.c.k in the world." And later, when Donald Sutherland turns her down for s.e.x. "Men would pay two hundred dollars for me, and here you are turning down a freebie. You could get a perfectly good dishwasher for that."

Fonda really is lovely in person, fresh-faced and pretty. But I don't buy into her s.e.x-bomb reputation from the movie Barbarella Barbarella. Maybe it's the fact that on the tour she still wears her hair in a Bree Daniels Klute Klute-style mullet, which sort of cuts down on her s.e.xiness for me.

The troupe appears outside military bases and we wind up playing to sixty thousand soldiers. They're some of the best audiences I ever have. Those boys are into into it. j.a.pan especially is a mob scene. Fonda is a big star there because of it. j.a.pan especially is a mob scene. Fonda is a big star there because of Barbarella Barbarella. A sobering moment comes when we tour the Hiros.h.i.+ma Peace Memorial Museum. It reminds me what this is all about.

"Foxtrot-Tango-Alpha: FTA f.u.c.k the Army." That's the song with which we open the show. We have a film crew along on the DC-3, and a director named Francine Parker shoots the whole tour. The idea is to make a film of the show that will get FTA much wider exposure than any two-week tour can ever get.

It doesn't work out that way. Fran Parker does cut her film footage together to make a great doc.u.mentary. It captures not only the act but the b.i.t.c.h sessions we hold for the soldiers, including one I lead for a group of my homeboys from Oakland.

So F.T.A., F.T.A., the doc.u.mentary, is ready to hit theaters in 1972. It has a distributor, Hollywood mogul Sam Arkoff's American International Pictures. Arkoff normally handles B movies such as the doc.u.mentary, is ready to hit theaters in 1972. It has a distributor, Hollywood mogul Sam Arkoff's American International Pictures. Arkoff normally handles B movies such as I Was a Teenage Werewolf, The Wasp Woman, I Was a Teenage Werewolf, The Wasp Woman, and and A Bucket of Blood A Bucket of Blood.

But Arkoff is also trying to suck profits out of the social upheavals of the 1960s, like when he puts out the crazed "don't trust anyone over thirty" youth-revolution movie, Wild in the Streets, Wild in the Streets, in which Richard has a role. in which Richard has a role.

I'm excited for F.T.A., F.T.A., my first Hollywood screen appearance. It doesn't matter to me that it is a doc.u.mentary. I am going to be in theaters. On the silver screen, as they say, although to my eyes, screens in movie theaters have always appeared white-in more ways than one. my first Hollywood screen appearance. It doesn't matter to me that it is a doc.u.mentary. I am going to be in theaters. On the silver screen, as they say, although to my eyes, screens in movie theaters have always appeared white-in more ways than one.

But in July, without telling anyone in the troupe, Jane Fonda goes to Hanoi. The photograph of her sitting in the seat of a North Vietnamese antiaircraft gun hits the newspapers all over the world. The backlash is brutal.

Richard Nixon has one of his underlings call up Sam Arkoff. You want to put this commie pinko girl in American theaters? Maybe you're some kind of commie pinko yourself? Arkoff, the cowardly film mogul (is there any other kind?), caves. F.T.A. F.T.A. is pulled from distribution after a single week. is pulled from distribution after a single week.

No one sees my film debut for almost thirty-seven years, when a print of the doc.u.mentary is discovered. In 2009, F.T.A. F.T.A. is broadcast on the Sundance Channel and put out on DVD. As Jane Fonda says, "I wasn't blacklisted-I was gray-listed." is broadcast on the Sundance Channel and put out on DVD. As Jane Fonda says, "I wasn't blacklisted-I was gray-listed."

I don't lose sleep over it. I'm too busy losing sleep over another development in my life. I'm up all night keeping Richard Pryor company while he's partying.

He has emerged from his sojourn in the Berkeley wilderness. He's back in Los Angeles, and the two of us begin our dual a.s.sault on Fortress Hollywood.

Our first beachhead is a Sunset Strip club that opens in spring 1972, in the same building where Ciro's nightclub used to be, a place that will become my second home, my launching pad, and my battleground.

THE STORE.

CHAPTER 16.

After being holed up in his little efficiency apartment in Berkeley for a while, listening to Marvin Gaye and reading Malcolm X, Richard ventures out-to find dope connections, among other things. He goes around to clubs like the Purple Onion. He comes back and riffs into a tape recorder about talk he hears on the street.

Before, in Hollywood, I never see Richard read a book, but when I visit him, he's got his nose in The Autobiography of Malcolm X The Autobiography of Malcolm X, or, more and more, By Any Means Necessary, By Any Means Necessary, Malcolm's collection of speeches. He's got Malcolm's collection of speeches. He's got The End of White World Supremacy: Four Speeches by Malcolm X The End of White World Supremacy: Four Speeches by Malcolm X on his shelf, too. on his shelf, too.

"I like reading him because he shows me that I'm not out of my mind," he tells me. "It's the rest of the world that's nuts, not us."

He jokes when I tell him he's transforming himself. "Yeah," he says, cackling, "I switched from Courvoisier to vodka." As far as I can see, the switch doesn't affect his allegiance to cocaine. He is doing more than ever.

Richard pals around with Claude Brown, author of Man-child in the Promised Land, Man-child in the Promised Land, who introduces him to the poet Ishmael Reed and the Berkeley writer Al Young. He's going all intellectual on me. who introduces him to the poet Ishmael Reed and the Berkeley writer Al Young. He's going all intellectual on me.

And all political. I connect him up with my old high school pal Huey P. Newton, now a ferocious Black Panther on the FBI watch list. Huey puts Richard in touch with Angela Davis, another figure who scares the s.h.i.+t out of white America back then.

Richard turns his back on white America. The only white America for him is a line of cocaine. He ventures out to a few small clubs in San Francisco, trying out new routines, developing a whole new voice. He appears at Mandrakes, the hungry i (before it closes in 1970), and Basin Street West.

We cross-pollinate each other. This is the same period I appear at Ye Little Club, trying out routines, developing my whole new voice. It's funny, but running on separate tracks, we both come up with the same thing. We work out a similar way to talk onstage.

It revolves around the word n.i.g.g.e.r n.i.g.g.e.r.

Richard already uses n.i.g.g.e.r n.i.g.g.e.r onstage, especially at Maverick's and Redd Foxx's club. But during his exile in Berkeley, he transforms the word into a weapon. onstage, especially at Maverick's and Redd Foxx's club. But during his exile in Berkeley, he transforms the word into a weapon. Motherf.u.c.ker Motherf.u.c.ker and and n.i.g.g.e.r n.i.g.g.e.r battle for pride of place in Richard's vocabulary. It's the language of the streets, the words he hears every day around him in Oakland, Berkeley, and San Francisco. battle for pride of place in Richard's vocabulary. It's the language of the streets, the words he hears every day around him in Oakland, Berkeley, and San Francisco.

What we both like about the word is that it demonstrates a simple truth. White people cannot say it in front of black people without declaring themselves to be racist.

So when Richard and I use it onstage in front of an audience with both white and black folks in it, we are saying something that white people can't. It's forbidden to them, but allowed to us. Ain't too many things like that. It's liberating.

I study white audiences. Saying "n.i.g.g.e.r" in public also lets loose a ripple of nervousness, especially in a mixed crowd, which they deal with by laughing.

At Ye Little Club, I open my act a lot of times the same way: "A bunch of n.i.g.g.e.rs in here now." It's like throwing down a gauntlet. Black people laugh out of their recognition of street language, but white folks laugh out of sheer anxiety.

White folks make up the word n.i.g.g.e.r, n.i.g.g.e.r, and then get nervous when I say it. Ain't that a b.i.t.c.h? They shouldn't have made it up! They f.u.c.ked up. They even made up a song with it. You know the song I'm talking about. "Eeny, meeny, miney, mo ..." and then get nervous when I say it. Ain't that a b.i.t.c.h? They shouldn't have made it up! They f.u.c.ked up. They even made up a song with it. You know the song I'm talking about. "Eeny, meeny, miney, mo ..."

But they change the words when they see black folks around. "Catch a tiger by the toe ..."

Tiger? What are they talking about? I'm a ringmaster at the circus, and I know tigers. Tigers don't have toes, as much as claws. There ain't no tigers in America. But there are plenty of n.i.g.g.e.rs in America.

I tell white people that I say "n.i.g.g.e.r" all the time. I say it a hundred times every morning. It makes my teeth white. I say it, white people think it-what a small white world it is!

n.i.g.g.e.rn.i.g.g.e.rn.i.g.g.e.rn.i.g.g.e.r ...

It's a variation on the Lenny Bruce routine I hear in the lesbian bar in North Beach. Use the word enough, and it loses its power to wound.

If President Kennedy got on television and said, "To-night I'd like to introduce the n.i.g.g.e.rs in my cabinet," and he yelled, "n.i.g.g.e.r-n.i.g.g.e.r-n.i.g.g.e.r-n.i.g.g.e.r," at every n.i.g.g.e.r he saw, until n.i.g.g.e.r didn't mean anything anymore, until n.i.g.g.e.r lost its meaning, then maybe you'd never hear a four-year-old come home crying from school 'cause he got called "n.i.g.g.e.r."

Black folks brandis.h.i.+ng n.i.g.g.e.r n.i.g.g.e.r in public is nothing new. d.i.c.k Gregory's autobiography, in public is nothing new. d.i.c.k Gregory's autobiography, n.i.g.g.e.r n.i.g.g.e.r, gets published in 1964, and he says that every time he hears the word, it's like an advertisment for his book.

I figure it is about time for equal opportunity, since white folks have been spewing "n.i.g.g.e.r" for centuries. It's always "n.i.g.g.e.r" this and "n.i.g.g.e.r" that. I remember that old racist joke, which carries a sad truth. What do you call a black man with a PhD? White folks call him "n.i.g.g.e.r," of course. I guess Professor Henry Louis Gates, Jr. found that out quick enough up in Cambridge.

Every black person on earth has a story. About the time Richard and I start using it with a vengeance onstage in our routines, Michael Jordan is in school and gets suspended for punching out a white girl who calls him "n.i.g.g.e.r" on a school bus. Tiger Woods is in kindergarten when some kids tie him up and taunt him with the word. Obama, Oprah, everybody has a "n.i.g.g.e.r" moment.

It's onstage in Berkeley that I hear the first variation on Richard's most famous riff, the most telling single use of the word n.i.g.g.e.r, n.i.g.g.e.r, I think, in the history of the English language. I think, in the history of the English language.

White folks get a traffic ticket, they pull their car over and say to the cop, "Gee, officer, what can I do for you? Was I speeding?" n.i.g.g.e.r got to be coming at it a whole different way. "I am reaching into my pocket for my license. Because I don't want to be no motherf.u.c.kin' accident!"

He's not calling anyone "n.i.g.g.e.r" here. It's not a slur, it's a description. He's saying the word to describe a cla.s.s of people in society. The way Richard uses it, n.i.g.g.e.r n.i.g.g.e.r becomes a means to call out a whole black reality. It's a reality where a simple traffic stop can mean death. And cops stop black folks and treat them like n.i.g.g.e.rs becomes a means to call out a whole black reality. It's a reality where a simple traffic stop can mean death. And cops stop black folks and treat them like n.i.g.g.e.rs all the time. all the time. So we know exactly what he is talking about. So we know exactly what he is talking about.

Later on, after he puts the routine on his record That n.i.g.g.e.r's Crazy, That n.i.g.g.e.r's Crazy, Richard reacts with pure delight when he hears that, all over the country, street hustlers and skells are imitating his "I am reaching into my pocket" line verbatim when they get picked up by cops. He is imitating reality, and reality turns around and imitates him. That goes beyond keeping it real-that's keeping it surreal! Richard reacts with pure delight when he hears that, all over the country, street hustlers and skells are imitating his "I am reaching into my pocket" line verbatim when they get picked up by cops. He is imitating reality, and reality turns around and imitates him. That goes beyond keeping it real-that's keeping it surreal!

While he's still in Berkeley, Richard auditions for Motown's Berry Gordy, Jr., for a role in a movie about Billie Holiday's life. Gordy is just dipping his toe into the film business.

I want to tell Gordy, "No, no, turn back, proud black man! The music business isn't enough bulls.h.i.+t for you? You got to add Hollywood bulls.h.i.+t to your life, too?"

Richard keeps talking about the film project and how it is going to be his big breakthrough. He lets me read the script. Gordy's main Motown diva, Diana Ross, is going to play Lady Day. Richard's part is small and insignificant in the screenplay, which they're calling Lady Sings the Blues Lady Sings the Blues.

It doesn't matter, since the whole project looks like it's going down the tubes. Paramount, which Gordy is partnering with, pulls out, and Motown has to pay back the $2 million the studio invested. Gordy tells Richard that the project is delayed a year, which I know is Hollywood-speak for "Ain't never gonna happen."

Instead of costarring with a Supreme in a major studio flick, Richard does his own version of my movie F.T.A. F.T.A. when he acts in an antiwar sketch comedy called when he acts in an antiwar sketch comedy called Dynamite Chicken Dynamite Chicken. Just like Jane Fonda and Donald Sutherland are behind F.T.A., F.T.A., John Lennon and Yoko Ono are behind Richard's film. They get a whole bunch of celebrities to appear, people like Lenny Bruce, Jimi Hendrix, B. B. King, and Yoko herself. John Lennon and Yoko Ono are behind Richard's film. They get a whole bunch of celebrities to appear, people like Lenny Bruce, Jimi Hendrix, B. B. King, and Yoko herself.

Funnily enough-seeing as how Dynamite Chicken Dynamite Chicken is an antimilitary movie-the movie tanks. Richard throws himself into his three major consolations-vodka, cocaine, and p.u.s.s.y. is an antimilitary movie-the movie tanks. Richard throws himself into his three major consolations-vodka, cocaine, and p.u.s.s.y.

"I'm doing so much s.h.i.+t, the drug dealers are embarra.s.sed for me," he says when I visit him in Berkeley. "They look at me with pity in their eyes."

"Not enough pity for them to stop selling to you," I say. "Not enough pity in the world for that," he says, cackling.

I've seen a lot of p.u.s.s.y hounds, but never one like Richard. He rips through women faster than a rock star. He gets after my cousin Alice. He goes to bed with Diane DeMarko.

"You know, he's got a big one," she tells me afterward. She holds her hands out about a foot apart.

"No, I wouldn't know," I say. "We're close, but we ain't that close."

Richard reminds me of a frantic kid, running around trying to distract himself. He discovers Asian food and is always dragging me down to San Francisco's Chinatown. He buys a samurai sword and starts watching kung fu movies obsessively. He wants to make a kung fu movie himself. He wants to write. He wants to act.

I can tell Berkeley is over for him. It's done the trick. Richard's energized again. If he keeps up with this frantic bulls.h.i.+t, he's going to explode. I keep suggesting that stand-up is where it's at, the only place a black man can speak his mind without Hollywood going all Frankenstein on him.

I hear about a new place on the Strip in L.A., just opened by a couple of old-school schtick comics named Sammy Sh.o.r.e and Rudy De Luca. I tell Richard it's time for him to come back to Los Angeles. His exile in Berkeley has gone on long enough.

"Come down and do some shows at Sammy Sh.o.r.e's new club," I say.

Richard is slated to go to the Apollo in Harlem to debut his new act. He needs a small club to try out material. But Ye Little Club is too little for him.

"What's the place called?" he asks.

"They're naming it the Store," I say.

"Just like the Candy Store," Richard says.

"You got to watch yourself there," I say. "Folks are telling me white comics listen to your act, steal your best lines, and open in Vegas with the s.h.i.+t they steal."

"Ain't n.o.body going to steal nothing off me," Richard says. "Motherf.u.c.ker wouldn't know what to do with it."

He is right. Richard is never worried about anyone raiding his material. It's too much his. His delivery puts a stamp on it. Some other comic could do a Richard Pryor routine word for word, and it wouldn't come out as funny.

He closes down the dumpy Berkeley apartment, emerges from exile, and in spring 1972, we show up at the new club.

CHAPTER 17.

For the next ten years, all through the stand-up boom of the 1970s, the Comedy Store on Sunset becomes my main base of operations.

Sammy Sh.o.r.e, a geeky-looking old-style comedian with curly hair and a fleshy nose, opens the club. It's his spot, but he's never there. He's always on the road. He's a warm-up comic, the guy who comes on before the big act and gets the audience going. His main gig is opening for Elvis in Vegas. He likes to call himself the Man Who Makes Elvis Laugh.

In Sammy's absence, his wife, Mitzi, works the door. When it opens, the club isn't even a room. It's a bin. Just a s.p.a.ce hollowed out of the huge Ciro's building. There are no amenities, no decorations.

But it's not tucked away in Beverly Hills like Ye Little Club, it's right there on the dogleg of the Strip, between the Whisky and all the other rock clubs to the west and the Chateau Marmont to the east.

Mitzi is a good businesswoman. She keeps enlarging the club. The first s.p.a.ce is known as the Original Room, and when she takes over the whole building, she opens the Main Room. Then she makes room for a small s.p.a.ce, originally designated for female comics, and calls it the Belly Room.

Gradually, during the course of May 1972, Mitzi warms the place up. She hangs ferns. She puts a painting behind the bar. The decorative style goes from meat-packing warehouse to 1970s nightclub. A sign on the wall reads THE JOKES ARE FREE, THE DRINKS ARE THE JOKES ARE FREE, THE DRINKS ARE 75 75 CENTS CENTS.

Minding the Store: Robin Williams, Mitzi Sh.o.r.e, and me at the Comedy Store Sammy Sh.o.r.e going on the road is the best thing that ever happens to comedy in L.A. If the Comedy Store were left up to him, I'm sure it would go out of business. He is a gag man, not a businessman. His wife is the powerhouse. She is always there, at her post at the cash register, playing mother hen to the comics. The lady knows what she's doing.

"I do it all for the comics," she says, and a lot of the performers who show up are emotionally needy and love her mothering.

One small example: Mitzi gives away cigarettes to nervous comedians. It's a brilliant ministrategy for running a comedy club. Stand-ups love them some cigarettes. Most of them smoke like the goal of their life is to get lung cancer. Mitzi hands out bubble gum, too, and if comics are really nervous, they take both. The devil is in the details.

Sammy Sh.o.r.e comes back to his own club after being on the road for a month. He doesn't recognize the place. He tells his wife he wants to do a show.

"I'll see if I can fit you in tomorrow night," Mitzi says.

Sammy sees which way the wind is blowing, both in his club and in the marriage. He and Mitzi divorce by the time the year is out. In the settlement, Mitzi gets the club.

She's got the club, but she still needs the laughs. If there's one performance that makes the Store a success, it's in June 1972, when Richard decides to try out new material two months after the club opens.

He begins his act by giving notice that things have changed with him. He's a new comic. He goes straight for the white people in the audience: I notice on the nights in the clubs here, like, white people come out early on Sat.u.r.day night, and go home, and leave it to the n.i.g.g.e.rs. It's great to think that we can all sit in the same club together, white and black, and not understand each other. It's amazing, it can only happen in America. sit in the same club together, white and black, and not understand each other. It's amazing, it can only happen in America.

Once he gets rolling, it's the new Richard, born in Berkeley, midwifed by Malcolm X and Marvin Gaye.

I used to be running from the cops and s.h.i.+t, 'cause we had a curfew. n.i.g.g.e.rs had to be home by eleven, Negroes by twelve. White cops worked at night, and if they caught you, your a.s.s would be in trouble. "Get your hands up, black boy!" "I didn't do nothing!" "Shut up and get your hands up against the wall." "There ain't no wall." "Find one." But I used to love getting arrested in Peoria on Sat.u.r.day night because if you got in the lineup, that was like being in show business. 'Cause, like, all the ugly white girls who couldn't get any, say n.i.g.g.e.rs raped them.