Hey Jerrrryyy!

Melissa Schorr

Friday, Sept. 4, 1998 | 9:51 a.m.

HOLLYWOOD -- No celebrity is as closely associated with a charitable cause as Jerry Lewis and his annual Labor Day telethon.

The Muscular Dystrophy Association fund-raiser began modestly in 1966 with one New York TV station. Now in its 33rd year, it has grown to attract 75 million viewers and air on more than 200 stations nationwide (locally, it airs on KLAS Channel 8, starting at 8 p.m. Sunday) -- including, for the first time this year, on the Internet (http://www.mdausa.org).

Lewis dove into the work five decades ago, for reasons that, even today, he has never fully disclosed. ("Something disastrous happened, something very personal," he wrote mysteriously in his 1982 autobiography.) Whatever his original motives, Lewis has since raised $1.6 billion ($50.5 million last year), been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize and awarded the French Legion of Honor.

Still, with Lewis now an elder statesman of comedy at age 72, one might wonder if the race for the cure threatens to outpace Lewis' own stamina. Put those fears aside: One workday with Lewis earlier this week, as he prepared for another slap-shtick solici-thon, proved that he's still the kid comic -- and the king of charity.

11 a.m.

No star treatment on display: The "King of Comedy" sits communally amid his fellow workers at a corner desk in the "theatrical" trailer on the CBS Television City lot in Hollywood. The only nod to his 38-year status as MDA "National Chairman" is his genuine mahogany desk, compared to everyone else's plywood, and the fact that he is the only one there not wearing a plastic ID badge. He needs no such introduction.

The trailer hums with the sound of the about 30 MDA representatives and talent coordinators taking care of last-minute business. "You should see it in here, we look like (bleeping) Beirut," Lewis quips into the phone, making fun of the general sense of disarray. On the contrary, though, after three decades of telethons, the preparation is practically down to a science. Jerry, as the show's closing anthem goes, "never walks alone," surrounding himself with loyalists who have been there for the long haul, call him "JL" for short and have no fear of his legendary -- though never displayed on this particular day -- wrath. They tease him as relentlessly as he does them.

"No one that works in this operation hasn't been touched by what I feel," Lewis explains. "If you can't connect to what I'm doing, you don't belong here."

Those who have passed muster include: his secretary, Penny Rice (26 years with the telethon); his producer, Lee Miller (eight years); his casting director, Eddie Foy III (10 years); his security guard, Brian Dellow (9 years); his stage manager, Debbie Williams (11 years); longtime manager Joe Stabile and wife Claudia, the group's acting den mother; and two of his six grown sons.

All are accustomed to the grueling marathon just days ahead of them. "It's habit," Rice, his secretary, shrugs when asked how they get through it. "You just know you're going to do it." Says Williams, who literally shadows Lewis for the entire telethon: "It's our Labor Day labor pains. We laugh, we play, we joke. We eat to keep our blood sugar up." She adds that never knowing what Lewis will do keeps them wide-eyed. "Just when you think there's a plan, he throws a wrench in it." This seems to hold true for Lewis's behavior off-stage as well: Unable to resist the spotlight for long, throughout the workday Lewis sneaks up behind co-workers, surprising them with a shout in their ear, brightly answers a ringing phone, "Japanese embassy," and bursts into song without warning.

11:30 a.m.

Lewis heads over to the adjacent trailer, where MDA Executive Director Robert Ross and his team of MDA researchers work on their end of the telethon. On the way, he excitedly explains the latest advances in genetic research: The first human trials of gene therapy on two forms of MD begin this winter. "It's incredible," he says. "We may be able to get a child out of a wheelchair." His immediate goal: find a way he can explain all this to the lay person. He and Ross set up a phone conference with doctors for later in the day.

11:45 a.m.

Jerry & Co. are marveling over the MDA's website, which for the first time this year will "air" the broadcast worldwide, using video- streaming technology. "(They) asked me if I would go on the Web," Lewis notes, "and I said, of course -- if that means we're going out to the world." Lewis himself is a bit of a technophobe, joking that an electronic pocket organizer and an old typewriter are still his tools of choice. But he is well aware that computers are about to change his industry. "This," he declares to the room of TV types, "is putting you out of business."

Noon

Lewis has flown in two entertainment executives he met while performing last year in the new Crown casino in Melbourne, Australia. He begins lecturing them about the history of his involvement with the MDA, telling them of the "horror story" he has been living, in which promising work ends up without results. "But there's nothing negative about this," he adds passionately, of gene therapy. "We are always careful about raising hope prematurely, but in effect, this is telling me that we can free them of it."

12:05 p.m.

Suddenly, Lewis grabs some Scotch tape and begins wrapping up his nose, then an ear, then an eye. He begins moaning and carrying on like he is a bashed-up wrestler fresh from a losing match, when he is interrupted by a phone call. He's "always" like that, confirms manager Joe Stabile in a whisper. "He can go from that into something serious."

12:10 p.m.

Off the phone, Lewis continues his tale of involvement with the Australians, telling of a prominent physician in the '50s who discouraged him from getting involved. "What if I had listened to him?" Lewis asks with wonder at this alternate path in the universe. "I'd have gone away...."

12:20 p.m.

After some debate over the merits of hotdogs and Chinese food, lunch is ordered for the group -- Philly Cheesesteak subs and tuna sandwiches from Papa Jake's, a local deli.

12:30 p.m.

Lewis strides over to check out progress on his personal trailer being constructed next door, where he will rehearse and spend down-time during the telethon, taking 15-minute "catnaps." Once, Lewis took pride in making it through the entire night, but for the past few years, he has taken a break in the wee hours of the morning, relying on taped material from midnight through 6 a.m.

Workers are busy painting the trailer's trimmings, which, in true Hollywood style, will be scrapped like a poorly-rated sitcom immediately afterwards. Inside, the two-bedroom spread, featuring deep red carpeting, rented furniture and even a grand piano, seems to meet Lewis' approval. "This space is certainly not going to hurt us," he declares. When asked if he likes the decor, he shrugs. "It's the same decor every year."

1 p.m.

Lunchtime. Jerry sips a glass of red Bordeaux wine with his Philly sub, one of his heart-healthy practices since his heart attack in 1982. Lewis also has relinquished the cigarettes he used to puff away on all night, and claims not to miss them. Another health-care practice: To release tension from the pratfall-induced back injury that left him addicted to painkillers in the '70s, Lewis had a therapist working on his spine the day before, and will again before the telethon.

1:30 p.m.

Lewis & Co. view a taped segment of a woman speaking movingly about her husband's illness. The spot leaves him in tears. "You'd think after 50 years, it wouldn't still hit me," he explains later. "But sometimes, I need it to be something other than a surprise, so I don't lose it." Says Williams: "People at home think that he's faking it, that this a baloney delivery, but it's not, it's just him. Sometimes, backstage, he'll say, 'I don't know if I can do this.' (Afterwards), he's choked up and can't do the next piece. Then he'll sit and be depressed."

2 p.m.

Lewis views a tape of last year's show, in which he is hamming it up, disrupting the singing barbershop troupe the Valleyaires by singing from within their midst. The group is set to open this year's telethon, and plan to include a clip from Lewis' shtick. "No cuts," he insists, despite some risque humor that he admits might "get letters from the gay and lesbian community. The intention was mischievous," Lewis says, defending his tongue-wagging, lascivious innuendoes. "It surprised the (bleep) out of me when I did it, but it was hysterical."

3 p.m.

A scissors-wielding Claudia chases Lewis down to snip some stray ear hairs.

3:05 p.m.

Lewis puts on Mozart's "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik," which he plans to conduct for one of the acts, the Children's Orchestra -- with a Lewisian twist, of course. "They must follow me," he commands, "no matter what I do."

3:10 p.m.

Lewis and Miller are examining the show's lineup on the far wall, full of index cards, each color-coded to distinguish acts that are live from the set, taped segments, live remotes from Las Vegas, New York and Nashville, or "Appeals & Profiles." TV's last gasp at a true variety show, the telethon is truly a relic of another time. Its 70 to 80 stars meld chic and geek, from hip dancer Savion Glover to hip-shaking Charo (on every year since 1980), from "Politically Incorrect" comedian Bill Maher to follicly-incorrect comedian Carrot Top.

Three-thousand novelty acts submit tapes from around the world each year; only a handful of "unknowns" make the cut, Foy says, including Sam Lomax, a "world champion whistler," and Charlie Schmidt, who "plays his nose." Other highlights: Lance Burton beams in from the Monte Carlo in prime-time hour No. 3; Las Vegas singer Mark O'Toole in a graveyard shift at hour 11 (4 a.m.); "The New Morty Show," of Hard Rock casino swing night fame, in the line-up at hour 13; and a number from "The King & I" in hour 16.

In the final, 21st hour, Celine Dion, considered this year's big name-draw, will perform live from a concert at New York's Madison Square Garden. Lewis and Miller consider rearranging Vicki Carr and Celine Dion's time slot, then decide to leave it alone. Later, Foy finds out that Drew Carey has dropped out at the last moment; he will need to plug up the hole.

Megastars don't have to submit tapes. Rather, they are begged to donate their time, but the well is drying up. Sammy and Frank and other telethon staples are gone now, and charity events for the more "favored" Tinseltown illnesses rival the telethon for support. "I get one out of every 50 offers I make," sighs Foy, whose wish list includes Bette Midler, Garth Brooks and violinist Isaac Stern. "It's a new world out there."

3:15 p.m.

Lewis' second wife, SanDee, to whom he's been married for 15 years, arrives. He gives her a hug, calls her "pookie." She questions why the blowup-sized photos of their adopted daughter, Danielle, 6, aren't hanging, unaware that Lewis had been proudly showing them off all morning.

3:20 p.m.

Down-time. Suddenly, Lewis paws through a plastic bag hidden beneath his desk and mischievously pulls out a can. "I do it to all the bellmen at the hotel," he chuckles. Everyone knows what is to come; he did the same thing yesterday. It's Silly String time! With a huge guffaw, Lewis lets loose with a stream of pink string, dousing anyone within reach. He opens his mouth widely, and out comes his trademark "haw, haw haw!" Soon it is payback time, and Lewis is dotted with pink stringy spots. "I love it!" he cries.

3:50 p.m.

As instructed, the entire room trumpets Lewis' impending conference call.

4:00 p.m.

Lewis gathers with three prominent muscular dystrophy doctors in the adjacent trailer for a conference call looking for a "layman's" interpretation of the latest advances in genetic therapy. He wants to know how far he can go touting this advance, while remaining medically accurate. "Can I say there is a possibility of taking a dystrophic child out of a wheelchair?" he asks. The physicians are optimistic, but cautious.

"I need an uplifting proclamation," Lewis insists. "I need to say, 'I've got wonderful stuff to tell you. I've been asking for so many years,' if I don't give a little utz, it encumbers what I'm trying to do. I want to be uplifting, to be the kind of announcement we've never made before, while not creating a (lot) of troubles." They promise to fax him an outline of what he can safely say by the following morning. Lewis hangs up the phone. "What they're doing," he says reverently, "is Godlike, for chrissakes."

4:15 p.m.

It took almost all day, but Lewis finally comes through: " Hey Laaaady ," he cries in the voice of "the idiot," calling for his wife in another room of the trailer. "That should get her out here," he says, the comment smacking with satisfaction.

4:25 p.m.

No one notes the irony when Lewis, the toast of Paris, pops in a videotape of a 1975 French film, "And Now My Love," recommended by his creative consultant Sam Denoff. Lewis, an often-overlooked director of 15 films and author of "The Total Filmmaker," is impressed with director Claude Lelouche's style. "Great characters," he notes before packing the tape up to view at home.

4:45 p.m.

Lewis admits he misses the decades when the show was based in Las Vegas, confiding that there are discussions underway to bring it back. If not, there have also been talks that he might bring the touring Broadway revival of "Damn Yankees," in which he plays the Devil, to Las Vegas after its scheduled run concludes next year.

4:55 p.m.

Before he can end the workday, hop into his new red Lincoln Navigator, go out to dinner with his wife and head back to the hotel in Beverly Hills to relax, Lewis is eagerly awaiting some final documents from MDA's Ross. Though he is confident that this is a "historic" telethon with significant news, it seems a little bittersweet to think that a cure would bring an end to all this storied tradition. But Lewis dismisses the thought.

"There is no such thing as this is going to be over," he declares. "I know what I need to give research, which is five more years. I think, at $2 billion, they're going to say, 'we've got it.' "

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