I was acutely aware that no one cared about the reincarnation of my stupid comedy zine, but it was a big deal for me. I nervously took issue with the printer, then went to town to sell a few copies to a record store, only to have to close it for the night. I headed to an event with a backpack full of zine—never a gentle look—then went home, sad at having unloaded exactly zero copies.
It was late at night on a hazy Memorial Day weekend, and the city was empty. On 13th and 6th, I waited for the lights to change, sharing the corner only with other pedestrians. I looked at the man to make sure he wasn’t preparing to stab me. Then, I took a double take. It was Gilbert Gottfried.
He didn’t know me from Adam, but I hurriedly threw a copy of the revelation on his confused face. “Great,” he said. “I want someone to write a great article about me, and then when it happens it’s… it.”
We slowly moved down Sixth Avenue into our mutual Chelsea neighborhood. His famous stage bray was muted, which was later replaced by the strange quiet cadence familiar to listeners of “Gilbert Gottfried’s Amazing Colossal Podcast”, his whipsmart showbiz series with Frank Santopadre. Roaring jokes and generous laughter persisted. I think I can be quite funny when talking to my family and friends; Moving in with Gilbert, I felt like the guitarist of the weekend trying to jam with Hendrix.
As we approached West 18th Street, a group of young women spotted the comedian and spontaneously began laughing and oddly cheering. The comic gave him a wave as he passed. “Your article should be there,” he said.
Years later, my daughter enrolled in the same public elementary school as Gottfried’s two undeniably attractive children, overlapping for some time with their youngest. Gilbert’s wife, Dara, was a PTA hero – at their last meeting, she received a standing ovation – and she oversaw an annual comedy show to raise money for the school. Naturally, Gottfried will always perform.
