BOOK EXCERPTS

THE COMIC’S DAUGHTER – (the movie pitch © 2015)

LOG LINE

Based on a true-crime, coming-of-age memoir, The Comic’s Daughter: A Chicago

Tale begins in 1963. When the teenaged daughter of a talented, philandering

nightclub comic testifies at a Mafia murder trial, it launches her dramatic and

sometimes funny struggle to break free from the vice grip of her father’s suffocating

narcissism, her mother’s icy rejection, and dark secrets that threaten to annihilate

the family.

SYNOPSIS

The Comic’s Daughter centers on the conflicted and enmeshed relationship

between 13-year-old protagonist CATHY and her father DINK, THE COMIC, the

story’s charismatic antagonist.

CHICAGO, 1963: Cathy jumps into the front seat of her family’s Datsun, ready to cut

7th-grade volleyball. “Hi, Mom.” HELEN, The Comic’s Wife, stares straight ahead and

delivers the following with her cool, deadpan panache: “Plans have changed. We’re

not going to the dentist. Joni shot Johnny, and he’s dead.” This event informs the

next seven years of her life. Cathy is – was, their constant babysitter and the last

person to see Johnny alive.

(JOHNNY MANCUZZO is The Comic’s new agent. His wife JONI is a beautiful blonde

singer. When Cathy and her mother are subpoenaed to testify for the defense at The

People vs. Joni Jaden Mancuzzo trial, the FBI is unexpectedly stationed at their house

day and night. Because Johnny’s father is the “John Gotti” of Chicago, the Mafia

wants Joni and all witnesses in someone’s trunk. In the evenings, Cathy makes

covert, late-night visits to Joni’s safe house in the belly of downtown Chicago.

After the stunning and rapid 90-minute “not-guilty” verdict, Joni escapes to Florida

with her kids and leaves a vaporous trail, never to be filled. While the fog of trauma

sticks to Cathy like black tar, she enters high school grappling with an untreated

nervous disorder, a fondness for her dad’s pills, and a shoplifting arrest. With newly

sprouted breasts, she foils sexual advances by Murph the Surf (a jewel thief in

Miami), her lesbian counselor, and her Robert Redford look-alike senior drama

teacher. In each case, she replicates the artful dodger. Cathy has learned well from

cheaters, sociopaths, and wife-beaters like Johnny.

In 1969, Cathy embarks on a fleeting, impactful romance with David, a brilliant

young writer. Both lover and mentor, David challenges her with one question:

“What are you going to do with the rest of your life?” She shrugs. “You’re very

smart. You have a great brain. You should get an education.” CUT TO:

SOUTHERN ILLINOIS UNIVERSITY: Cathy earns stellar grades, trips on orange

sunshine, and swims naked in the local lakes. When the Symbionese Liberation

Army throws smoke bombs into her dormitory one night, she calls The Comic. “Dad

– I’m scared. Can you come get me?” He does.

On the five-hour drive, Dink tells Cathy that she has a secret sister, three years

younger. “I had an affair with a cocktail waitress in Kansas. I thought she was 18.

Your mom doesn’t know.” Cathy wants to jump from the speeding car, but the doors

are locked.

Back home and devastated, she cannot look at her mother. Within weeks, Cathy

lands a scholarship to UNLV. By this time, The Comic’s Wife has at last come to

adore and even bond with her daughter, however, it’s too late. Cathy must leave.

O’HARE AIRPORT, 1970: At the gate with Cathy, Dink suggests they take his old

flame to dinner when he visits Vegas. Cathy won’t have it. Summoning newfound

maturity, Cathy finally slaps him down. “No, Dad. You’ve been doing this to me my

whole life. I’m not your buddy. I’m your daughter. Normal fathers don’t tell their

daughters this stuff. I love you, but I’m done here.”

Without looking back, she boards the Pan Am jet for Las Vegas. The Comic stands at

the terminal window and watches her plane taxi down the runway as she embarks

on an entirely new life.

The Bad and The Beautiful

For what do we live,
but to make sport for our neighbors
and laugh at them in our turn?
—Jane Austen

Throughout my formative years, no two neighbors stand out more than Dotty and Irmgard, whom I have labeled The Bad and the Beautiful. Both women were opposites in every way. Dotty, the “bad,” was a sociopath, who tried to stab me, and Irmgard, the “beautiful,” was a sweet, mild-mannered German immigrant who baked jelly donuts and had clean, but hairy armpits.
***
When I was around nine years old, we moved into a two-story apartment building in Park Ridge, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago. It was situated on Northwest Highway, one-half mile from Maine East Township High School.

Dorothy, our landlady, was basically Cruella Deville on steroids. She and her husband lived downstairs with their two young children, whom Dorothy beat regularly with the metal end of a belt buckle. I observed the violence regularly. I watched her chase the kids down a long hall, and slash their flesh. Dorothy’s violent insanity appeared to be arbitrary because the children BEHAVED. In retrospect, she probably drank.

About five foot, ten inches tall, with dyed jet black, unruly hair and old, crusty makeup smeared under her eyes, “Dotty” hunted her children outside on the sidewalks like a neighborhood madwoman, usually wearing a sheer negligee. This woman’s regular costume was the pastel negligee – She even served cookies and milk in that nightgown and had no qualms about answering the door in that manner. More importantly, Dotty locked her two kids OUTSIDE, in sub-zero, Chicago temperatures with no provisions. On many occasion, my mother gave those kids food and brought them in out of the freezing cold. Looking back, The Comic’s Wife probably saved their lives.

When we moved into their building, Dorothy and her husband neglected to mention one little caveat: They were selling the apartment building BUT kept the impending sale a secret. In order to collect some money, they rented it to my parents under false pretenses. Dotty and her husband wanted stream income for a few months – once the two-story sold, the Freeman’s were supposed to move…again. The Comic and his wife didn’t like this one little bit and retained an attorney. In addition, we eventually found out that the couple upstairs, (of Polish descent), were bigots! They did not like Jews. Too late.

Without realizing it, the Polish anti-Semites rented their upstairs apartment to German/Ashkenazi Jews. Uh oh. Not good. Secretly, stealthily, living upstairs. The awful truth surfaced one day when Dorothy, and her extraordinarily unattractive, husband, Adolph, were sitting in our kitchen, drinking coffee. This was before things went “south” over the rent issue. Dorothy’s husband, who owned a tavern downtown, said something like “Those damn Jews” and he did so with a sneer. It was my first experience of discrimination – Of being a shameful, persecuted minority. As “those damn Jews” sunk in, an awkward moment ensued as I observed furtive glances shoot back and forth between my parents, almost like cartoon bubbles above their heads.

Helen’s bubble: “Oh shit.”
Dink’s bubble: “Oh, this could be fun.”
Helen’s bubble: “NO! Don’t.”
Dink’s bubble: “Oh come on, Helen…Get a sense of humor.”
Helen’s bubble: “Don’t! “Dink! I’m telling you…”
My mother’s last bubble: “DON’T”….

Her tone – her familiarly arched eyebrow. They both lit cigarettes. She, a Marlboro. He, a Pall Mall. Smoke billowed, as I watch with baited breath. The Comic wanted DESPERATELY to cause trouble and say something funny and awful. My mother continued giving him wifely warning glances, urging him to behave. Dink liked to dick around with ignorant people. He called it “putting them on”. It was a very British concept: “putting people on.” It meant kidding them in a way that’s confusing, passive but highly amusing to the individual doing the “putting on”. That particular day, my mother didn’t really give him a chance to do that. That day in the kitchen, my mother managed to quell The Comic’s comic impulses. She won. It was one of the rare occasions when Dink kept his mouth shut. It didn’t matter much because, within a month, World War III broke out over the rent and moving. To make matters more awkward, the Polish couple found out that the family upstairs were purebred YIDS.

One day, Dorothy scared the absolute crap out of me. She chased me up two flights of stairs with a butcher knife. With our families feuding like the Hatfields and the McCoy’s, Dorothy went insane when she saw me playing with her two children after school. Unfortunately for me, a shiny butcher knife was in her hand when she saw the “Jew girl” laughing with her children. With cutlery in hand, the outraged Slavic landlady came flying towards me, as I went AIRBORNE, and flew up those stairs. As Dorothy yelled, her one arm poised with the knife, like the shower scene in Psycho.
I yelled for my mother to open the fucking door. I was nine. “MOM, MOM. Open up. She’s got a knife. MOM. MOM”.

I had clearly seen what Dorothy could do with a belt buckle. I could only imagine what she was capable of with a knife. Our kitchen door flew open and I fell to the linoleum floor panting. Mom slammed it shut in Dorothy’s ravaged face. I heaved and hyperventilated while my mother called the police. Sirens blazed quickly and the cops showed up. They took her away and booked her. As usual, my mother was annoyed and my dad was out of town. On advice, we got a restraining order and moved within weeks. Like many bizarre incidences in my life, it was never discussed. I was left to assume that this kind of drama and violence was, well…. sort of normal.

A few days after the butcher knife incident, The Comic arrived at O’Hare airport from a club date in Ohio. When Dink gave the cab driver our address in Park Ridge, the cabby turned around and smiled broadly at my father. Showing some stained yellow teeth (according to my father), the driver said, “Ohhhh…you goin’ to Dotty’s place?” And then he winked.
Years later, Dorothy got killed in a tavern brawl.

Incredibly, Dorothy, our violent and insane landlady, inspired me to write. I suspect that writing emerged as a coping mechanism, much like art therapy provides emotional expression. It helps troubled children illustrate the inexpressible. At such a tender age, I tried to do the same – I tried to make sense of what evil I had experienced up close and personal. After the butcher knife “incident”, I sat at our dining room table on a cushion and cranked out dialogue on a Smith-Corona typewriter. And so it came to pass that Dotty, the drunken, violent, racist slut inspired me to become a writer.

***
Our next landlady, just down the street on Northwest Highway, inspired me to BAKE. Irmgard was a gentle, very plain German immigrant who was very clean but did not shave her legs, or armpits. Helmet, Irmgard’s serious husband, liked it that way. Body hair aside, she was easily forgiven because every Sunday morning, Irmgard made jelly donuts from scratch and delivered them to our door.

Our new German landlords were the polar opposite of Dorothy and her husband, Hitler. Irmgard and Helmut were sweet, gentle and quiet. Each and every Sunday in fact, our entire building smelled like a bakery. Unbelievable smells wafted into our apartment while 40 German immigrants piled into the upstairs apartment for celebration. I don’t know what they celebrated, but it happened weekly.

As her English improved, Irmgard became a welcome regular in our kitchen, along with their 3-year old daughter, Birgit. I played with Birgit, but I never understood a word she said. Birgit had the uncanny ability to speak in both German and English at the same time, making interpretation impossible. And she spoke fast – like in double time. Whenever we played, I simply nodded over and over, pretended to understand, but I did not grok a word she said. Nevertheless, Birgit was a sweet little girl, just like her mother. Pretending to understand Birgit is probably where I developed calcium deposits in my neck.

Within three months of our family moving into the new building, Irmgard began shaving her legs and armpits. Helmut became furious over the Americanization of his wife and stopped speaking to my mother. It was tense, but the donuts kept coming. By the time we moved to St. Louis, all hell had broken loose. Irmgard began wearing lipstick and mascara. Helmut thought my mother was the devil.

The Comic’s Daughter: A Chicago Tale

Prologue
“We were all broke and struggling.”
—Rudy Nöel, The Comic’s Agent

In the 1960s, a subculture existed right in the heart of downtown Chicago. It was the burgeoning nightclub scene—much of it run by the Mafia. Rush Street was a well-known haunt managed by Jimmy
Allegretti, a familiar crime syndicate name, while iconic clubs like the Chez Paree, Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Club, The Black Orchid, The Living Room, and the Sherman House booked famous and not-so- famous comedians—as well as sultry blond singers. Comedy was big in Chicago at that time, but it was different then. In the ’60s, comedy was much more elite, exclusive, and in the domain of grownups. There were no satellite comedy clubs that attracted youngsters. Seasoned comedians like Bob Newhart, Mort Sahl, Dick Shawn, Frank Gorshin, Shecky Greene, Shelley Berman, George Carlin, Max Cooper, and Sonny Mars were just some of the comics who headlined Chicago clubs and hotels.
The Chicago “locals” were a unique, close-knit (almost incestuous) tribe of performers. They reflected an era that no longer exists. These unknown entertainers traveled the United States, working in dingy dives, cheap clubs, and hotel ballrooms because they knew no
other life. My childhood was spent with those performers—hanging out in nightclubs, hotels, resorts, and even in our home, constantly inhaling secondhand cigarette smoke.
My father was a stand-up comic at the center of that Chicago universe. His name was Dink Freeman. He was never meant to be an insurance salesman, golf pro, business owner or rabbi. My father was meant to be a storyteller. He was happiest and most comfortable standing onstage, under a spotlight, holding a microphone. That was his pulpit. By solely telling hilarious, ethnic stories, The Comic fed us, clothed us, and paid the rent on a zillion cookie-cutter apartments during the course of my childhood. Calling himself “America’s Most Versatile Storyteller,” my father told jokes in every conceivable dialect while miraculously, never offending anyone—ever. It was a spectacular feat and he was brilliant. At the height of his career, which came later than most, he opened for Debbie Reynolds, Donald O’Connor, Sammy Davis, Jr., and The Harry James Orchestra, to name a few.
Growing up in this environment, I understood punch lines much better than fractions; I read Harold Robbins, dirty detective novels, and all the Playboys I could find. I also read Little House on the Prairie, but it wasn’t nearly as good as a column by Art Buchwald. Without question, I was much more comfortable in a smelly club than at an eighth- grade school dance. There were no neighborhood soccer moms at our kitchen table; more common were magicians, novelty acts, comics, adagio dancers, a famous chimpanzee named Chatter, sexy blonde singers, and one murderess. Rudy Noel, an ex–dancer–turned–agent, summed up the local climate and lifestyle accurately: “We were all broke and struggling.” And they were.
On work nights, my father, The Comic, changed into flashy suits and disappeared into the belly of downtown Chicago. On special occasions, I got to sit in the back of smoky clubs or hotel ballrooms and watch my father tell jokes. It was exhilarating. There was a huge payoff in doing this. After every set, I’d head straight to the women’s bath- room—not to pee, but to listen to the women talk about my father and his jokes. While these enviable adult females were busy applying lip- stick (something I wasn’t doing yet), I’d eavesdrop on rave comments:

“That comic was really funny.” “Who is that guy? I’ve never heard of him.”
When the compliments hit a crescendo, I’d make a calculated approach. I learned at a young age that timing is everything. Disarm- ingly well rehearsed, I’d stick out my little hand with panache: “Hi, I’m The Comic’s Daughter.” (Note: I was really cute, in the true sense of the word. Not pretty or conventionally cute, but sort of awkward and adorable, with uncontrollable curly hair, freckles, and round cheeks.) In addition, my mother always managed to dress both my brother and me stylishly, so no matter how poor we were, we always looked good. Mom subscribed to the philosophy that it’s “better to look good than to feel good.” To this day, I look my hottest when I’m suicidal.
After I announced myself as The Comic’s Daughter, all the women fell in love with me. They inevitably cooed.
“Your father is so funny—so handsome!”
“Where ’d he get all those jokes and all those dialects?”
“He must be so much fun to live with.”
Every bathroom visit gave me a rush. I was special. I mattered.
Like yeast, I thrived on these encounters until I made my way to the next latrine. I appeared in every gin joint bathroom in Chicago, Miami, and the Catskills. Those powder rooms were key to my survival.
Via each public bathroom, I got my self-esteem and a (co-dependent) sense of self—just a few feet from a bunch of toilets.
My childhood went along like that until the fall of 1963, when Joni Morgan Mancuzzo, a beautiful blonde singer, murdered her husband, Johnny, three hours after I babysat for their two young children. Johnny Mancuzzo was my father’s theatrical agent, a member of the local Mafia, and a spectacular sociopath. At the age of thirteen, I suddenly went from having a crush on Paul McCartney to sharing my bed- room with a woman on trial for shooting her husband in his sleep. The thing is, I loved her dearly. This is how my adolescence began. When Joni shot Johnny, everything changed.

Good Evidence & Positive Noticing: Beyond the Law of Attraction

“All the evidence we have indicates that it is reasonable to assume in practically every human being, and certainly, in almost every newborn baby, there is an active will toward health, and an impulse toward growth or toward actualization” – Abraham Maslow

Good Evidence was born in a rehab.

There I was, staring down the barrel at twelve angry millionaires, including a few trust fund babies, all suffering a scourge beyond comprehension: alcohol and drug addiction. Positioning myself in the cranberry red Ikea chair, I took a deep breath and quietly observed the group in their varying stages of detoxification and recovery from substance abuse. Some of these folks were in rehab because of a family intervention; some were about to lose their families; some had already lost their spouses and kids; a few were facing jail time for DUIs; others were on a month-long sabbatical. They had not yet decided if they would snort, drink, shoot, or smoke again. It mattered little that we were sitting atop a mountain in a 6000-square-foot feng shui home with a panoramic, 120-degree view of the Pacific Ocean. It didn’t matter a whit. Despite the mind-blowing view, being in rehab sucked. These people were just like addicts at a lockdown facility—no different. Millionaires, movie stars and even the guy waiting for a trial, can all be rife with a torrent of anger, resentment, and extra-large feelings. Addiction is an equal-opportunity feudal lord.

On this particular morning, the rich and famous were gathered at a twice-weekly group therapy in order to share wicked stories of abuse, loss, and suffering. Essentially, they were there to vent, and I was there to substitute for their regular group leader. But before we got into all the painful psychological stuff, I decided to take a different approach. I decided to venture outside the therapeutic box, into more positive, unchartered territory. Not knowing what to expect, I asked this question: “Does anyone here have Evidence that they are healing?” The inmates looked confused, so I clarified.

“Okay, guys. Here is the Webster’s Dictionary definition of evidence: ‘Something that furnishes proof; or an outward sign’.’” Then I went deeper and spoke slowly. Many of these clients were not in very good shape.

“I like to think of Evidence with a capital E, because in this context, it can be empowering, uplifting, and encouraging. Here are some synonyms for what I mean by Evidence:” proof, confirmation, verification, validation, authentication, certification, corroboration, substantiation, documentation, witness, statement, data, indication, sign, totem, signal, illustration, demonstration, and again, proof. Does anyone have that?”

Much to my amazement, all twelve hands shot straight up. They had answers. They all had some Good Evidence. Each individual reported a concrete story of healing. They had proof. In a split second, twelve angry addicts got high on Good Evidence instead of ecstasy. Even the clients who had just been admitted, sweating, nauseous, and gripped by the Tasmanian devil of detoxification, found Good Evidence in the fact that they had not used in twenty-four hours. For this group, not drinking for twenty-four hours was Evidence! Some of their responses were:

“I’m sleeping six hours in a row.”
“I had a sober laughing fit yesterday.”
“I played tennis for the first time in ten years.”
“I called my brother and apologized.”
“I didn’t have a craving today.”
“I told the truth.”

Suddenly the room was infused with energy and enthusiasm. I then

instructed everyone to jot down their proof in a new journal that could be devoted exclusively to positive events.

I said, “Do this daily because when you write stuff down, it expands. Take that Good Evidence you just shared and begin a practice of noticing good behaviors and experiences. You’ll be shocked at how many more excellent things occur than you realize. Call it your E-Log, short for your Evidence Log. I spend about five minutes each day writing in mine.”

From that day on, the clients added Good Evidence to their recovery lexicon.

E-BOOK: Good Evidence & Positive Noticing is available on Amazon.com