The Backlot Dims: Remembering Joan Rivers

A story about one of the most memorable celebrities I have ever met – Joan Rivers.

So, picture this: late 1970s. I’m bartending at a fern bar. Remember those? Boston ferns in macramé, fake antiques, everyone in polyester so slick you could slide right off the barstool.

I’d been there maybe three months. Just long enough to know that in Hollywood, nobody wants a beer. They want a Screaming Orgasm. Or a Sex on the Beach. And me? I’m the guy handing it to them with a straight face.

I also became the owner’s “yes man.” Build a shelf? Sure. Fix the toilet? Why not. Wax his car? Of course. If he’d asked me to perform open-heart surgery, I’d have been like, “Scalpel, please.”

So one Sunday night, he sends me to Studio One Backlot in West Hollywood — a big gay club, Joan Rivers is performing. The manager says they need someone who can crank out drinks fast. I’m in.

Now, Joan loved working the audience. Out of hundreds of regulars, who does she pick out? Me. On my break. Standing in the corner, trying to look invisible.

She spots me: “Well! Aren’t you a pretty boy with your Chuck Norris hair?”

And I’ve had a few drinks myself, so I fire back: “At least it’s my own.”

She gasps — hand to chest. “You think I borrowed this wig this morning? I’ve owned it for TWO weeks!”

She looks me up and down. “Bet it takes a whole team to squeeze you into those pants. I see you’re Jewish.” The crowd is howling. I’m dying. And then she pounces: “So tell me, what do you do for a living?”

And here’s where I completely blow it. I panic. I stammer: “I’m a man’s… uh… I work for this guy… I just do whatever he needs.”

Her eyes light up like Christmas. She spins to the audience: “A MAN’S man? Don’t pretty it up — he’s a prostitute! They’ll let anyone in here!”

The place erupts. And I’m three shades of red, babbling: “No, no, I just help him out. Bartending, plumbing, polishing his—”

And Joan pounces again: “Plumbing, ha! I’ll bet you polish plenty for him.”

The audience is in tears. I want the floor to swallow me whole. Finally, I squeak: “I’m just filling in tonight.”

Joan holds up her empty glass: “Well, you’re not filling THIS. I’m empty. Do your job!”

So I bolt back to the bar. I ask the manager, “What’s she drinking?” He glares: “Just make her something and get the hell out.”

So I do what any respectable bartender would do: I make up the strongest, trashiest drink I can think of. Southern Comfort, Sloe Gin, vodka, OJ, Galliano on top. I bring it out mid-set, tap her on the shoulder.

She whirls around: “What the hell is this — orange juice?”

And I grin: “It’s my specialty. A Slow, Comfortable Screw Against the Wall. Thought I’d give it to you personally.”

The audience howled. Joan didn’t miss a beat.

The crowd goes ballistic. Joan doesn’t even blink. “Oh, honey… is that a promise or a threat? Fifteen seconds, tops. I’d take you home, but Edgar’s not into it — and by the time I found a crowbar big enough to get you out of those pants, it’d be your bedtime.”

And that’s it — I’m dismissed. By Joan Rivers. And the bar manager. In the same breath.

So I slink back to my fern bar life. Slinging drinks, fixing toilets, waxing cars.

But a month later, the phone rings. It’s the Backlot manager, frantic: “Where the hell are you? Joan won’t go on unless you’re bartending.”

So I race over. I run up the stairs. She’s waiting. Eye roll. “About time. Still haven’t gotten those pants off, I see.”

I grin. “And lose your handprints? Never.”

She laughs. “Get me a drink. Something trampy.” And as she walks out on stage, she throws it over her shoulder: “Once more unto the breach!”

And that was Joan. Fierce, filthy, hilarious — and kind. She took care of me, I took care of her. And I adored her.

Unto the breach, dear friend. Unto the breach.

[Before I get letters, I know, this isn’t food and drink related, but it’s my blog, I’ve been losing lots of friends lately, and sometimes, I want to write about them]