Never Have Your Dog Stuffed: And Other Things I've Learned

( 30 )

Overview

He’s one of America’s most recognizable and acclaimed actors–a star on Broadway, an Oscar nominee for The Aviator, and the only person to ever win Emmys for acting, writing, and directing, during his eleven years on M*A*S*H. Now Alan Alda has written a memoir as elegant, funny, and affecting as his greatest performances.

“My mother didn’t try to stab my father until I was six,” begins Alda’s irresistible story. The son of a popular actor and a loving but mentally ill mother, he spent his early childhood backstage...

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Overview

He’s one of America’s most recognizable and acclaimed actors–a star on Broadway, an Oscar nominee for The Aviator, and the only person to ever win Emmys for acting, writing, and directing, during his eleven years on M*A*S*H. Now Alan Alda has written a memoir as elegant, funny, and affecting as his greatest performances.

“My mother didn’t try to stab my father until I was six,” begins Alda’s irresistible story. The son of a popular actor and a loving but mentally ill mother, he spent his early childhood backstage in the erotic and comic world of burlesque and went on, after early struggles, to achieve extraordinary success in his profession.

Yet Never Have Your Dog Stuffed is not a memoir of show-business ups and downs. It is a moving and funny story of a boy growing into a man who then realizes he has only just begun to grow.

It is the story of turning points in Alda’s life, events that would make him what he is–if only he could survive them.

From the moment as a boy when his dead dog is returned from the taxidermist’s shop with a hideous expression on his face, and he learns that death can’t be undone, to the decades-long effort to find compassion for the mother he lived with but never knew, to his acceptance of his father, both personally and professionally, Alda learns the hard way that change, uncertainty, and transformation are what life is made of, and true happiness is found in embracing them.

Never Have Your Dog Stuffed, filled with curiosity about nature, good humor, and honesty, is the crowning achievement of an actor, author, and director, but surprisingly, it is the story of a life more filled with turbulence and laughter than any Alda has ever played on the stage or screen.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
By turns hilarious and grippingly poignant, Alan Alda's memoir grabs you and never lets you go. Pausing to catch your breath, you realize that this Emmy Award-winning actor, writer, and director is using all those skills to deploy the power of his stories.
Jonathan Yardley
It all adds up to an amiable, occasionally amusing book. The man inside the actor peeks out from time to time and seems to be an agreeable sort, glad to have won a measure of fame but not entirely comfortable with it. As to the odd title, it comes from an equally odd incident in Alda's childhood from which he draws an apt and useful moral. It's one of many stories that Alda tells here, and he tells them well.
—The Washington Post
Publishers Weekly
While listening to Alda's colorful and often poignant recollections, it becomes clear that, in addition to being a consummate actor, he is an introspective storyteller who isn't constrained by memory. Indeed, Alda's tales are sometimes surreally vivid, particularly those from when he was a toddler. "From my earliest days, I was standing off to the side watching, trying to understand a world that fascinated me," he recalls. Alda's autobiography is equally fascinating. With a touch of wonderment in his voice, he tells of weeks spent traveling with his father's burlesque company, of time spent with his dog Rhapsody (before he was stuffed), of a lifetime spent coping with his mother's mental illness and of the highs and lows of his acting career. Though the organization of these musings can feel disjointed, Alda's intimate, dynamic narration makes one feel as if you're sitting across from a wise and entertaining friend, the kind you could listen to for hours. Simultaneous release with the Random House hardcover (Reviews, Sept. 5). (Sept.) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Life's little lessons, from an Emmy Award-winning actor/director who grew up with a schizophrenic mother and famed actor father. With a six-city tour. Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780812974409
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 9/12/2006
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 272
  • Sales rank: 471,701
  • Product dimensions: 5.14 (w) x 8.03 (h) x 0.58 (d)

Meet the Author

Alan Alda
Alan Alda played Hawkeye Pierce for eleven years in the television series M*A*S*H and has acted in, written, and directed many feature films. He has starred often on Broadway, and his avid interest in science has led to his hosting PBS’s Scientific American Frontiers for eleven years. He was nominated for an Academy Award in 2005 and has been nominated for thirty Emmy awards. He is married to the children’s book author/photographer Arlene Alda. They have three grown children and seven grandchildren.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

DON’T NOTICE ANYTHING

My mother didn’t try to stab my father until I was six, but she must have shown signs of oddness before that. Her detached gaze, the secret smile. Something.

We were living in a two-room apartment over the dance floor of a nightclub. My father was performing in the show that played below us every night. We could hear the musical numbers through the floorboards, and we had heard the closing number at midnight. My father should have come back from work hours ago.

My mother had asked me to stay up with her. She was lonely. We played gin rummy as the band below us played “Brazil” and couples danced through the haze of booze and cigarette smoke late into the night.

Finally, he came in. She jumped up, furious. “Where have you been?” she screamed. Even at the age of six, I could understand her anger. He worked with half-naked women and came home late. It wasn’t crazy to be suspicious.

She told him she knew he was sleeping with someone. He denied it. “You are!” she screamed. He denied it again, this time impatiently.

“You son of a bitch!” she said. She picked up a paring knife and lunged at him, trying to plunge it into his face. This was crazy.

He caught her by the wrist. “What’s the matter with you?”

They struggled over the knife as I pleaded with them to stop. When he forced her to drop it, I picked up the knife and rammed it point first into the table so it couldn’t be used again.

A few weeks later, the three of us were at the small table by the kitchenette, eating.

I was playing with the knives and forks in the silverware tray. I found a paring knife with a bent point and I looked up at my mother: “Remember when I stuck the knife in the table?”

“When?”

“When you wanted to stab Daddy?”

She smiled. “Don’t be silly. I never did that. I love Daddy. You just imagined that.” She laughed a lighthearted but deliberate laugh. I looked over at my father, who looked away and said nothing.

I knew what I saw, but I wasn’t supposed to speak about it. I didn’t understand why. I didn’t understand how this worked yet.

Gradually, I came to learn that not speaking about things is how we operated. When we would visit another family, my mother was afraid I might embarrass them by calling attention to something like dust balls or carpet stains. As we stood at the door, waiting for them to answer our knock, she would turn to me, completely serious, and say, “Don’t notice anything.”

We had a strange list of things you didn’t notice or talk about. The night the country was voting on Roosevelt’s fourth term, my father came back from the local schoolhouse and I asked him whom he’d voted for. “Well,” he said with a little smile, “we have a secret ballot in this country.” I didn’t ask him again, because I could see it was one of the things you don’t talk about, but I couldn’t figure out why there was a law against telling your children how you voted.

One thing we never talked about was mental illness. The words were never spoken between my father and me. This wasn’t the policy just in our own family. At that time, mental illness was more like a curse than a disease, and it was shameful for the whole family to admit it existed. Somehow it would discredit your parents, your cousins, and everyone close to you. You just kept quiet about it.

How much easier it could have been for my father and me to face her illness together; to compare notes, to figure out strategies. Instead, each of us was on his own. And I alternated between thinking her behavior was his fault and thinking it was mine. Once I learned there was such a thing as sin and I entered adolescence and came across a sin I really liked, I began to be convinced that my sins actually caused her destructive episodes. They appeared to coincide. This wasn’t entirely illogical, because they both tended to occur every day. I was convinced I held a magic wand that could damage the entire household.

Like the earliest humans, I put together my observations and came up with a picture of how things worked that was as ingenious as it was cockeyed. And like the earliest people, in my early days I was full of watching and figuring. I was curious from the first moments—not as a pastime, but as a way to survive.

As I sat at the kitchen table that night, looking at the paring knife with the bent point, I was trying to figure out why I was supposed to not know what I knew. I was already wondering: Why are things like this? What’s really happening here?

There was plenty about my world to stimulate my curiosity. From my earliest days, I was standing off on the side, watching, trying to understand a world that fascinated me. It was a world of coarse jokes and laughter late into the night, a world of gambling and drinking and the frequent sight of the buttocks, thighs, and breasts of naked women.

It seemed to me that the world was very interesting. How could you not want to explore a place like this?

Chapter 2
NAKED LADIES

I was three years old. It was one in the morning, and I was walking down the aisle of a smoky railroad car. I liked the feel of the train as it lurched and roared under my feet. My father was in burlesque, and he and my mother and I traveled from town to town with a company of comics, straight men, chorus girls, strippers, and talking women. As I moved down the aisle, not much taller than the armrests, I watched the card playing, the dice games, the drinking and joking, late into the night.

I would fall asleep on a makeshift bed made of two train seats jammed together. A few hours later, my mother would wake me as the train pulled into Buffalo or Pittsburgh or Philly. I’d sit up groggily and gaze out the window as she pulled on my woolen coat and rubbed my face where the basket weave of the cane seat had left a pink latticework on my cheek. As the train crept slowly into the town, I could see the water towers, the factories, the freight trains jockeying across the rail yards in the gray early light. This would be the first sight I’d have of every city we’d travel to, and my heart would beat with excitement.

And then, five or six times a day—at almost every show—I would be standing in the wings, watching. There would be an opening number in which my father stood on the side of the stage and sang while chorus girls danced and showed their breasts. The person who performed this job in burlesque was called, with cheerful clarity, “the tit singer.”

My father sang well, and he was a handsome man. When he walked down the street, people sometimes mistook him for Cary Grant and asked for his autograph. But when he was onstage as the tit singer, no one looked at him.

After his song, my father would be the straight man for a comic. Or, there might be a sketch with a couple of comics and a talking woman. A talking woman was a dancer or stripper who could also do lines. When a woman was new to the company, the comics would ask, “Can she talk?”

Then there would be a strip. The lights would go out, and over the loudspeaker a voice would announce: “The Casino Theater is proud to present . . . Miss Fifi.”

In the pit, the drummer would beat out a rhythm while she kept time with her pelvis. She would slip off a piece of clothing and toss it into the wings. It would land a couple of feet from me, and a wardrobe mistress would pick it up and fold it carefully. The stripper would walk around the stage in time to the music and finally pull off the rest of her clothing. Except for some fringe where her underwear would go, she was naked. Blackout.

The muscle in her hip would graze my shoulder as she brushed by me. She would grab a piece of her costume and hold it against her bare chest as she walked briskly up the stairs to her dressing room.

Upstairs was where heaven was.

The chorus girls always brought me up to their dressing room. They talked with me; they patted my cheek and combed my hair. They were affectionate. I was like a pet. When they had to change costumes, they would say, “Okay, Allie, turn your back now.” While they changed, I stood with my face against the wall where their costumes were hanging. My face was buried in their silk clothes, and the smell of their sweat and perfume filled my nostrils. I heard the sound of their clothing sliding on and off their bodies. All of this was far more interesting for a three-year-old than you might imagine.

But I wasn’t only the dancers’ pet; I was a plaything for the whole company.

When I was six months old, the comics thought it would be funny to bring me out in a high chair in a schoolroom sketch. As they told me this story later, all the great comics were in this sketch: Red Buttons, Phil Silvers, Rags Ragland. I don’t know now if all these comics were actually in the same sketch; the story must have grown with each telling. They said they put a school bell in front of me on the high chair, and totally by accident, I would manage to bang on it every time one of them was getting to a punch line. “You upstaged the greatest comics in burlesque,” they told me.

When I was two, the company was playing a theater in Toronto. A photographer from the Toronto Daily Star came backstage, and my father got the idea that if he posed me in a way that made me look as if I were smoking a pipe, the paper would be sure to print the picture and the burlesque company would get some unusual publicity. They dressed me up in my woolen suit and posed me gravely holding a pipe with tobacco in it. They seem to have invented a new name for me, too. I was born Alphonso D’Abruzzo, but that day I was Alphonse Robert Alda, “Ali” for short. The newspaper printed the picture and ran a story under it that, sixty-seven years later, is a gold mine of information on how not to raise a child.

child of two smokes pipe

once broke mother’s nose

Alphonse Robert Alda, at the age of two years and three months, finds solace from worldly cares in a briar pipe.

I don’t remember my mother ever telling me I had broken her nose, so this may have been invented to demonstrate how big and strong I was or maybe to account for a slight bend in her nose she wasn’t fond of. As for smoking, according to the myth dreamed up by my father, I had reached up and taken the pipe out of his mouth a year earlier. My mother was quoted as saying they’d hoped I’d get sick and never smoke again but that I liked it and had continued to smoke the pipe. Then they invented a “specialist” from New York whom they said they had consulted. “He told us,” my mother was quoted as saying, “provided moderation was shown, the smoking might not do Ali as much harm as the psychological aspect of denying him.” This bit of invented psychology looks even stranger when, later in the article, she says: “We don’t believe in pampering children. All you have to do to stop him if he starts to cry, which is seldom, is to tell him not to be a baby.”

So, let’s review this. You’re two years old. You watch naked women shake their tits five times a day. You never get to cry or act like a baby. But denying you tobacco would be psychologically unhealthy.

At the end of the article, my mother tells the reporter how much I like to act.

“He wants to be an actor like his daddy,” she said. “Watch! Ali,” she asked, “what would you do if a man were chasing you with a big stick?” The little fellow spread himself against the wall, his face and eyes depicting horror and fright.

Then she changed him to a “funny man,” and I switched to happy laughter; then sadness when the man fell down and hurt himself. The photographer took pictures of all of this, and they show a surprising range of emotion. The caption under them reads, “Alphonse wants to be an actor.” It might just as accurately have read, “Alphonse wants to please.”

A couple of days later, everyone at the theater made a fuss over me and showed me my picture in the paper. I watched my father as he proudly held up the article and showed it around. I’d been told not to lie, yet we all knew I didn’t smoke (I drank a little beer with the comics, but I didn’t smoke). Now here was my father, proud of the gimmick he’d come up with. The picture of me holding the pipe was a clever way to announce that the company had come to town. For him, saying I smoked was no different from coming onstage in a sketch and saying, “Well, here we are in sunny Spain.” He and the audience all knew they were actually in Toronto. It was just a show, a way of capturing attention. And if you could capture attention, that was an accomplishment. It was the accomplishment.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 30 )
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 31 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 26, 2012

    Must read!

    If you’re a fan of M*A*S*H, you will enjoy this book.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted February 7, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Read it, you'll love it!

    This is a touching look at the life of Alan Alda. The writing flows and is so personal that you feel almost as if you are there, struggling and laughing with him. I strongly recomend this to anyone who is a fan of Alan Alda, or anyone who is in need of a pick me up.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted November 23, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    Less an autobiography than a stream of conscious associations

    .....but still a good read nevertheless. <BR/><BR/>Alda has always fascinated me with the unique roles he's taken - the political naif in "The Seduction of Joe Tynan", the host of "Scientific American Frontiers", and, of course, the role that made him a household name - Benjamin Franklin Pierce on "M*A*S*H*". <BR/><BR/>His book is, in some strange way, exactly like those roles - unique, entertaining, and filling. You only get a glimpse of the man but that glimpse leaves you satisfied and contented. <BR/><BR/>Before I started this book I imagined I was going to get a standard autobiography. Having just finished it I can say that this is the furthest thing from it - but from Alan Alda I wouldn't have expected anything less.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 24, 2008

    A good narrative from Alda himself

    While I read the book I could just imagine Alan Alda telling the story. Interesting, sad, entertaining, and funny.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 23, 2007

    Arne's memoir review

    Alan Alda wrote never have your dog stuffed: and other things I¿ve learned, because he wanted to explain how he became the person he is today. Best known for his role as Hawkeye Pierce in the television series M*A*S*H, we come to discover that the story of his life journey is strange and somewhat humorous. This memoir does not follow the basic plot and structure. Alan Alda organized the work by telling a series of short stories that illuminated his unconventional life experiences. These short stories include topics such as: his early years with his family, his adventures traveling with his parents, his challenge with contracting polio when he was only seven years old, and many more. Childhood. We often think of those years as the best in our lives. But hat if you had a schizophrenic mother and a movie star father? Alan Alda¿s childhood was definitely not his best years. His family had domestic problems but not the usual sort. Alan¿s mother had undiagnosed schizophrenia and would often act strangely. As a result his parents would often fight over things his mother assumed were happening. Finally, during his senior year in college his parents divorced. Alan did several odd jobs to get by during his years after college. He was a cabdriver, a clown, a restaurant doorman, a telemarketer, the subject in a hypnosis experiment, he hand colored black and white photographs, and he was a product demonstration person. All of these jobs helped support him while he tried to break into show business. Weird, crazy, unethical. These are the best words to describe Alan Alda¿s childhood and it is amazing to read about. He went through many twists and turns during his young life and from that journey he became who he is today, a well respected actor, director and writer. As a result of this work we have been given a book of exceptional quality that people will continue to read and enjoy for decades to come.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    A compelling memoir

    Highly regarded actor Alan Alda provides a deep autobiography, but not the usual kiss and tell scintillating tale of sin city. Instead his superbly written memoir grips readers starting with the stunning opening comment that 'My mother didn't try to stab my father until I was 6 ¿¿ and never lets up until he finishes his memoirs. Readers will gain an understanding of what has motivated Mr. Alda through his use of humor, charm, and the macabre such as the title of his book referring to sending the family¿s deceased pet Rhapsody to be stuffed by a taxidermist. Those readers seeking a Hollywood exposé need to search elsewhere as Mr. Alda has been married to the same woman for almost fifty years without referring to any side trysts. Even his long movie and TV career except for some intriguing insights into M*A*S*H is a quick glimpse with external anecdotes to remind him how fleeting fame is. Instead he concentrates on the major personal events like polio treatment or touring as a kid with his parents, his father being a star of burlesque so as a kid he traveled with the strippers, but especially his mom¿s schizophrenia that haunts him today with a fear he will join her in her dark room. This autobiography is one of the best out there as Mr. Alda lays out his soul including those demons eating at it, but never points the finger at his peers.......... Harriet Klausner

    1 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 3, 2013

    Wow

    A book worth reading over and over again

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 3, 2012

    An easy yet compelling read

    Good, easy-to-read, insightful material. I learned some things about myself.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 21, 2010

    Can't put it down!!

    I don't usually go in for autobiographies-but Alda's writing style is so inticing, that I can't put it down! I originally rented it from the public library, but loved it so much I went out and bought it. I haven't even finnished this book, and I already have bought the next one as well! I can't wait to finnish them. I know this is a book i will be able to read several times over the years. 5 stars Mr. Alda!!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 29, 2007

    A reviewer

    'Never Have Your Dog Stuffed' has turned my way of thinking totally upside down. Alan Alda is an aspiring actor with a childhood like nobody else. Knowing that he directed and wrote a majority of the M*A*S*H episodes makes me appreciate them more. I recommend this book to ANYONE who is looking for an interesting read and a good laugh.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 24, 2006

    A Few Gems But I Wanted More

    The book was clearly written with earnest but I can¿t believe that a guy with as many experiences as Alan Alda chose these particular things to write about. Parts of the book were very interesting but I felt as though I had to plod through other parts. I also did not like the fact that he jumped around a bit in time. First he was married. Then he had just met his wife. I found that hard to follow. Most disappointing was that someone so well-known for one role, ¿Hawkeye¿, covered his 11 years on M*A*S*H in very few pages. However, I must say that I was moved by his talk about his parents and surprised by the fact that he was willing to share some very personal information about himself. The book is worth reading but all and all I have to say that I think that Alan Alda¿s book was not a real attention-grabber.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 29, 2005

    Loved this book.

    A poignant, warm, intelligent well written life review. Alda comes through as a wise, genuine guy. I thoroughly enjoyed this book. It was a book I didn't race through to see what would happen but just savored each page as well as his insight to the situations that happened to him and in his life. Fargo, ND

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 7, 2005

    Mediocre at Best

    Just finished the book. I was so excited to read it. As interesting a character as Alan Alda is, the book is poor representation of this. While you can tell Alan wrote it, it lacks the spark and page turning desire I hoped it would have. I'd pass on this one.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 5, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted October 27, 2008

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted October 29, 2008

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted October 25, 2008

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted June 8, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted April 9, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted August 7, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

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