Free The Importance of Being Ernie: by Barry Livingston

wore ugly oversized glasses and had gnarled buckteeth. I knew I wasn’t in Cary Grant’s league, but I just didn’t see myself in these guys, either. It seemed like there was a nation of nerds breeding out in the heartland, and I had somehow become their leader.
    I discovered another odd phenomenon about big-time TV fame: people confused the scripted character of Ernie with the real me. That can cause a lot of identity issues for any actor, no matter what age. I’m sure I embodied some of Ernie’s personality. I was bright, articulate, and, in some situations, cocky like my TV alter ego. In real life, though, I was a pretty shy kid who had learned to “turn on” my personality in professional situations. As Barry, I had to work to overcome my reticence and be comfortable with new people. Suddenly, way more people knew me as Ernie, not Barry. It’s like they recognized something about me that I didn’t know. I found that schism unnerving. I’m not a psychologist, but that discord was most likely the root cause for some of the troubles I had later in my life.
    Things got even more confusing back at public school, which I attended during hiatus between shooting seasons. Kids were either overtly nice, trying to court a celebrity, or downright hostile if Ernie didn’t act the way they expected. Grade school is a jungle, and I suddenly felt naked among the ruthless natives.
    Public school was good survival training, though. I learned to joke my way out of confrontations with bullies and to laugh off the mockeries. Humming the My Three Sons theme song while tapping their feet (re: the show’s animated introduction) was a frequent taunt. Once a hallway clogged with kids parted for me like Moses at the Red Sea. As I walked forward, the students on either side of the hall tapped their toes and hummed my “favorite tune.” I laughed it off on the outside, but inside I was crying.
    Naturally, I complained to my parents about my newfound notoriety, but they insisted that I stay in public school. They felt that it was good for me to be with my peers. Easy for them to say; they weren’t getting tapioca tossed at them in the cafeteria. In retrospect, my parents made exactly the right decision and that probably accounts for whatever sanity I’ve maintained. I certainly grew a thicker skin.
    Now that Stan and I were working on the same hit TV show, the family coffer was filling up nicely, so we moved to the upper-middle-class enclave of Studio City in the San Fernando Valley. My parents bought a ranch-style house with four bedrooms, three baths, and a huge swimming pool. They liked the idea that it was located next to the Studio City Park, a place they hoped I could make a few new pals. I was finding that increasingly hard.
    On the days when I wasn’t working, I’d venture over to the playground on my bike, make a quick sweep through the park, watch the kids playing ball, and then ride back home without uttering a word to anybody. The more famous I got, the more tentative I was about walking up to strange kids.
    I realized that making new friends would require a little creativity on my part. The Beatles had just exploded in America, so I joined the fan club and sent away for a Fab Four Fan Kit that included photos, buttons, and a long black Beatle-style wig. I thought that if I went to the park wearing my new Beatle wig and Beatle boots, it would be a cool look, something far different from Ernie. I’d be the envy of every kid on the playground.
    Moments later, I was pedaling across the park on my lime-green Schwinn, the one with a long banana-shaped seat and high-backed sissy bar. My shiny black Beatle wig, held in place by an elastic band under the chin, crowned my head, and I was certain that I was a dead ringer for John or Paul, or at least Ringo. (Who was pretty nerdy after all.)
    I skidded to a stop next to the basketball court, threw down the kickstand, and waited for heads to turn. They did. Within seconds, a bunch of