Columnist Scott Dickensheets: Bummin’ around with Bernie

Scott Dickensheets

Friday, Feb. 27, 1998 | 10:42 a.m.

MY WEEKDAY at Bernie's:

Bernie Allen wants me to try lox. It's Tuesday, the day before his 82nd birthday, and Bernie is piloting his big white Cadillac through lunch-hour traffic toward a deli he knows. Several things quickly become apparent: He is a man unafraid to go 30 in a 45-mph zone; he is a man who, in the midst of an uproarious celebrity yarn, is serenely unconcerned with the niggling specifics of lane-changing, such as making sure there are no blue Toyota econo-boxes in the way; and he is a man of many uproarious celebrity yarns, and therefore many white-knuckle lane changes.

Much like Vegas itself, Bernie Allen is a fascinating source of show-biz archaeology. Part of the old, dwindling Catskills-to-Vegas crowd, he's got a treasure chest of old gems, which he had already offered up over orange juice in his cozy condo near UNLV:

... How, as a Bronx luncheonette owner moonlighting as a low-level comic, he crashed Jerry Lewis' telethon on a $20 bet, his chutzpah earning him a few seconds of airtime ...

... Or the instance when, reduced to driving a cab, he picked up Rocky Graziano, and how, during the ride, Allen's funniness convinced the champ to introduce him to some show-biz pals ...

... Or the time that, as a last-minute addition to a Friar's Club roast in New York, his schtick so impressed Frank Sinatra that the Chairman arranged a gig for him at the Sands ... Allen is currently trying to cram all the memories ("I used to box, I had a great left hook") and shows and movies and international comedy tours into a book.

For lunch, we end up eating salads at the Mediterranean Cafe, partly because Allen has decided -- probably wisely -- my palate isn't up to the challenge of lox, and partly because, halfway there, the exact route to the deli suddenly eluded him.

Although he cracks a few naughty jokes, by the time his Greek salad arrives the aging funnyman has turned seriousman. If not particularly churchy, he's quite religious, crediting his success to God's immaculate timing ("If I'd have driven one second faster past Rocky Graziano ..."). He has a social conscience.

"Why can't we open closed military barracks to the homeless," he asks at lunch. It's a favorite theme, one he's pursued through nearly a dozen letters to the Clinton White House. "Please put that in," he tells me. "Take out some of the stuff I told you about show business."

Well, there you go, Bernie, for all the good it will do. Ours is clearly a powerless lunch. As a newspaper columnist, my political influence ranks lower than the Save the Banded Suckfish Society, and Allen is an 82-year-old comic, doing 30 mph on a laugh track run by younger, fleeter comedians now. Neither of us wields much clout.

But it's a nice lunch anyway, and Allen professes to be content with his post-A-list years. He has a devoted wife, kids and grandkids, a stockpile of great memories and financial security, thanks to real-estate investments. "I've had a good run," he says. "Who was I to meet Frank Sinatra?" Then he tells a funny one about crotchless panties, just to prove that when it comes to punch lines, he still has a nice left hook.