Can not even imagine how it feels (and I hope I never will) how absolutely heart breaking it must be to see someone you love slowly die right infront of you. Gene cared for Gilda. Karen cared for Gene. Martin cared for Nancy. Erica cared for Harold.
Nancy Dolman, Martin Short, Olivia Harrison, and George Harrison. Both these photos were taken in 1990.
This excerpt is from the audiobook version of Martin Short’s autobiography, I Must Say: My Life As a Humble Comedy Legend. If anyone has the clip from Short’s appearance on Jimmy Fallon in 2012 where he tells this story please let me know because it’s adorable. It disappeared after Fallon moved to the Tonight Show.
As acclimated as Nancy and I became to the Hollywood scene, a few figures still froze us in our tracks, neutralising our normal gregariousness with their megawatt presence. One was George Harrison. You never get over the fact that a Beatle is a Beatle, even after he’s stopped being a Beatle. Nancy and I met George in 1990 at an LA dinner party hosted by Dick Donner and Lauren Schuler Donner. I’d met Ringo Starr when he was on SNL and would later work with Paul McCartney, but George seemed the most mysterious and reclusive of the surviving Beatles. To Nancy and me there was something otherworldly about him. We knew in advance that George was going to be at the Donners’ party.
On the drive over we played Rubber Soul over and over again, and Nan kept saying, “Wouldn’t you love to just corner him, and ask him every Beatle question you’ve ever wondered about?” We both laughed and I said, “Yeah, boy, he’d sure love that, wouldn’t he?” Then we went silent and just listened for a while to the genius music that George made with the three other guys in his old band.
There were ten other guests there that night, and when George walked through the door, all I could think was, “My God! He looks exactly like George Harrison.” George was perfectly friendly throughout dinner. In fact he brought along a tape of the still unreleased second Traveling Wilburys album, which he eagerly played for all of us on the Donners’ stereo like a proud teen showing off his garage band. I found that sweet, but Nan and I maintained a cordial deferential distance from him, fearful that the word “Beatles" might come out of our mouths like an involuntary turrets-like outburst.
After dinner we all retired to the Donners’ screening room where Dick had arranged for us to view an advanced reel of The Hunt For Red October. I ended up sitting right next to George on the couch with Nan on my other side. Dick Donner, an outgoing no-BS guy with a thick thatch of white hair announced, “Does anyone mind if I smoke a doobie?” Then he pulled out a large joint which he proceeded to light, his plans clearly not contingent upon anyone’s answer to the question.
As we watched The Hunt For Red October, the joint was passed around until it landed with Nan. My wife, who could never really handle any kind of smoke, took one puff just for the sake of sociability. She immediately started coughing, and as fast as she could, passed the Donner doobie to me. I took a hit, and then it was my turn to pass the joint to George on my right, but all of a sudden I started to panic - wondering about the etiquette of it all. “Do I pass this to a Beatle? Maybe I shouldn’t. Am I going to offend him? Gee, I wouldn’t want to offend him. Would the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi be pissed or elated? Or maybe it would be rude if I didn’t pass him the joint. Ah, what the hell - probably just best to pass George Harrison the joint.” I gently nudged George who was engrossed in the movie and offered him the spliff. He looked at it, smiled, and in his best documentary narrator’s voice said, “Ahhh, the ‘60s!” He happily accepted the funny cigarette and took several drags on it. I looked back at Nan, and she was already fast asleep. Her head bent back. Her nose in the air.
George on the other hand became totally amped - very gregarious and chatty, talking right over the movie. “I have a hard time watching Sean Connery in a movie - a hard time accepting him in the part he’s playing,” George said, his voice now rising to lecture hall volume. “’Cause he’s too bloody famous! Too iconic! It’s like watching a Beatle.” At that, George’s fortissimo pronouncement of the word “Beatle”, Nancy’s head shot up with a start. Not even quite sure where she was, she muttered, “Who said that?”
Meanwhile, Lauren Schuler Donner had been contemplating for the last minute or so whether it was ok to shush a Beatle. Now she concluded it was. “Guys,” she whispered, “Shh!” George and I were both quiet like reprimanded kids in the fourth grade. After a moment I turned to him and whispered, “Way to go, asshole.” The two of us burst out laughing, eliciting now from the entire group a new round of shushing.
For the remainder of the evening, away from the screening room, George and I enjoyed a rich, funny, fast-moving conversation. He was even familiar with some of the work I’d done which I found incredibly flattering, but then he was a comedy aficionado, close to Lorne [Michaels] and Eric Idle of Monty Python. As we said our goodbyes at the end of the night, George and I exchanged numbers, and we made a plan to have lunch the next day. Nancy, having benefited from a refreshing head-clearing nap, said to me as we buckled into our car-seats, “Out of curiousity, how do you intend to have lunch with your new best friend George Harrison tomorrow? Given that you’re flying to Boston first thing in the morning?” Mother’s balls! I’d forgotten that I had a gig in Boston.
The next day as early as I could without being rude, I telephoned George and told him I’d forgotten about my trip. He was gracious and told me we’d make it happen another time. Sadly that other time never came. Our paths never crossed again, and George passed away in 2001.
Just a few months after his death, I was in Bungalow 8, a New York club that Paul Shaffer dragged me to, when I noticed a skinny fellow who was the spitting image of George - only young George - coming right toward me. Before I could say anything this young man embraced me in a tender hug and then pulled back to explain himself. “I’m Dhani Harrison,” he said. “One of the last things my father told me was that if I ever come across people who were important to him, I should give them a hug.”
