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

with lyrics written to thank the Theater Authority and its member unions.
    “You pulled it off, Ed,” says Jerry, tireless, grateful, unafraid to move deeper into the day and use all his considerable charm to raise more money for his kids. All Jerry wants is a dollar more. Other Pussycats are there to help. Some, like Norm Crosby, can’t get prime-time slots and are glad to perform at 4 in the morning. I love staying up all night so I can catch some little-known Vegas lounge act. I’m especially charmed by the Treniers, who do their thing at 5 a.m. (I later learn that the Treniers cannot leave the Vegas lounges not simply because they love the ambience, but because, to put it politely, they have a special affinity for the game of Keno.) Meanwhile, Jerry is in the wings or perhaps in his dressing room catching forty winks on a couch. But Jerry always comes back. Jerry comes back every year. Frank never lets him down. And neither does Sammy. Sammy and his sui generis Sammy shtick are a huge presence on the telethon. Jerry’s son Gary Lewis and his Playboys are there to sing their new single “Too Big for Small Talk.” (I can still play it note for note.) There are split screens that thrill us with the cross-continental nature of the spectacle: Jerry in Vegas, Buddy Hackett in Atlantic City. Jerry calls the stations that carry his telethon his “Love Network.”
    When I become an adult, I form my own “Love Network” with friends who share my affection for Jerry and his wondrous show. We indulge in a running commentary and analysis conductedsimultaneously over the phone. My fellow telethon pundits are Martin Short, Harry Shearer, and Tom Leopold. Harry not only tapes the show so we can later review our favorite sections, he also gets the satellite feed, which means he reports on the rehearsals.
    Earlier in life, before the formation of our “Love Network,” I was proud to be a member of the Sammy Club, comprised of East Coast fans of Sammy Davis Jr. and, in particular, fans of his TV show
Sammy & Company
. In addition to Sammy simply being Sammy, the thing we enjoyed most about the show was Sammy’s announcer, William B. Williams. His function was to pay the first compliment. “Sammy,” Williams would say, “I hate to interrupt your conversation with the great Tony Curtis, but, if I could embarrass you for just a moment, on behalf of all of us who play your music, I must say that you, Sammy Davis Jr., you are the entertainer’s entertainer.” From then on, it was a frenetic compliment free-for-all—Sammy complimenting Williams, Williams complimenting Tony, Tony complimenting Sammy, and Sammy, the unrivaled king of compliments, complimenting the audience for their kind indulgence. (A year or two after the founding of our Sammy Club, I meet Tom Leopold for the first time. This happens in New York. He lives in L.A. and tells me there’s a West Coast Sammy Club. He is taken aback when I declare in no uncertain terms, “I want this clearly understood. There is but one authentic Sammy Club, and it functions here on the East Coast. Yours is nothing but a copy.” That statement cements my friendship with Tom.)
    Back on Jerry’s telethon, the weekend draws to a conclusion, and the marathon winds down. It is 2 p.m. in Vegas and 5 p.m. in New York when Jerry introduces the last big celebrity. It’s the Desert Fox himself, the man fellow entertainers affectionatelycall “the Indian” because of his part—Native American heritage. It’s none other than Mr. Wayne Newton, who has come to the studio with his own rhythm section.
    “Wayne,” says Jerry. “I can count on you. My kids can count on you. And you’re one of the great Pussycats of the World.”
    “No, Jerry,” says Wayne,
“you
are the all-time greatest Pussycat of the World.”
    Wayne breaks into Chuck Berry’s “Promised Land,” singing about how he left his home in Norfolk, Virginia, and was taken to the promised land. Jerry is transported, but