I have to make time to say a few words about a very funny man named George Miller. I just got two simultaneous e-mails from stand-up comedians telling me that George (one of their own) passed away yesterday, presumably from the leukemia he had been fighting for some time now. I did not know George well but back when I was hanging around the Comedy Store, I saw him achieve two truly amazing distinctions. One was that when he went on, all the other comedians would stop and listen. Even in the back, where they talk incessantly about their own careers, they'd shut up and watch George. And the other astounding thing was that they all liked him, personally.
His act was low-key and totally his own. The material was not screamingly funny but it was unique. He'd start slow and just when people were starting to wonder, "Who is this clown and where's the men's room?" he'd wallop them with a punch-line, not just out of left field but clear outside the stadium, out somewhere in the parking lot. His pace didn't work all that well on television — though Mr. Letterman loved him and had him on often. But in a club, when he didn't have to get a laugh every X seconds, he did just fine.
George had been ill for many months, and the rumor mill says that his medical bills were covered by one or more of his more successful friends. I can believe that because, like I said, everyone liked him. They liked his act but they liked George more.