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  My mom rushed to my side. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

  I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth. “There’s sh … sh … shit on my hands!”

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “That man, that man shit on the carpet,” I managed to say.

  She held my hand away from my body and led me into the bathroom like a two-year-old. She turned on scalding water and put my hands under the faucet. She went to the bar in the living room and grabbed the vodka and tequila and whatever other alcohol was available. She then came back into the bathroom and doused my hands with the liquor. I was screaming, and so was she.

  “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” I wailed.

  “Please, please, Howie, calm down,” she said.

  The mourners in the other room were listening to us wailing, thinking that we had been overcome by grief. I was devastated. Talk about a bad week. I had just buried my father, which made me feel like a piece of shit—and now to make matters worse, on my fingers was an actual piece of shit. I guess shit happens.

  So many things personal and professional continuously change in one’s life. My one constant has been stand-up. From that moment on April 19, 1978, when I took the stage at Yuk Yuk’s, I realized that my comfort zone was standing onstage behind a mike with a light shining on me. Many people in show business use stand-up as a stepping-stone to other things, whether it’s movies, TV series, directing, or hosting a late-night talk show. Jim Carrey, David Letterman, and Mike Nichols are just a few examples. Once they find success in that new field, they abandon stand-up. For me, whether I was in the midst of St. Elsewhere, filming a movie, or creating Bobby’s World, my real home continued to be onstage.

  I can remember only one time where it didn’t feel right. That was after the loss of my father, which was the darkest moment of my life. I can remember my first time back onstage. The introduction might as well have been, “Ladies and gentlemen, Socko the Clown.” I certainly didn’t feel funny. Being silly and making a few thousand strangers laugh felt somewhat awkward. I would look to the wings and search for my father. Not seeing him standing there watching me was even more devastating. It felt so wrong, but I had obligations to meet.

  In the Jewish religion, it is traditional to say a prayer before sundown each and every night for a year to commemorate the memory of the deceased. This prayer is to be done with at least ten men. I had never been that observant, but I wanted to show respect for my father. I had it written into my contract that no concert would start before sundown, and the promoter was to find me a group of ten Jewish men for my prayer service. Was this too much to ask? Apparently, yes.

  The problem was that in many of the small midwestern towns, there were no synagogues and very few Jews. When a promoter couldn’t find ten Jews for me to pray with, he would check the death notices in the local paper, pick me up at the airport, and drive me to a funeral of strangers. I would ask if they minded if I prayed with them before I went off and did my comedy show.

  Eventually, I worked my way back into feeling comfortably uncomfortable onstage. The discomfort of which I speak is the all-encompassing fear I crave. The fear that drew me to this career. The fear of not knowing what’s going to happen next. The fear of not being accepted by the audience. You might ask yourself, “Why would any human subject himself to this?”

  My analogy has always been of a roller coaster. I happen to love roller coasters. If I rode a roller coaster that glided smoothly past a couple of trees, I would probably never go on it again. On the other hand, the scarier it is, the closer you think you are coming to death, the more physically uncomfortable it is, the more fun the ride is. That’s exactly how I felt the first night onstage at Yuk Yuk’s. That’s the feeling I’ve chased every night since. I continually wanted to get back on that roller coaster. Fear is my fuel.

  I’ve read some self-help books like The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle. The basic philosophy of this book is that all of us live either in the past or in the future. We make our decisions based on what has happened or what might happen. You make the decision not to show up at a party for fear an ex-girlfriend might be there. Or you avoid the party because last time it was boring. Just because the party was boring last time doesn’t mean it won’t be fun this time, and the ex may never show up. If you base your decision on these thoughts, the only guarantee is that you will miss the party and the opportunity to meet someone who could end up being a positive in your life.

  As an anxiety-ridden victim of OCD, on any given day you may find me in my hotel room spreading towels so my feet won’t touch the carpet out of fear of what might get on them in the minutes to come. I could be scalding myself in the shower to wash off the germs I believe I’ve picked up in the past hour. If I could just focus on the now, I might realize I’m okay. The only place that I’ve found the ability to do this is onstage. Every other issue seems to disappear as I live in the moment of performance.

  A perfect example of this was my audition for The Tonight Show in front of Joan Rivers. I was so sick that I believed my future was certain death—until the moment I hit the stage. Then all was forgotten. The adrenaline rushed, and I delivered. But the moment I said good night and walked off the stage, the shadow of death was back upon me.

  This is the reason a good portion of my act is improvised. I do have set material, but what I love is when an audience member or a happening takes me off that beaten path. I would love the microphone to go dead. I would love the lights to go out. I would love for somebody to scream or come toward the stage. My shows are like my interactive thrill ride. I will not let myself be complacent or comfortable. I can’t tell you how exciting it is to me to have these happenings force me into the now.

  To this end, I have no preparations or rituals when it comes to stand-up. There are times when I’m talking to somebody prior to a show in my dressing room. The stage manager will alert me that we will begin in five minutes. Inevitably, the person I’m with will say, “I’ll give you a couple minutes alone.” That’s the worst thing you can do to me. I have nothing to do, and I don’t want any more time with myself. I really don’t. All the distractions I look for in life are about trying to get away from myself. And then the moment I crave: I hear my tour manager, Rich, announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, Howie Mandel!” The lights go up and I am enveloped in fear.

  As much as I use this fear as a glorious distraction, there are times this discomfort does not serve me. I could be standing in front of an audience of five thousand people who are roaring with laughter. If I happen to notice one person who is not being entertained, my whole evening becomes about that one guy. Every thought, every joke, every gag, is now directed at him. I forget the entire audience, and in my mind I put myself back on Make Me Laugh. The other 4,999 people can give me a standing ovation, yet all I can think about is the one guy who didn’t seem to like me.

  I consider my performances giant parties with me just trying to be the center of attention. I want all eyes focused on me, all the time.

  One particular night, I had two thousand people in the palm of my hands—except for one man in the front row just off to my left. He seemed to refuse even to look at me. He would look everywhere but at me—left, right, up, down. It was as if someone had dragged him to this concert and he couldn’t wait to leave. The rest of the audience was hanging on my every word, convulsing with laughter. Finally and impulsively, I exploded into the now.

  At this moment, no thought of the past or the future existed. Past: The audience had been laughing for the last hour. Future: What I was about to do could derail the entire show. I could not hold myself back. I didn’t have any funny place to go. I just had to get it off my chest.

  I said to the audience: “Can I tell you something? This guy sitting in the front row is not paying any attention. He hasn’t looked at me once.” I pointed to him. “What the hell is your problem?”

  Everyone was laughing in anticipation of where I might be going with the discomfort I was imposing
on this poor man. When I end up doing things like this, my mind becomes a blank slate. In no way could I possibly anticipate what his answer would be, or my response.

  The man just sat there, continued to look away, and did not say anything.

  I demanded, “Sir, you with the red shirt, I’m talking to you.”

  Now the audience grew quiet, waiting apprehensively for his response. Finally, like a knife piercing through the silence, the woman sitting beside him screamed, “He’s blind.”

  Oh, my God. You could hear a collective gasp from the audience. A little piece of me died in that moment. I’ve never seen humor get sucked out of a room faster. It was like death. I thought, Where do I go from here? I like unpredictable, but this was crazy. I could feel my heart in my underpants—at least I think it was my heart.

  I’ve always believed honesty is the best policy. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I started, hoping to work my way past the embarrassment, “you have just witnessed a huge mistake in comedy, and I’m going to be totally honest with you, I don’t know how to get out of this. You’ve enjoyed the show up until this moment. I hope you’ve gotten your money’s worth, because I don’t know where it’s going from here.”

  The audience seemed very uneasy, and so was I. Then I thought, I’m already in the shithouse, I might as well ask what I’m thinking. Again, pure honesty coupled with impulsiveness. I directed my questioning back to the blind man.

  “Sir, I am so sorry. I had no idea you were blind.”

  He responded, “That’s okay.”

  “But I have one question for you.”

  You could feel the nervous tension building in the room. Here comes the question: “Why the fuck does a blind man need front-row seats?”

  The audience exploded with laughter, along with the blind man. Whew! I had been pulled back from the brink. I continued to the woman he was with: “You should’ve saved your money and bought the cheaper balcony seats and just told him he was in the front row.”

  Those are some of my favorite moments in performance. The audience senses the electricity, an invisible feeling that what is happening now is dangerous, has never happened before, and is never going to happen again. That is the power of now. There is something perversely entertaining about seeing a comedian in trouble. This relates to my interpretation of a sense of humor. If somebody is in trouble and flailing, you’ve got to find the funny there. I use finding the funny as a coping skill in life.

  Throughout the 1990s, I continued to sell out huge venues and multiple shows, some of which were documented on various cable specials. I did Howie Mandel on Ice for HBO and Howie Spent Our Summer for Showtime. After St. Elsewhere finished its six-year run, I did about seven pilots for TV shows that never came to fruition.

  But then in 1996, Michael Gelman, the executive producer of Live with Regis and Kathie Lee, started calling and asking me to fill in for Regis. Michael is the consummate producer. It’s probably one of the few shows I’ve ever done where I didn’t need any preparation. The guests were booked. If there was going to be any business, it was all preset. I could show up fifteen minutes before the show, powder my forehead, and go on the air. It was such an easy gig. I had a funny repartee with Kathie Lee. She was straitlaced, and I was a crazy comedian.

  Michael also knew I liked to prank people, so he suggested we do it on the show. He was the one who gave me a pair of hidden camera glasses and sent me out into the world.

  One piece I remember in particular was when they took me to the Empire State Building and outfitted me as a tour guide. I waited until a family who had been standing in line for three hours reached the front. I could see the anticipation in their faces at the prospect of seeing the New York City skyline from the tallest building. I escorted them into the elevator as the tour from hell began.

  Within the small confines of the elevator, I took out a megaphone and began reading word for word the official tourist pamphlet. My volume was deafening, to say the least. The elevator stopped and I led them out. The tourists seemed somewhat confused. That confusion might have been due to the fact that this was the second floor. You could see the dismay on their faces as they looked out the window at the heads of passersby on the street below.

  Ever so meekly, the father said, “We came all the way from Des Moines. Can’t we go to the top?”

  “Not today,” I said. “Now, please let me continue with the rich history of this man-made wonder.”

  I would go on for twenty minutes. People were so polite. They wouldn’t interrupt. They would just stand there disappointed. At the end, we revealed that it was a prank and sent them back to the end of the line so they could get a real ride to the top. No, I’m not that mean, people. Off camera, they were escorted directly to the top for free without me.

  My appearances on Regis were so well received that I began to get offers to host my own daytime show. This was just another opportunity happening to me. So let’s do a recap of my professional life up to this point: carpet salesman, comedian, television and movie actor, Saturday morning cartoon, and now daytime talk show host.

  I ended up making a deal with Paramount Television. The people there could not have been more supportive and excited about me. I had never been in a position where the producers served my every whim. The first thing I requested was to move into the old Tonight Show studio. Jay Leno had taken over from Johnny Carson and moved to the stage across the hall. I wanted to put my desk exactly where Johnny Carson had his. Paramount made it happen.

  The first day we took over the studio, I walked under the bleachers and found the cue cards from Johnny Carson’s final broadcast. There were cards for Johnny’s monologue, as well as introductions for Robin Williams and Bette Midler. The stagehands apparently had just thrown them down and walked out at the end of the night. I still have them.

  I signed the deal one year before the show premiered and then traveled to the different markets to meet with all the local stations. Whenever I was in L.A., I would go to the carpenter shop and watch them work on my set. I would marvel, They’re building this palace for me. It was all for The Howie Mandel Show. I felt that I had reached another pinnacle.

  The show premiered on June 22, 1998. At that particular time, daytime was crowded. Judge Judy was raging. The Rosie O’Donnell Show was three years into its run, and Rosie was at the top of her game. Donny & Marie was on. Roseanne Barr had a talk show. Martin Short was launching his show the following year. And, of course, there was the gold standard, The Oprah Winfrey Show. There were five afternoon talk shows airing in the Los Angeles market alone.

  As tough as that sounds, the marketing geniuses felt that they could position me as “the only solo male hosting a talk/variety show on daytime television.” Weeks before my actual launch, they made the following pitch to the industry:

  Howie Mandel has a trio of strategic advantages:

  HOWIE has a three-month “jump start” on the fall crop of daytime competition.

  HOWIE will serve up fresh new shows during the summer “rerun season” of other programs.

  HOWIE can stake out a leadership position and build an audience at a time of the year viewers aren’t deluged with dozens of new shows.

  HOWIE was canceled after one year.

  We were actually canceled at the exact same rating we had when we launched. The good news was that we never lost a viewer. The bad news was that we never gained any viewers.

  I think the talk show also changed my persona in the public’s mind. Before the show, I had been doing two hundred stand-up shows a year to sold-out audiences. But because I had been on afternoon television hosting a soft-sell show, ticket sales were cut in half. Instead of coming off as a subversive, edgy comedian, I was a guy in your house every day doing light afternoon chitchat. I was the guy talking to soap opera stars and supervising makeovers.

  A few years earlier, I was playing in front of fourteen thousand people at Radio City Music Hall. Now I was playing in a small midwestern town in front of fifteen hundre
d people. I could actually see the face of the last person in the last row.

  It felt as if my career were ending. I was literally watching my audience disappear. The one constant I had was my stand-up comedy. Up until now, that part of my career had consistently grown. Now it was drying up. I thought, The next step for me will be playing clubs. But then when the clubs don’t want me, what will I do? I did not want to quit the business, but the business was quitting me.

  After the cancellation of my talk show, I became depressed. I couldn’t get excited about anything in my career or my life. I booked more stand-up dates just to keep busy. It was the Socko the Clown Summer Tour. I was playing small venues at 50 percent capacity.

  Up to this point in my career, I had not given any thought to where this was all going. I went to Yuk Yuk’s and became a comedian. Merv Griffin and Mike Douglas were just dropped into my lap. St. Elsewhere came out of the blue. When I was just guest hosting for Regis, Paramount built a talk show around me. There was always something new coming my way.

  But now for the first time in my career, things were being peeled away. St. Elsewhere was no longer there. Bobby’s World was finished. My TV appearances were dwindling. The talk show was canceled. My career had become traveling the country playing small theaters to even smaller crowds. This was scary. Where was I headed?

  The next five years became a blur of Indian casinos, state fairs, and fund-raisers. The only constant was Las Vegas. I was still making a lot of money, but I was working twice as hard. I felt as if it were going nowhere. Jay Leno and Michael Gelman at Regis and Kathie Lee provided me with my only bright spots creatively. I loved and still love filling in for Regis, and Jay allowed me to come on The Tonight Show countless times to air my hidden camera pieces at the top of the show.