Larry Miller, contributing humorist

MILTON BERLE attended many funerals at Hillside Cemetery here in Los Angeles over the years for his brethren. This is "brethren" in two senses. Hillside is a Jewish cemetery and, in case you didn't know or couldn't guess, Berle was a Jew. Also, though, most of these funerals were for a subset of his other brothers, comics. They're all there at Hillside: Benny, Burns, Cantor, Jolson, Jessel, Youngman, and so many others--dozens of the greatest entertainers of the greatest era in the greatest country, craftsmen who operated at a level of honed ability no society will ever see again.

And at all the funerals of these brightest of stars, Milton was always asked to speak, and he always accepted, and he always opened with the same bit. Let's say it was Jack Benny's funeral. Milton would get up at the podium in the chapel, look around solemnly, nod to the family, compose himself, and say, "I never liked Jack Benny." Then, after the laughter settled, he would softly add, "I loved him."

Last Monday, April 1, Milton attended one more funeral at Hillside, but this time he didn't speak, because, of course, it was his. So others spoke for him. Norm Crosby, Jan Murray, Larry Gelbart (the great writer/producer), Red Buttons, and Don Rickles, just a few of his brothers, but, oh, they loved him, too. So did I. You couldn't know Milton and not love him. I was there. I thought you might like to hear about it. Even now, with so

I met him sixteen years ago at the Hollywood Improv. I had performed, and afterwards Budd Freedman, the owner, introduced me to Milton and his wife, Ruth. They had seen the show and wanted to say hello. Of course, I was thrilled. The three of us sat down for a drink, he said some very flattering things, asked a few questions, and I must've grinned for the whole hour. Then he asked for my phone number, said goodnight and left, and I went upstairs to the big, round comics' table and told my brothers all about it.

He called the next day. Just like that, and I couldn't have been more surprised if Christy Brinkley had dived through my window and dragged me to the couch. (I was single then. Not that that changed the odds against Christy leaping into my arms, but, like all single men, I clutched tightly to the thought, "Yeah, but it could happen.")

So now I'm on the phone with Milton Berle. He was having a drink and a cigar at the Friars, and he said he was putting me on a show with him that week at a big benefit in Hollywood. (Note: He didn't ask, "Would you like to be on a show?" He was putting me on the show, and that was that. As he told me later, "Do your work, pal, so when they call, you're ready.")