So there's this guy from the Bronx, who used to be a tap-dancer and drummer before he worked for legendary rock promoter Alan Freed. Got a million stories. And if you hang around a few minutes, you'll hear them all. For the past 14 years, he's been knocking on doors at city councils and county commissions from Sarasota to Spring Hill, pleading for about $3-million and some land so he can build the National Comedy Hall of Fame.

[Times photos: Scott Keeler]
Tony Belmont talks about not being able to find funding from local government in the Tampa Bay area to build a comedy hall of fame.

It'll draw hundreds of thousands of visitors, he says, and pump millions of dollars into the local economy. It'll put (your city's name here) on the map. It'll be colossal. And the officials say to him, "Okay, Tony. Show us what you've got."

Tony Belmont -- that's this guy's name, although the name on his driver's license and in county records is Anthony Andriuli -- tells them about all the authentic puppets and old comedy records and publicity photos and drawings he has at his rented office in a strip mall in Seminole. The really expensive stuff is stored in his secret warehouse, but you're welcome to come to the office and check out the puppets and watch the slide show.

Never heard of the National Comedy Hall of Fame?

You're not alone. The St. Petersburg/Clearwater Area Convention and Visitors Bureau has no listing for the Hall, and it's not mentioned in the travel brochures.

But Belmont says he has investors ready to sink $6-million into the proposed three-story, 40,000-square-foot museum. All he needs is some matching funds. That's where (your city) comes in.

The other investors? All he'll say about them is that they're from New Jersey. And they're eager to jump in.

So after careful consideration, most of the city, county and state officials say the same thing about the idea.

Colossal. Tony Belmont is a visionary. The Comedy Hall of Fame is the greatest thing since the Woopie Cushion.

"This is one of the most exciting projects I have seen for additional tourism for the state of Florida," wrote U.S. Rep. C.W. Bill Young. "A wonderful idea," wrote Tampa Mayor Dick Greco.

Okay, here comes the big finish . . .

No one ever calls Belmont back. So after years of getting nothing more than a few compliments from government officials, Belmont says he's in serious negotiations with a group of private investors in Buffalo, N.Y.

Apparently, Buffalo wants to have the last laugh.

"After all, Buffalo's been the brunt of jokes for so long," reads a message on the group's Web site (www.buffalovisions.com), why not bring the museum here?"

Bill Wende, a Buffalo businessman with no financial ties to the Hall, is leading the effort. "Nothing happens here," he said. "This is a project I feel could be a magnet for this area.

"I got involved because I got tired of seeing projects like this go to other cities."

For 14 years, Tony Belmont has been searching for a venue to show his collection of comedy memorabilia.

Belmont says this isn't a ploy; that he's not trying to play one area against the other.

"The politicians down here are afraid," he said. "They don't take gambles. ...

"No, there's no hope here. Buffalo wants us there. We have to get out."

The Buffalo area may want the museum, but a familiar problem arose there recently. Fear, apparently, is contagious. In January, officials in Erie County, N.Y., announced they would not provide financial support for the museum. Funding, they say, will have to come entirely from the private sector.

Laurence K. Rubin, Eric County's commissioner of environment and planning, said a recent study raised serious questions about the financial viability of the museum. "Based on the realities of current North American hall of fame operations, the proposal would not achieve its financial or attendance projections," Rubin said in a statement.

But Belmont remains undaunted. If not Buffalo, he'll take his show to Niagara Falls. Or Boston. Or somewhere.

"I don't usually keep this kind of stuff in here," he tells a visitor. "You're gonna see the real Howdy Doody over there in the corner." He moves over to a leather sofa, where two ventriloquist dummies are posed, and slides in next to them.

"These are the real guys, by the way," Belmont says. "You're looking at a $50,000 puppet. That's Jerry Mahoney and Knucklehead Smith. These belonged to Paul Winchell.

"We have spectacular stuff. Red Skelton's jacket. Minnie Pearl's dress and hat.

"And Gallagher's tie."

* * *

There is a Cockroach Hall of Fame (Plano, Texas), a World Kite Hall of Fame (Long Beach, Wash.) and an International Clown Hall of Fame (Milwaukee) There are halls of fame dedicated to librarians, cowboys, UPS drivers, even pool cue makers.

For now, the National Comedy Hall of Fame exists only as an architectural drawing in an office on Park Boulevard, next to a Chinese restaurant.

Belmont, 58, who says he's done everything from guess people's age and weight at Coney Island to serving in the Marines, estimates he's sunk about $1.3-million of his own money into the project. He created a non-profit corporation and holds a federally registered service mark on the National Comedy Hall of Fame name. And he has a staff of about a dozen loyal volunteers who do research and answer e-mails.

He says he's met with Robin Williams, Jerry Seinfeld and other high-profile comedians and asked for help. But that's a comedy Catch-22.

"Milton Berle told me what I'm doing is absolutely wonderful," Belmont said. "Long overdue. The problem is that celebrities are gun shy because they've been involved in bad deals. If you want money, you have got to have bricks and mortar."

But to get the bricks and mortar, he needs money.

The object of the museum is to cover comedy from Thomas Wingate, who Belmont says was George Washington's favorite comic, through minstrel shows and vaudeville, to the present day. It would also house a library of books, record albums and videos related to comedy, and a registry of American comedians.

Why is he doing this?

"That's what my wife said as she walked out the door a few years ago," Belmont says. "This cost me a marriage. Everything. Fortunately, I'm well-to-do. I don't get paid here. I pay the rent out of my pocket.

"I'm doing it," he adds, "because it needs to get done."

And he's on a mission for Morey.

"I went to see Morey Amsterdam when he was sick. He says, 'Your time in the limelight is there until the light goes out. Then you're forgotten. Nobody's going to know who Morey Amsterdam was after I die.'

"So I looked at him and promised him that guys like him would not be forgotten."

St. Petersburg City Council member Virginia Littrell is one of the few government officials who has actually visited Belmont's office.

"About three months ago, I went at the request of a representative of the Chamber of Commerce," Littrell explained, "to check it out and see what he had." Littrell said Belmont wanted the city to give him space at the Pier rent-free for about six months.

"But we're not in the business of giving away property," Littrell said. "And I wasn't terribly impressed with his collection.

"He said that if St. Petersburg doesn't want the Hall of Fame, Detroit does. So my take is that this guy is quite a promoter and doesn't have the kind of act we're interested in."

Belmont says he's "just trying to find the best deal.

"I've met with the Boston City Council. Very warm reception. (Former New York) Mayor Rudy Giuliani made me an offer in 24 hours. Had a limo pick me up. Took me to lunch. He offered me Governor's Island. He said if I raised $150-million, I had myself an island. I'm having a hard time raising $10-million. But he was a wonderful guy."

A visitor gets up to leave, but Belmont continues. "Philadelphia made an offer. Camden, N.J. offered us a huge place next to the aquarium. The mayor drove me there. But I thought I was in danger every minute.

"I have four or five cities we're negotiating with and a private person from Las Vegas who's offering to just buy me out. He'll give me a few million. I can't tell you who it is. It's all secretive stuff. He can take it to Vegas or L.A. He owns big facilities in both places.

"I've been saying no for 14 years," he adds. "Turning away these other cities.

"But people have been telling me, 'Tony, it's time to stop saying no.' "

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