by Seth Rogen
The next thing I saw was that the only other actor waiting in the small room was Alex, the girl who I had gone on the date with a couple weeks earlier who didn’t call me back.
My eyes WIDENED and the camera seemed to PUSH IN on me dramatically.
Me: Hi.
The camera WHIP-PANNED over to Alex, who looked from me to the camera and back to me.
Alex: Hi.
The camera WHIPPED back to me and followed me as I slowly walked over to the only other chair, which was right next to Alex. I sat down and the camera just locked in on us, a tight TWO-SHOT.
Me: Hey.
Alex: Hey.
The camera operator seemed to sense the discomfort and MOVED CLOSER, panning from one of us to the other.
All of a sudden, in real time, I found myself on a reality show, running into a girl who didn’t call me back after a date, which was bittersweet because that would be the EXACT type of shit that I’d wanna watch more than anything. We sat in silence as the camera panned back and forth between us, the tension finally breaking when she was called into the room to read.
As a side note, auditioning is the fucking worst. A lot of the time, the room where the auditions are happening is right off the waiting room, and while you’re sitting there, you can hear every other actor doing the scene before you, knowing all the while that they’ll be able to hear you, too. You’re often reading with a casting director or assistant, who is decidedly NOT an actor.
By far, the weirdest audition I ever did was for the movie 8 Mile. The casting director, Mali Finn, decided that she didn’t feel comfortable reading the off-camera dialogue, because of how…rapper-y it was? The role I was up for was a guy named Cheddar, and all his scenes were with Rabbit, who would be played by Eminem. Rather than find someone who she thought would be good to read with the actors, Mali told each actor that they were responsible for bringing someone to the audition to read with, which is fucking nuts.
I told Jason Segel about this, and he said he ALSO had an audition for Cheddar in 8 Mile, and he ALSO was told to find someone to bring in to read opposite him. We asked our agents if our auditions could be scheduled one right after the other, so that one of us could audition for Cheddar, with the other reading the Rabbit part, and then we’d switch. We had a sleepover at my apartment the night before the auditions so we could rehearse and then carpooled to the audition together.
It wasn’t until we were called into the room to read that we realized what a terrible idea it was. Auditioning is embarrassing in the best of times. Add the fact that one of my best friends is watching me do it and that we’re both reading for rappers from Detroit, which we could NOT have been less right for.
I was gonna be Cheddar first, and Jason was Rabbit. We started.
Jason: Yo, yo, mothafucka! It’s Chedda! What up, bitch!
And then I started laughing hysterically. And so did Jason. We literally couldn’t make it through the auditions. As soon as one of us started the scene, the other would lose it.
Me: Yo, yo, Rabbit! You gotta record your shit at Paisley Park, yo!
Jason: Where, yo?
Me: Paisley Park, mothafucka!
It was so silly, we couldn’t finish. We just excused ourselves and saw ourselves out, tears streaming down our faces.
* * *
In 2004, I had been unemployed and single for about two years, and I was running out of all the money I had made on Freaks and Geeks and Undeclared. Judd Apatow VERY kindly let me help him on some of the movie rewrites he was doing, but me and Evan needed a real job. One day I got a call from Judd’s manager, Jimmy Miller, who is Dennis Miller’s brother and looks like what Dennis would look like if he was completely hairless.
Jimmy: Hey, Chachi!
(He doesn’t talk like Dennis, but for the purposes of this anecdote, I’ll make him.)
Jimmy: Look, hate to pull you out of your Mexican weed-induced stupor, but I have a client who needs writers like a sumo needs to pick his wedgie.
(Dennis Miller is not funny.)
Me: Who?
Jimmy: Alright, Chachi, it’s for Sacha Baron Cohen. He’s doing the second season of Da Ali G Show for HBO and he keeps firing all his writers, so we’re looking for replacements. Go meet Sacha, pitch some ideas, see if he likes you.
I was speechless. I was completely obsessed with Sacha and Ali G, and had been since it was on British TV. I couldn’t conceive of how I would contribute to a show that I idolized so much, so my first instinct was to say no.
Me: I’m not sure I can do that….It’s just…such a high level of work. I don’t think he’ll like us.
Jimmy: Okay, Chachi! Lemme know if you think of anyone who might be good.
I called Evan, who was still at university in Montreal, and told him. He lost it.
Evan: You fucking said no?!
Me: Yeah. I mean, I don’t even know how to write a show like that. He won’t hire us.
Evan: Who fucking cares?! We need to work, asshole! We should at least try, for fuck’s sake! Call Jimmy back and tell him we want to meet! I’ll fly in! Just call him the fuck back!
I did, and we had a meeting the next week. We knew Spring Break was coming up, and we pitched Bruno going to Spring Break to mess with frat guys. Sacha didn’t even know what Spring Break was.
Sacha: How do you go to Spring Break? It’s a time, not a place.
Me: No, we go to Florida, which is where everyone goes for Spring Break. Daytona Beach, Miami…that’s where Spring Break IS!
Sometimes you pitch an idea so good that you get hired just because the person you pitched knows it’s an idea they need to use, and they’d feel guilty using it if they didn’t hire you. They VERY often just steal it, so it shows Sacha’s a good guy, because he hired us, which was super-exciting, because although we had completed the scripts for Superbad and Pineapple Express, they wouldn’t be made for years, and this was my first official job working with Evan.
We wrote in what’s known as the CNN Building on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood, with a few other writers, all of whom were British and had worked on the original show. The only other non-Brit was a guy who was also our age, which was rare to see. His name was Will Reiser and he was a producer on the show—it was his job to book the guests that Sacha would interview in character. We quickly became good friends.
Soon after we started working there, a prevalent topic of conversation was that Will looked like shit. Not that he dressed like shit or anything. He just looked…sick. All the time. Weak, yellow; he had terrible skin. Also, his back hurt him all the time, which is unusual for a 120-pound dude in his early twenties. We thought maybe the stress of lying to people all day in order to secure the interviews was getting to him, but we were very wrong.
It turned out Will had a giant cancerous tumor wrapped around his spine. One of the biggest ones his doctors had ever seen. The next few months were crazy for him, and as one of his closest friends, a bit crazy for me, too, but with much lower stakes. They operated and successfully removed the tumor, and that started him on a very long recovery with dozens and dozens of follow-up appointments to monitor his progress.
At the time, Will was dating an actor, Amy, who had a friend, Lauren, who she thought I would like. Some people we knew were having a birthday party at El Cid, a Mexican bar and restaurant in Silver Lake, and what I’ll call a “soft setup” was happening.
I went to Amy’s place to meet everyone and we were going to drive to El Cid together. I walked into the dining room and there was Lauren Miller. The second I saw her I thought, Oh no…I could spend the rest of my life with this person. She was funny, smart, beautiful, and she had programmed her cellphone ring to be the theme from Jurassic Park, and if that doesn’t make you fall for someone, I don’t know what does.
But I don
’t think Lauren felt the same because she was mostly talking about the fact that the night before, she had been on a date with a guy she liked, and she heard that he was also going to be at the party and was psyched to see him. Again, I don’t have any “game” as it were, but I wanted to seem attractive, so I thought, What better approach than to be the super-nice, creative, funny friend of the guy who has cancer. And, thankfully, Will was more than happy to help me play that role, so it all kinda worked.
The big topic of conversation for the night became me trying to convince Will to write about his cancer experience and turn it into a movie.
Me: A cancer comedy! Who doesn’t want that?
Will: You can play my friend who’s supportive but also kind of using my situation for his own personal gain, which is a HUGE stretch, but I think you can do it.
We all went to a diner and joked around about Will’s cancer till 2 a.m.
Two great things came from the night: Will did write the movie, and I produced it and acted in it, and it became 50/50, which is definitely one of the best things we’ve ever made. Also, Lauren seemed to stop talking about the other guy and shifted her focus to me instead.
Will called me the next day and told me that Lauren liked me, so I phoned her and asked her out. I asked her if she wanted to play mini golf, which is a good couple of hours of straight talking, which is a risk, but I bet on myself conversationally.
We liked each other, and after the round I asked her if she wanted to go to the 101 Coffee Shop and get a brownie waffle sundae, to which she was like, “Fuck yeah!” which only made me like her more.
We were driving along the busy 101 freeway on the way to dessert, and the whole time I was thinking, How do I make contact? A shoulder touch? Touch her hand? Maybe while we’re eating the sundae, we’ll share a spoon? That’ll be intimate. A good step in the right direction. Should I have shaken her hand after the golf round? That would have been smooth. First contact is always tough. Then—BOOOOOOM!!!
A car doing around seventy miles an hour SLAMMED into the back corner of my car, which was doing about sixty. We spun out and slid across all four lanes of the highway. I remember seeing the headlights of cars coming at us as we rotated, which isn’t something you wanna see on the freeway. We SMASHED into the wall along the shoulder with a CRASH. The car that hit us didn’t even slow down; it just ripped off down the road.
I turned to Lauren. “Are you okay?!”
“Yes. Are you okay?”
“Yeah…I think so…”
“Holy shit.”
We sat there for a moment to process what happened. We were, miraculously, both fine. My car was totaled, and they had to shut down the freeway for a minute to tow it off the road and on to Coldwater Canyon, which coincidentally was right near where Lauren lived. Her roommate was nice enough to pick us up and drive me home.
I got out of the car in front of my apartment, and Lauren did, too. We hugged. Contact.
I kept calling and asking her out, and she kept saying yes. Our second date was to go see the new movie Cinderella Man, starring Russell Crowe. I was so nervous. I remember I had a small pimple on the side of my forehead that I just couldn’t stop picking at. It was terrible. I was standing in front of the mirror, yelling, “Stop! Stop trying to pop this thing, you idiot! It’s not ready!!” But my hands wouldn’t listen. They kept squeezing.
I ended up with a massive contusion on my head that I covered with a Band-Aid, and although I hate lying, I told her that I was play-fighting with a friend and scraped my face, which, although stupid, sounded better than “I was really nervous about kissing you, so I ripped a giant fucking chunk out of my head while screaming at myself.”
That night we kissed for the first time.
I knew I was in love with her a few months later. My friend Nick was having his bachelor party in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. He rented a big house, and a bunch of young men stayed there together, with a chef cooking food for us all. I kept being warned about drinking the water and eating rinsed produce, but I was like, “Fuck it, what’s a Mexican bachelor party without freshly washed lettuce.” So I indulged.
I was on the same flight back as another dude from the party, and when we were landing, he asked how I was getting home.
“My girlfriend is picking me up!”
He looked at me longingly.
“That’s what I want…” he said.
That night, she slept over at my place, and I got up early the next morning to walk her out to her car, which I had gotten in the habit of doing. I pulled on my pants and checked myself out in the mirror. I remember thinking, Look at you. You’re in a meaningful relationship with a wonderful woman. She’s picking you up from the airport. You’re walking her to her car. There’s mutual respect and care…you’re really doing it.
And then I thought I was farting, but I shat my pants, terribly.
There was no question that I shat my pants, and I only point that out because sometimes there IS a question as to whether or not you shat your pants. You ask yourself: “Was that a wet fart? Or was there more?” And then you check to make sure all is as it should be.
I didn’t have to check; I knew nothing was as it should be. It was full on.
Lauren poked her head into the room. “Ready!”
Images of excessively rinsed Mexican carrots flooded my head. Poop flooded my pants.
I lived on the second story of a fourplex, so in order to get to Lauren’s car, I’d have to go out of my bathroom, down the hall, down a flight of stairs, and then, depending on where she’d parked, a few dozen feet to her car.
“Alright! Let’s go!”
I tried to look normal and confident, not like a guy who just pooped himself, as I took her hand and walked her down the stairs. Each step was a waking nightmare. I prayed to whatever god there is that she didn’t smell anything, or that I didn’t, either, because I worried that I would throw up if I did, which obviously wouldn’t help things.
We made it outside, and I saw that she was parked about half a block up. I swung her hand as we walked, thinking, How am I gonna kiss her goodbye while making sure my ass stays as far away from her nose as humanly possible? I pulled off a kinda butt-out hug type thing.
I stood on the street and watched her pull away in her little Acura Integra, a Dave Matthews Band fire-dancer sticker on the back windshield, because as a young Jewish woman, she’s legally obligated to have that. I thought to myself, I’m gonna have to throw these underpants, pants, and at this point maybe my shoes and socks in the garbage.
I also thought, I love her, and I hope I get to spend the rest of my life with her and that one day I can tell her about this, because if anyone would appreciate this story, it’s her.
Two things to know going into this:
First, Art Bell’s Coast to Coast AM was a radio show that started in 1988, and by 1998 it was one of the most-listened-to late-night radio shows in the world. Art took calls from people looking to talk about aliens, werewolves, the occult, Area 51, MK Ultra, and shit like that. He even had a regular caller who claimed to be a time traveler, and he would warn listeners of future catastrophes.
As a new resident to Los Angeles, I found myself driving around a lot late at night, and I loved listening to Art Bell and the severely open-minded weirdos who would call in to the show. Of all the crazy shit people would talk about, one of the most prevalent topics, heralded by the weirdest of the weirdos, was that the world was going to end in 2012. There were a bunch of random things that pointed to this outcome, the most “convincing” being that the Mayan calendar ended on December 21, 2012. I don’t know much about the Mayans other than they’re the bad guys in Apocalypto, the Mel Gibson movie that I’d recommend if he wasn’t a drunken anti-Semite. Either way, from 1998 onward I had been conditioned to think one thing above all else: If you thought the world was going to end in 2012, yo
u were a bit of an odd duck.
Second, The Last Starfighter is a great movie from 1984, about a kid who’s a loser in his real life but he’s amazing at playing videogames. He then learns that his videogame skills actually allow him to save the world. Evan and I had tried to get the rights to the movie for a sequel or remake from the time we got to Los Angeles, but the original screenwriter, Jonathan R. Betuel, owns the rights and refuses to let anyone touch the property—and I don’t blame him, because it’s perfect.
* * *
In early 2012, Evan and I got an exciting call: Steven Spielberg wanted to meet with us. This was, for all intents and purposes, pretty fucking dope. I had met him a couple times very briefly at some parties in the past. He’s a nice enough guy, and I think I’d be MUCH more intimidated by him if he didn’t remind me so much of my father-in-law, who is a lovely, unintimidating man.
Steven Spielberg
My father-in-law
Similarities to my father-in-law aside, we were excited. We pulled into the DreamWorks part of the Universal lot, which has a giant Jurassic Park–style gate that opens slowly. We played the theme song on my phone as we entered.
We were greeted in the lobby by a receptionist flanked by a film camera from the 1940s and a model of a Tyrannosaurus rex. After a few moments of quietly wondering if we’d smoked too much weed before this meeting (we had), we were brought up to Steven’s office.
We walked past Norman Rockwell painting after Norman Rockwell painting (I think Spielberg has the largest private collection in the world) and were led into his office, where we were told to sit and wait, which we were more than happy to do.