Hey Lady!

Riboflavin.
Go ahead. Say it.
Then say it really loud.
I'll wait.
Now. Don't you feel better? That's your best, easiest path to a Jerry Lewis impression. The Jerry we loved. The Jerry we laughed at. Wacky. Nuts.
Riboflavin.
Jerry passed on over the weekend, and when I read the news, I was surprised just how hard it hit me. I had made a point of sneering at most of what Jerry Lewis had become over the past half century. For some, the breakup with Dean Martin was the point where they drew the line. For others it was The Day The Clown Cried. For me, it was all about the hair. Once the crew cut was gone and the Vitalis showed up, it was over for me. This was no longer some goofy kid making fun. He was the comic genius adored in France and the guy who made Hardly Working. He was the guy who said, "A woman doing comedy doesn't offend me, but sets me back a bit. I, as a viewer, have trouble with it. I think of her as a producing machine that brings babies in the world."
Okay. So not very funny. But he is also the guy who showed up in Martin Scorsese's King of Comedy and went toe to toe with both Robert De Niro and Sandra Bernhard in a performance that announced that, in spite of the hair tonic, he was to be reckoned with. He invented video playback for directors. He taught film making at USC. 
And he ran that telethon. I was able, as I grew older, to understand that this man in the rumpled tuxedo was also responsible for a formidable amount of physical comedy the likes of which we will most likely never see again. Unfortunately, when I was young I encountered Jerry Lewis in fully introspective mode. He was always trying to prove what a serious artist he was. 
It's okay. I know Jerry Lewis was an artist. And a clown. 
He stomped on the Terra. I won't say "Aloha." I'll just say Riboflavin.