Checking In

One of the best things about last year's "Night Shift" was the film debut of comic Michael Keaton. A native of Pittsburgh, where he was raised a Catholic, the youngest of seven children, Keaton dropped out of Kent State and headed for Los Angeles eight years ago. Sleeping in his car, he quickly worked his way onto the stage of The Comedy Store and eventually wound up on the ill-fated Mary Tyler Moore variety show: "I learned a lot working with Mary. Everybody knows she's tall and pretty, with great legs; but beyond that, she's incredibly funny."

These days, Keaton has traded in his car life for a movie deal in which he writes and stars in his own films, regular shots on "Late Night with David Letterman" and a new wife, actress Caroline Keaton, 36, who, Keaton claims, totally understood when her new husband interrupted their wedding vows to do a five-minute stand-up routine. His new movie, "Mr. Mom," will be released this summer. Nancy Collins talked with Keaton in Los Angeles.

[Q] Playboy: What's the best thing you can tell us about Pittsburgh?

[A] Keaton: Pittsburgh probably has more cars in rivers than any other city in the entire world.

[Q] Playboy: How would you describe the Catholic schools you attended?

[A] Keaton: Unusual. Remember when girls were told never to wear patent-leather shoes, because boys could see the reflection of their underwear in them? Well, in my school, the girls couldn't wear patent-leather underwear for fear that boys would look up their skirts and see their shoes.

[Q] Playboy: When you started dating, did Catholic guilt cause you any problems?

[A] Keaton: Not after I came up with credit confession. See, about the time I started going to drive-ins with girls, I quickly realized I had to do something in case I got lucky. So I'd go to confession and confess that I'd scored, figuring that if I had, I would already have confessed it, and if I hadn't, then I'd just get a credit. I have so much credit, I may never have to go to confession again.

[Q] Playboy: Surely you can answer the question that keeps America awake at night: How hip is David Letterman, anyway?

[A] Keaton: That's a good question, arid I don't know. In some ways, he's not hip at all. In fact, I don't think of him as hip or not hip; he's kind of nothing, which I like. He does what he does and doesn't have any pretensions about being the hippest guy out there.

[A] Now, as far as somebody who can get information into his head, assimilate it and then verbalize it in an interesting and funny way, I don't know anybody faster than Letterman.

[Q] Playboy: What do you do for exercise?

[A] Keaton: Basketball and bondage.

[Q] Playboy: When you were single, what was your modus operandi for coming on to women?

[A] Keaton: Disarmament by honesty.

[Q] Playboy: Such as?

[A] Keaton: "Hello. Those are two of the biggest breasts I have ever seen in my entire life."

[Q] Playboy: What attracts you to a woman?

[A] Keaton: Funny will get me just about every time. And then, mysterious. After that, I get real, real pedestrian, right down to your straight old physically good, sexy, nice-lips stuff. My life will not be complete until I find a slightly overweight Italian girl with blue-black hair and a black slip strap dropping off her shoulder who, with tears in her eyes, spits on me and walks away. Just gotta have that before I die.

[Q] Playboy: What is your favorite stimulus?

[A] Keaton: Any kind of body lotion and anklets. Cheap anklets.

[Q] Playboy: Any pet peeves?

[A] Keaton: People in elevators all have this common goal and yet they act as if they're there by themselves. Sometimes, I'll get into an elevator, and after the first guy gets off, I'll wait a couple of floors and then turn to everybody else and say, "I don't know about you, but I miss him."

[Q] Playboy: How did you feel about turning 30 last year?

[A] Keaton: I went kicking, biting, fighting and screaming into 30. I didn't want any part of it. I thought about taking all my money, investing it in airplane tickets and traveling backward to New York, then London, then Australia, just to see if it was possible to put off 30 for a few more days.

[Q] Playboy: Why was it so upsetting? What did 30 signify to you?

[A] Keaton: Goodbye to stupid faces; hello to actually understanding insurance claims.

[Q] Playboy: Sounds as if you might have had a great childhood.

[A] Keaton: I did. I was the youngest of seven kids, so I always had a built-in audience. In our house, you were either getting smacked or getting hugged, but at least you were getting something.

[Q] Playboy: When did you feel the onslaught of maturity?

[A] Keaton: You go along, and then, one day, you just feel different. Your dad says, "You OK, son?" because you have that look on your face and your legs are probably crossed. You go down to your local playground and it just looks different than it did an hour before. My advice to kids who think they may recognize maturity is "Run your little ass off. Don't let 'em get you."

[Q] Playboy: Why?

[A] Keaton: Because kids have it made. You don't see a whole lot of concerned looks on the average four-year-old. You don't see kids heading for the Maalox bottle, and you never hear a kid say, "Tommy, about this playground thing; let me get back to you on that, huh?"

[Q] Playboy: Describe your first showbiz job.

[A] Keaton: It was in a little coffee shop. I figured the only way I could get onstage was to be a folk singer. I can't sing, but they gave me a try. Here's what my routine was like: I'd let them introduce me, then I'd wait a few minutes and finally run up onstage as if I were late. I'd throw off my jacket, sit down and open my guitar case. The case was empty—as if I'd forgotten my guitar—and so I'd pretend to panic. Finally, I'd play the guitar case. Later, I added material.

[Q] Playboy: What's been the most difficult thing about living in California?

[A] Keaton: I just never got my beach stuff down. In Pittsburgh, the closest thing we get to marine life is a Chevy at the bottom of the Allegheny with a guy named Vince floating around the top.

[Q] Playboy: Who is the essential Michael Keaton?

[A] Keaton: I think I got a glimpse of him last summer, when I was in Montana. See, I really love Montana, the mountains, Big Sky—all of that. Anyway, there I am in Montana, in the middle of the mountains, walking along this beautiful little river. It's sunny, there are pine trees, I'm fishing and I'm happy. Suddenly, standing there fishing, I realize that for an hour straight, I have been singing all the choruses and the bridges to Cool Jerk—the national anthem of the back streets of Philadelphia. Who I am, I guess, is somewhere between those two extremes.