Table of Contents
Robert: for Derek
Alan: to B, J, K, and Z
This book is also dedicated to those who have fought the fight.
And to those of you that are just starting. Think positive.
Keep the faith. Find something to be thankful for each and every day.
And laugh. Take it from me, laughter is the best medicine.
INTRODUCTION
I met Robert Schimmel in spring of 2000. Schimmel was riding high. Hed previously won the Stand-Up of the Year Award, his HBO special Unprotected was a huge hit, he was a frequent Howard Stern guest, and his Fox sitcom Schimmel had been picked up and was slated for a September start in the time slot following The Simpsons. Schimmel was white hot, somewhat surprising for a comic who was about to turn fifty, but long overdue to those who knew him. Schimmel was the comedians comedian, the guy other comics would actually pay to see, the ultimate compliment because comics never pay for anything.
It was also surprising because Schimmel worked blue. Deep blue. He would often start his set without a hello and would instead begin by saying, So this girls giving me a blow job... and he was off and running, segueing into a celebration of sex, a ninety-minute nonstop onslaught probing the pitfalls, frustrations, awkwardness, and sheer comedy that comes from coming. Was Schimmel ready for prime time? Or, more accurately, was prime time ready for Schimmel? Fox, known for taking chances and working close to the edge, apparently was unconcerned because the network had committed to thirteen episodes. Emmy magazine asked me to profile Robert, which I did for the June 2000 issue. Robert and I hit it off. After the article came out, we spoke for an hour on the phone and he invited me to attend his show at the El Rey Theater and the industry party in his honor afterwards.
And then it all came crashing down.
Schimmel was diagnosed with stage III non-Hodgkins lymphoma. His chances of survival hinged on undergoing an immediate and aggressive course of chemotherapy. Robert informed his manager, the Fox executives, and the shows producers. The network put the sitcom on hiatus, which, in TV talk, means they dumped it. No sense investing in a show called Schimmel if Schimmel was about to die. So Robert lost his sitcom. And, of course, his fire went out.
But as his heat faded, he discovered something else. Something deeper.
When Robert Schimmel got cancer, he found himself.
Further, he came face-to-face with his soul. He saw that what he had been chasing his whole life up until then were mere things, material objects. Symbols of success and status. He realized that they didnt matter. A persons life is not defined by the size of ones house or bank account. Material things, Robert Schimmel realized, are immaterial.
Originally we called this book I Licked the Big CAnd I Beat Cancer because during his chemotherapy, Robert never lost his sense of humor, his knifelike edge, and, most of all, his passion to entertain. At the core of Robert Schimmels being is his absolute, basic need to make people laugh, even if the only people around him are suffering from cancer and the room hes playing is the Mayo Clinic infusion center. Going for the laugh is his survival mechanism, an instinct as primal as another persons need for food or water.
As soon as he was able to stay on his feet for an hour, Schimmel played Vegas. But he had changed. He refused to ignore his battle with cancer. In fact, he embraced it. He adjusted his act to include comic riffs about being diagnosed, smoking pot to alleviate his nausea, sex during chemotherapy, and losing all his hair, including his pubic hair.
But talking about cancer wasnt enough. Robert went way beyond that. He closed each set with a ten-minute Power-Point presentation featuring photographs taken during his chemotherapy. He punctuated each picture with a joke, but the underlying message was clear: my comedy is raw but my life is rawer.
Few comedians had ever revealed so much about themselves onstage. Here was Schimmel, emaciated, frail, hairless, at his most vulnerableand his most powerful. For with this naked truththis fearless depiction of his disease, his decision to share it publicly, and his daring to laugh at itsomething rare, if not unique, was happening nightly between comedian and audience: a connection that broke all barriers. It resulted in both a creative release and an unspoken bond. Ive experienced this before after certain extraordinary evenings in the theater. Id never before experienced it in a comedy club. Schimmel would call himself a comedian; I would now call him an artist.
Interestingly, he wasnt less funny. If anything, he was funnier. This was measured by the sheer quantity and volume of the laughs. Before cancer, Schimmel was merely hysterically funny. After cancer, he nearly killed you. Every night when he finished his set and clicked off the last slide, the audience as one leapt to their feet. And as the house lights came up and the audience filed out of the club, their faces alternated between those who were still smiling and those who were overcome with tears.
One Thursday night in January at the Improv in Irvine, California, a young man named Jesse Gonzalez shared a table with his family. Jesses brothers, sister, and mother had bought seventeen tickets to see Robert, Jesses favorite comedian. The occasion was Jesses twenty-fifth birthdayand the one-year anniversary of his fathers death from cancer. Jesse and his dad had discovered Schimmel together a couple of years before during one of Roberts frequent appearances with Howard Stern.
Jesse remembered that first time. Howard introduced him, then got out of the way and let Robert roll. He was amazing. At that moment my dad and I became his biggest fans.
That night in January, Robert had arrived late, just a few minutes before his set was to begin. In street clothes, his trademark suit in a plastic garment bag, Robert rushed into the mens restroom and changed for his show. Five minutes later, he strode down the center aisle of the club, applause rolling like a wave at his back, sweeping him onto the stage. Ninety minutes later, all pretenses at politeness had exploded. The audience was on their feet, howling, clapping, five hundred strong delirious with joy and love, emotionally spent from both laughter and heartache.
Moments later, Robert, as usual, stood in the lobby signing autographs and selling CDs and DVDs. A line of people waited patiently to make their purchases, and possibly exchange a word, a handshake, and more often these days, a hug. Because Robert Schimmel, a newly crowned hyphenatecomedian /cancer survivornow represented them, not only those who found sex funny and identified with Roberts raw and raucous take on life and love, but also those whose loved ones were battling cancer and those who were fighting or had survived cancer themselves. Robert spoke to them and for them. They waited to talk to him. They were in no rush. They would wait as long as it took to see him. And Robert, in turn, would wait for them, as long as it took to see them. He was in no rush either.
That Thursday, Jesse Gonzalez waited in the lobby with his girlfriend, his mom, and his older brother. Jesse was a big man, well over six feet tall and three hundred pounds. He wore a loose-fitting hooded sweatshirt atop a chocolate brown T-shirt that announced in sunny, happy-face script, Boobies Make Me Smile.
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