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young. (Actually, life still seems that interesting to me now. You know the old expression, “you’re only as old as you feel”? That’s not quite true. Sometimes I feel older than dirt. What is true is that you’re only as old as you think. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you that I’m the oldest kid they know.)
    One of my first solo gigs in New York was as a guest singer on what was then the top-rated radio program in the country, The Big Show on NBC. The Big Show was hosted by a woman whose picture can be found in the thesaurus next to the phrase “larger than life”—the outrageous, caustic, bawdy (“but never boring, dahling” ) Miss Tallulah Bankhead.
    Before I go on, you need to be familiar with the backstory here. At the same time that I was booked to appear on her radio program, Tallulah Bankhead was also involved in one of the biggest celebrity-scandal trials of the era. Her maid had been charged with stealing from her and, very reluctantly, Tallulah was forced to testify in the case, thus opening the door to testimony about the lurid details of her personal life.
    Compared to, say, the O.J. trial, this was a celebrity case with quite a lot of funny moments. In fact, Tallulah was warned repeatedly not to laugh during the testimony of the other witnesses because her throaty guffaw would break up the entire courtroom, including the judge. But she couldn’t control herself. “Oh your honor, dahling,” she’d say to the judge, “really, I am sorry.” She was eventually banished from the courtroom except for when she had to give her own testimony. (By the way, do you know how I knew that O.J. was bad news long before the rest of the world found out? Simple. Sophia Loren once told a story on my show about how Simpson hadn’t paid up when he lost to her in poker. In other words, “the rules don’t apply to me.”)
    Okay, back to The Big Show . At the afternoon rehearsal, everybody gathered around a large table to go over that evening’s script. Let me tell you who else was there that day: Ethel Merman, Phil Silvers, and Loretta Young. And fresh from her matinee performance in New York Superior Court, our host, Miss Bankhead.
    Now, everyone in that room knew that in court Tallulah had been accused of being a flagrant pot smoker. Anyone else would have been on her best behavior, knowing that the slightest impropriety would surely make its way into print. But not Tallulah. Draped in a full-length mink coat, she sauntered leisurely into the room (late, as usual, which guaranteed her an audience) and stopped in front of the NBC orchestra. She looked at Meredith Willson and the hundred musicians seated behind him, paused for effect, then in that gruff Southern voice that earned her the nickname “the Alabama Foghorn,” she asked, “Has anybody got a reefer?”
    After the waves of laughter finally subsided, Ethel Merman resumed telling a story to Phil Silvers that had been interrupted by Tallulah’s grand entrance.
    “So, Phil, I was just saying that I bumped into that singing teacher we used to have.” She mentioned his name and Phil Silvers said, “Oh him . I thought he was dead. He’s a son of a bitch.”
    Loretta Young, who was very religious and quite proper, said, “That will be one dollar for the swear box.” Phil Silvers dug into his pocket, pulled out a dollar, and put it in a cardboard shoebox that was sitting in the middle of the table.
    “Well, honey,” continued Ethel, “you remember that little rat who was our first manager? I thought he was dead too, but I saw that lousy bastard in Sardi’s just last week.”
    Like a missionary among heathens, Loretta was undaunted. “Ethel,” she said, primly, “that will be another dollar for the swear box.”
    And so it went, back and forth like a tennis match for about ten minutes, until the shoebox was stuffed with cash. Tallulah had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout these exchanges until, finally, she could stand it no