Ukie Sherin

[Yhtapmys]

Jack had his cast of regulars who got credit every show and a number of secondary players who would appear fairly often on the show (Frank Nelson, Mel Blanc, Sara Berner and so on). But there were some actors who made only a few appearances in roles that could probably have been handled by any of his secondary people.

Ukie Sherin was one. I caught him doing the bald guy-at-the-door routine that Harry Baldwin would have been doing had he not been drafted. Sherin was a Borscht Belt comic who got his nickname when he won a ukulele-playing contest in 1928. He had been a writer at the Warner Vitagraph studio in New York and moved west with the movies. He was Edgar Bergen’s first radio writer and was connected with Bing Crosby’s show through the ‘40s, on and off the air. He was a buddy of Phil Harris and seems to have known all the big players in network radio of the day. He spewed one-liners that were gobbled up by columnists like Earl Wilson, which was a good way of keeping your name in the papers.

Sherin had a purse named for him at Yakima Meadows Racetrack in Washington State; he played a lounge in the city during racing seasons in the late ‘60s. He suffered a stroke in 1976 which stopped him from working and died in 1981.

He talked about Jack and other comedians in a couple of interviews, so I thought I’d pass them on.

DON SCHELLIE
[Tucson Daily Citizen, Dec. 26, 1963]
If you hanker to become a comedian, drop Ukie Sherin a postcard. He can help you.
Ukie is a sorrowful-looking gent who puts funny words in the mouths of others, though of late he’s been keeping a few for himself.
He's a.comedy writer and has produced material for practically every comic in the business.
Last week he was in Tucson, filling in for his buddy, Henny Youngman, who was forced to leave a Skyroom engagement two nights early because of illness in his family.
THE LAST FEW YEARS Ukie has been doing less writing, however, and more stage work.
“Face it,” he said. “I hated to leave the family. You don't have much home life when you’re on the road.
“But now my daughter’s grown up, married—has three kids of her own—so I feel free to travel.”
And travel he does, playing clubs throughout the country.
In the trade, Ukie is considered a comic’s, comic. “I’d rather work in front of an audience of comedians than one of regular citizens,” he said.
Which sets him apart from most comics, who would rather face a firing squad than fellow funnymen. “Me? I like show people because they appreciate what you’re doing,” he explained.
BEFORE YOU CAN WRITE for another comic, you’ve got to know his personality; know how he works; what kind of material he uses — and needs.
A young, inexperienced comic must have sharper material than an old pro, he went on. “A youngster might have great delivery, but face it, a reputation helps.”
Also, a comedian must like his jokes and have faith in his stuff, or he won’t come across, Ukie said.
Much of Ukie’s work is in the field of medicine. “You know — like a Doctor of Laughs. I offer first aid to ailing comedy routines.”
Comedians work differently. Jack Benny? “He starts slow. Builds up to his laughs. He’s subtle.”
And then there’s Milton Berle. “Berle—he likes a yuk for an opener. Insists upon it. He starts with big laughs and wants to sustain them.”
BUT NOW, AS NOTED EARLIER, Ukie is spending more time rattling off his own jokes. Which can be a hazardous business.
Like a few years back, when he failed to read the fine print on a contract and Ukie found himself playing a 13-week engagement in the men's room of a Los Angeles night club.
The club’s owner, a friend of Ukie’s, did it as a practical joke and Sherin turned the tables by fulfilling the contract.
“Got great publicity out of it,” he said, “but I have to admit, I had trouble holding an audience.”
He is more careful, now, and always reads the fine print, he added.
“Just for laughs.”

Looks of Ukie Sherin As Improbable as His Name
By ERSKINE JOHNSON
[Oct. 18, 1961]
DALLAS - (NEA) — Portrait of a comedian:
The name is Ukie Sherin, and his looks are as improbable as his.name. He’s bald-headed, jug-eared and he has been around for years. He calls himself a stand-up comedian of the old school, but he yawns:
“I do my act best sitting down because I’m always tired.”
For three years now he has been packing millionaires and peasants into a walk-up bistro called the University Club in downtown Dallas. The name of the club belies its small area, its far-from-swank decor and the I.Q. of most of its patrons.
About the place, Ukie says: “Imagine me telling people I’m playing the University Club. When they say, ‘Man, you're getting up in the world,’ my answer is:
“Look, buster, I once played a joint in Los Angeles named the Zombie Club. Playing the University Club is a COMEDOWN.”
If people don't laugh at his distress, Ukie gives ‘em one of his favorite lines, shrugging:
“Well, that went over like an empty CARE package.”
We first met Sherin on a sound stage in Hollywood’s Stone Age. He was on the set whenever Bob Hope worked in a movie and whenever Bob and Bing Crosby got together on a “Road” film.
He was a gagman then on the payroll of Bob or, more likely, Paramount Pictures. I don’t remember exactly. Ukie always had a funny like when one was needed, or a suggestion for a piece of funny visual business.
Ukie’s style is in the twilight zone between bored and lazy. He works with one deadpan expression and his funniest lines are from true ad libs concocted on the spot. This makes him not exactly quotable because unless you are there to hear the build-up the ad lib means little.
His stock jokes are Golden Bantam. Like the one about the woman to whom someone said, “Oh, I see you're going to have a baby.” Her reply is, “No, I'm just carrying it for a friend.” Or:
“I have a suggestion for a new version of Russian roulette. You take a flute and six cobras—and one of the cobras is deaf.”
Like Milton Berle, Ukie is at his best ad libbing with his audience. The most amusing thing Ukie ever did was a practical joke several years ago. One of his victims was a bandleader whose name escapes us. The bandleader was a man who could bide his time until he could get revenge. He waited for months and then figured the time was ready to turn the tables on Ukie.
The bandleader signed Ukie to a contract to do his comedy act in the “M” Room of a Los Angeles night club every Saturday night for 13 weeks. It wasn’t until he showed up, dressed to the teeth, on the first Saturday that Ukie discovered he had been had. The “M Room” was not the music room or the Moonbeam Room or the Mosaic Room or even the Motmot Room.
The “M Room,” Ukie discovered, was the gentlemen’s lounge. But Ukie insisted upon fulfilling his contract to the letter.
For 13 consecutive Saturday nights Ukie performed before an audience of transient males. He gave such a typically uproarious Sherin show that there was often a larger crowd watching him perform in the masculine retreat than there was out on the club’s floor, dancing to the music of the bandleader who had waited so long for his revenge.

Since someone will want to know, the bandleader in question was Spade Cooley. One column says upon getting the washroom gig, Ukie wrote Petrillo, who was in the midst of a battle over TV shows using recorded music instead of orchestras (made up of his union members). He asked: “Is this what you mean by canned music?”

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