The following column is the opinion and analysis of the writer.
My pal Jay was excited about our new venture featuring a revue of comedians over 65 called “Still Standing Up.” Mr. Jay Taylor emailed our fellow comedian Linda Ray with an idea. “I think we should do tiny flyers, go into drugstores and tape them onto Poligrip packages.”
I loved Jay. Tucson loved Jay. And Jay loved Tucson.
I can’t recall how we met, but we hit it off comparing notes about comedy and being emcees. Once, as a banquet emcee, Jay was tasked with introducing a local notable who had a thick Southern accent. With a straight face Jay said, “Our next guest does great dialects. His impression of a Southerner is among the best I’ve ever seen. Please welcome …”
Laughter still haunts that hall.
I met Jay long after he had been the advertising titan who was famous for “That Green Valley Grin,” “O’Reilly’s Chevrolet. Lord they’re good people,” and “Tucson is an Estes hometown.”
I remember the Kon Tiki ad where a waiter asks a Polynesian Prince, “Samoa?” The regal Tahitian answered, “Don’t mind if I do!”
When Jay performed a comedy gig at the “Great American Playhouse” in 2015, he asked me to open for him. We killed and we would share a stage again and again. It was thrilling to perform with him.
Theatrical Renaissance man Nick Seivert described Jay’s gift beautifully in an email. “Jay was like a bridge between classic and current comedy. He always had a bit or a joke he was working on. We were the lucky guinea pigs he was trying a bit out on for the first time. He had a savage sense of humor that he camouflaged with a gentile Southern charm. We had lunch one time and it was like a very intimate comedy show he performed for an audience of one.”
My friendship with the self-described “straight white Republican gentile comedian” blossomed over comedy and politics. He often sent me cartoon ideas like this one: “Trump asked the Ukrainian president to send him some exotic Black Sea calamari. Isn’t that proof of a squid pro quo?” Followed by “You continue to amaze me. You gotta be one of the 600 best political cartoonists west of Roswell.”
I didn’t mind it a bit when Jay asked me to render his storyboards for spec ads, design his novelty products like “The Rat’s Behind” (You can’t give a rat’s behind unless you have one), or sketch out his epic musical, “Big Pharma.” I’d do anything for the headliner of my Arroyo Cafe shows. Elliott Glicksman called him our Tim Conway. Tucson loved his comedy monologues.
“Can you help me with the cover for my autobiography? I need a homeless person’s sign.”
“What’s your book called?”
“Will Work For Metamucil.”
Jay, at one time, was scheming a book tour. I asked him, “When are you hitting the road and will Scarlett be riding shotgun? “Jay answered, “Never say shotgun and Scarlett in the same sentence. Reminds me of our wedding.”
We’re ordering lunch and Jay smiles at our matronly server. “I’m a married man, but I’m not a fanatic about it.”
That wasn’t true. He was a fanatic about his marriage. He adored Scarlett and his family. He’d make his grandkids laugh by shoving baby carrots in his ear and shooting them out of his mouth, a feat which dazzled them.
And me. In public restaurants. I ducked.
I’d get random emails: “Did you know a very insecure Hollywood writer just created a new sitcom called “Gilligan’s Peninsula?”
Jay loved practical jokes. Every year Jay’s best friend, Frank Kalil, threw a holiday party at his home and, according to Jay, Frank always sat at the head of the table, proud of the magnificent Christmas tree festooned with beautiful ornaments towering behind him.
In Vegas one year, Jay was inspired to collect every tawdry “business” card handed out on the Strip. Brought hundreds home. Cut holes in them for ornament hooks.
He told me: “Night before the Christmas party I swapped Frank’s beautiful tree ornaments for hundreds of stripper and hooker cards.” Frank didn’t notice until halfway through his well-attended party. Such a bad boy.
On Monday he texted me. “Back in hospital. Will keep you advised. Jay.” I knew it was serious. There was no funny tagline. No punchline. I texted back: “Love you, brother. Candle lit. Obey your docs and Scarlett.”
In 2008 Taylor wrote a powerful homespun one-man show he performed at the Temple of Music and Art called “Better Late Than Sorry.” His tagline was “Funny isn’t about your age. It’s about your journey.” Today at the Rialto we will celebrate our beloved friend’s remarkable journey with tears and laughter. Because, they say, at Christmastime, when laughter rings through an old vaudeville theater, an angel gets his wings.
