By Stephanie Zacharek
By Robrt L. Pela
By Aaron Cutler
By Amy Nicholson
By Simon Abrams
By Chris Klimek
By Nick Schager
By Stephanie Zacharek
"They're like, 'Hey, what jury's gonna believe Howard Stern?' I'll take my chances with the jury. I'll sit down and tell them what's what. Anybody who works for a living, who has done a day's work and hasn't been paid for it because somebody decided to stiff them, they'll understand."
Then he sort of half smiles, the hurricane reduced to an exhausted, resigned breeze. "This is just another case of: Fuck it, it's just Howard Stern."
Gary Dell'Abate is perhaps the best known of Stern's associates. The producer of Stern's radio show, the man who actually keeps the runaway train if not on the tracks then at least near them, the large-toothed Dell'Abate has become sort of the show's mascot--"Baba Booey" he is called, so named because he once mispronounced the name of cartoon character Baba Looey, and the name stuck.
Dell'Abate recalls the moment he realized Stern had transcended stardom and become a true celebrity. It occurred during the 1993 Private Parts book signing in Manhattan, when Stern closed down an entire Manhattan block. "I rode over with Howard to his very first book signing," Dell'Abate says. "And Howard had no idea. We got stuck on Fifth Avenue six blocks before the bookstore, and we're thinking there must be an accident up ahead. And when we got two blocks away and we saw the crowd, that's when it started to hit him that that's what was going on. As we got closer, as we got about a block away, everybody surrounded the limo and started pounding on the roof. It was like the Beatles! I got scared because they were out of their minds. All you could see was a sea of bodies, and I remember thinking, 'He's fuckin' big now, man. Wow!'"
But now there is no one around Stern save for his coterie of writers and the ever-present Robin Quivers. It is Valentine's Day, and Stern is sitting in the Manhattan studio of WXRK-FM talking to comedian Pat Cooper, a once-forgotten Italian comic from the 1960s whose career was resurrected when Stern began booking him as a guest several years ago. Cooper's the only guy who talks louder than Stern: Next to him, Howard's an ant in a hurricane, a mute observer who can only nod as the old Vegas comic rants and raves at the microphone.
Dozens of lights hang from the ceiling, and there appear to be at least six cameras stationed at various angles. Posters from Private Parts and Miss America, framed in steel, hang from thick chains; Plexiglas sculptures of Stern and Dell'Abate stand on small columns between Stern's station and the glass booth that houses Quivers. The studio is so large that Quivers doesn't even notice a couple of visiting journalists until she comes out of her soundproof cage during commercial breaks.
Contrary to the chaos overheard by radio audiences--the dissonance created by Norris' pistol-quick sound effects and Martling's whinny and Stern's own tenor--the studio seems almost calm this morning--surprisingly serene. Until Cooper opens his mouth. On the morning of this most romantic day, Cooper starts yapping about how a woman's vagina is more like a "Brillo pad," a "hairbrush" men bust their balls to get at for even a moment. But Cooper growls he doesn't need what other men crave: "I've got my right hand," he snarls. This is a man who does not whisper sweet nothings--or anything else. "Kiss my ass, you vagina."
Stern agrees--but of course. This is his gambit, too, the lament of the tortured man who insists he wants to cheat on his wife but is too guilt-ridden to go through with it. That and, he laments, some "loudmouthed broad" will rat him out to the tabloids, thus giving his wife half his hard-earned millions. Better he masturbate than do the deed with a stripper.
"He happens to be right," Stern says to his microphone. "He's like a sage. You get crazy and make crazy decisions. What do ya think O.J. killed over? Not a penis."
And then Stern rolls his eyes. He wiggles his eyebrows. He flashes a grin. It's the one that says, "What the hell did I just say?"
A moment such as this one occurs in the film Private Parts, when Stern goes on the air to talk about Alison's miscarriage. It has since become a classic Stern moment, one that took place during his tenure at DC-101 in 1982: Stern, speaking as "God," phones to blame Howard for Alison's miscarriage: "A real man would have done it right the first time," God tells Howard, who then shouts back, "I don't think this is funny!" But Howard does, dragging the bit out for two days even though it infuriated his wife and nearly destroyed his marriage.
Yet there's a moment in the film immediately after that bit when Stern looks genuinely sorry for what he has just said. The smile turns into a frown, the laugh gets swallowed. It's the look the radio audience cannot see, the moment when Stern realizes he has crossed that imaginary line separating the absurd from the inexcusable.
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