Free We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives by Paul Shaffer

allow me to declare my love of show-biz speak. It was Marty Short who pointed out that on the TV special
A Man and His Music
, Frank Sinatra said, “When a song lingers for many many years, it becomes what we in the business call a standard.” I loved the way that sounded. To a kid like me, Sinatra’s verbal swagger meant almost as much as Chuck Berry’s twanging guitar or Little Richard’s rollicking piano. Show-biz speak, as articulated bythe masters (Frank was one, Sammy another) transported me to those magical kingdoms—Vegas showrooms and Hollywood studios—where over-the-top sincerity created personalities who loved themselves as much as we loved them. These were guys who didn’t have much education but were determined to talk as if they had all gone to Harvard.
    Jerry was a particular favorite, and I respected him deeply. I not only appreciated his comedic genius but understood that as a director he was an innovator and pioneer. It was Jerry, after all, who had invented video assist, the method that allowed the moviemaker to watch an instant playback in video rather than have to wait for the printed film.
    But my regard for Jerry began years before I knew of his technical creativity. Jerry came to Canada on the wings of cable television, a welcome addition to what had been our one-channel choice, the deadly earnest Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, which specialized in unentertaining television. I don’t want to put you to sleep with tales of our deadly boring shows, but I cannot resist at least naming a few.
Fighting Words
featured a panel of guests who had to guess a famous quotation from history. If that wasn’t bad enough, after they identified it, they’d discuss it. The longest-running show was
Front Page Challenge
, where a panel had to guess the identity of someone associated with a famous Canadian headline. The “someone” always seemed to be a Russian spy who had defected to Canada. The same spy, shot in silhouette and speaking in an electronically altered voice, must have appeared on the show a dozen times.
    Things picked up on the Canadian news front when Margaret Trudeau dated Ronnie Wood of the Stones. Canadians were also titillated that when Keith Richards was busted fordrug possession, it happened on our shores. He got off when a Canadian fan, a blind girl, testified in his behalf. The judge softened and ordered Keith to put on a benefit concert. When Keith and Ronnie, as the New Barbarians, played for the blind, a Canadian wag, obviously no rock and roll fan, said they should have been playing for the deaf.
    Canadians, myself among them, were thrilled when cable TV finally arrived, meaning we’d get to see the big three American networks. I was fixated on ABC. Their shows seemed poorly lit and had a makeshift look to them.
Shindig
, my rock and roll bible, came on after school, but Jerry Lewis didn’t come on until 1 a.m. I had to prop my eyes open with toothpicks to stay up, but stay up I did. As host of his own talk show, Jerry had a hydraulic lift that rose up so he could work to the balcony. That’s the kind of showman he was.
    Some might call Jerry unctuous, but I found his brand of unctuousness attractive rather than repellent. In fact, I found it downright wonderful. Jerry always dressed in a tux because, as he said, he owed his audience no less. Jerry was so tux-centric he’d wear one even on Carson. When Johnny asked him about it, Jerry loved explaining why: “A garbage man has his overalls. A lawyer has his Brooks Brothers suit. In our industry, we have our tuxedos. It’s our uniform.”
    When I came of age and found myself wearing a tux at an event I was hosting, writer Tom Leopold, my friend and fellow telethon devotee, wrote this line for me: “As Jerry Lewis says, every profession has its uniform. A priest has his vestments, a surgeon his surgical greens. Hef has that leather-studded jockstrap that he wears in the grotto …”
    The greatest expression of unadulterated