Take My Membership. Please

By Joel Stein

The Friars Club, home to entertainers from Henny Youngman to Sally Jessy Raphael, sits just blocks from my office in Manhattan, taunting me. As a young Jewish male, my lifelong dream was to date a tall blond. But my other dream was to join the Friars Club. I pictured Shecky insulting Slappy, Slappy mocking Nipsey, Nipsey taunting Soupy, and Soupy choking on his own phlegm. There would be a whoopee cushion on every bar stool, pie fights over stolen punch lines and a lot of catcalling at the mere mention of Zsa Zsa.

It was the home of every middling comedian who ever dreamed of opening for Steve and Eydie, and I dreamed of joining so I could be canonized with them. Also because I figured hanging out there would be my best odds of actually seeing a celebrity die, which I've found is a pretty hard story to trump.

My big chance came when I was interviewing The View's Joy Behar, who, angling to win me over so I wouldn't ask about her freakishly inhuman dye job, offered to nominate me as a fellow Friar. Two weeks later, Behar landed me an interview at the club with Friar Richard Ginsburg.

During the meeting, Ginsburg told me I'd definitely be accepted. Though he mentioned spanking a lot, Friar Ginsburg said the only hazing would be having a half-hour conversation with Alan King during which I'd not be allowed to fall asleep. Ginsburg spent most of the time selling me on the club, saying it was great for networking. Sure, if I wanted to get a job in 1953.

At the induction ceremony, I was given a rose for my lapel, a little Friars Club pin and a certificate. Many, many unfunny jokes were made about a secret handshake. I had disturbing flashbacks to my induction into the National Honor Society. Not really, but I wanted to mention that I was in the National Honor Society.

I've become such a committed member that I took a pilgrimage to the Los Angeles branch, where I was shown around by Dean Ward, who once made a documentary about the club. While he was pointing out the pictures lining the wall, I shouted, "Cyd Charisse was one hot hamantash!" Ward elbowed me to shut up as Tony Martin, her husband, walked by. Not only is Martin alive, but so, Ward explained, is Charisse. For a minute I was pretty sure I was going to get beat up by a guy who gets his steak cut by Abe Vigoda.

It's hard for me to keep track of the cavalcade of stars that the club offers. The Friars Club is like trying to play a game of Jeopardy! where the correct response is always, "I don't know who he is, Alex, but I wish he'd cover himself with a towel."

I've really enjoyed my preview of retirement life. There's a pool tournament, cabaret night, constant gin rummy games and lots of hanging out with friends in the steam room. I've eaten sliced bagel chips just inches from Soupy Sales and Fyvush Finkel. And I've smelled Buddy Hackett.

But I love these guys. And I love it even more that in about four years, Joy and I are going to have a sweet piece of Manhattan real estate all to ourselves.