CAN YOU SHOUT Fuck! in a crowded nightclub? Maybe it would be all right if you were an etymologist, though professors ought not shout. You might avoid jail, oddly enough, if you said you were satirizing obscenity laws, or Fire Drills, or anything. But if you said it only in jest, for fun of it, watch out. Wear sneakers. Lenny Bruce's life in all its perversity, variety, tragedy, has so fascinated usread Albert Goldman's Boswellian biography-that it is difficult to think of him except in heroic cult terms: Icarus, Foul Mouth, Socrates, Drug Fiend, Defendant, Satirist. He is a totem figure carved of many different heads. It is time now to separate if we can Work from Life, and to try to know him for his real accomplishment, his real face-Comedian. An appropriate place to begin is Lenny Bruce's best joke and best sustained monologue of his career-the piece on Frank Dell's disastrous performance at Palladium Theatre. Bruce begins in his own voice, disclaiming concept of the room, geographic idea of happiness. But this skit deals with Frank Dell, Dean of Satire and Mimicry, who believes that his whole life would be meaningless if he did not play a class room. His agent tries to argue or humor him out of this obsession, but Frank is a driven man: Look, tired of playing toilets, man. I've had it. Of course it is a mistake. Frank is fine in lounges of Las Vegas for decent money-Is that spit? his agent argues. This agent, an insufficient creature in almost every way, does comprehend hard realities of business. His expertise is in dispassionate calculation of probabilities of supply and demand. His view of world is brutally limited, but he is absolutely right about Frank Dell. We are not encouraged to like agent-Lenny Bruce gives him busy Broadway agent's voice that is capable of sudden modulations from roughness into transparent motherly love: Sweetie baby bubby, sweetie. We do not like him, but he is right and Frank Dell is wrong. The music conductor at Palladium also knows immediately at rehearsal that Dell will fail. When he sees Frank's list of standard show biz impressions, he mumbles, Same crap week after week . . . disgusting. Frank apparently asks what he said, but conductor replies primly, I'm sure you do impressions different-you probably do them as children. The conductor, agent, and later house booker at Palladium, Val Parnell, all see Frank's limitations. They are bottom line-reality. They know exactly what will