BY ANDY SIEGEL
His laugh was an eruption of approval: a bear-like guffaw, at once surprising and light, a ringing endorsement of his boss, Johnny Carson. Johnny, of course, was the star of "The Tonight Show" and the undisputed king of late night. But even he could use this kind of affirmation. The laugh legitimized Johnny further, made what was happening in that studio more significant, celebrated Johnny's greatness. The laugh was pure support: it asked for nothing, only gave.
Ed McMahon was himself a celebrity. He had a persona -- lovable drunk, Alpo spokesman. But he wasn't a star. He was more of a maitre d' to stardom. (He'd step into this role again with "Star Search," another vehicle that allowed others to take the spotlight.) Ed was the consummate #2, the loyal partner, the glory reflector. He served everyone, each guest on the show. He even served the audience, as their proxy -- America's first line of enjoyment.
Unlike his enigmatic, reportedly distant boss, Ed always seemed approachable -- like you could run into him on the street and he'd gladly chat with you, listen to you, and humor you. And laugh.
And that laugh would be genuine. But it wouldn't be the same as the one on "The Tonight Show." Not quite as boisterous or approving. It wouldn't glorify or legitimize you. The special laugh that does all that is saved for his boss. Ed McMahon is America's sidekick, but his heart belongs to Johnny.
