Almost Interesting

by David Spade

  The next step was actually putting pen to yellow legal pad and writing it. I’d sit with Tom for a little bit and we’d hash it out and then he’d be pulled in fifty different directions and I’d be left to hammer out the details and try to make it all make sense. I needed to finish a rough draft and let him scope it out, take any ideas he threw out and implement them, then hand it in by deadline. This should have been simple enough, except Hanks wasn’t aware that I couldn’t really write. I wasn’t Smigel or Jack Handy or Conan O’Brien and I didn’t really know what I was doing. Well, I somehow finished it by read-through and put it on the pile. The best part: seeing the writers listed as HANKS/SPADE in the top corner. That made me feel legit, for the first time since I got there. If I had a camera phone back then I certainly would have snapped a sneaky pic and posted it on Instabrag but I didn’t even have a cell phone at that point. (Yes, I’m that old.) A bit later the read-through started and “Subway Surfing” was on the docket. I was sweating even more than usual, because I really wanted this one to do well, for me but also for Hanks. (Well, really for me. He’s fine.) We read it together and sang the song. Tom gave it everything. He gave everything 100 percent all the time, but this sketch he gave 101 percent. It was probably a 7 out of 10 on the laugh meter, more conceptual and fun than hilarious, if I am being honest. It was by no means a home run for the final cut and I knew it. So off I went to Wally’s & Joseph’s, all by myself, sweating it out, pondering why I was losing my hair. I sprinted back to see if the sketch was on the board and it was! Victory! Then came the hard part: all the department heads asked me to help put the sketch together—wigs, makeup, set. I bluffed my way through it and ran to Tom for the tricky questions. We threw it up at dress rehearsal and sang our hearts out but we just didn’t quite nail it. I could tell in the middle we were dead in the water. The crowd liked it, but there just weren’t enough laughs. Much to no one’s surprise, our sketch didn’t make it to air. I was bummed, but he was a class act the whole way. He grabbed me later at the after party and said, “Hey, we tried . . . I thought it was funny.” We laughed and I felt a little better, for about five minutes, when I had to start thinking of material for the next host.

  One of the impressions in my arsenal (arsenal meaning two impressions) was of Michael J. Fox. When I learned he was the next host, I was stoked. I knew this could be a big week for me with this in my back pocket. I really needed a solid showing. I still hadn’t really done jack shit that season and my buddy Rob had already scored big with Copy Machine guy (with Sting, of all people), and I was in a jealous frenzy. Things were already getting a bit prickly between Rob and me and this didn’t help. I thought him writing himself as the lead in a sketch wasn’t cool at all, because we had been told to write for other people. The fact that the sketch had already been on twice (another ballsy move! writing two sketches with yourself in the lead!) by the time he ran it with Sting felt totally unfair. I was quickly reminded that nothing was fair about SNL. Of course, if the sketch had been mine, I probably would have been more than happy to bend the rules. But generally, I’m a rule follower. I respect the system. Unfortch it takes ballsy shit like that to get ahead in showbiz (and life) and I’m just not built like that. SNL was the wrong place to be Mr. Polite, Dudley Do-Right. (This is an old reference lost on you youngsters who probably won’t like this book anyway.) Rob, Sandler, and Farley were blowing past me on rocket ships and I was dead scared of getting shitcanned. I hoped Mr. Michael J. Fox would lift me out of my tailspin.

  At the Monday meeting, I met Michael for the first time. He was very cool, excited, and up for anything—like I said, the best kind of host. He knew someone on staff did an impression of him and that it would probably be in the show and he seemed fine with that idea, so my spirits were starting to lift. Smigel came up with a sketch about child stars gone bad planning a bank robbery and there was a rumor going around that I’d play Fox. Now I was stoked. I was going to get a few crumbs this week and they would keep me from blowing my brains out and more important, would save my job. (I guess the job was less important than dying?) That child actor sketch was written and hilarious at read-through. Michael played Danny Bonaduce, Chris Farley played Mindy Cohn from Facts of Life, (JUST DO IT RIPPY), and I played Michael J. Fox. I then got a call to go into Lorne’s office to talk about the monologue, which I was also rumored to be in. Maybe my days of “Please, sir, may I have some more,” Oliver Twist–like starving for screen time were coming to an end? When I got to Lorne’s office, he told me that I was indeed going to appear in the monologue, along with Michael and Dana Carvey, all playing . . . Michael J. Fox in a cool Back to the Future bit. At this point, I was over the moon. But then Lorne dropped the whammy. He explained that because I was new and the audience wasn’t familiar with me, Dana Carvey had to come out first. And, to add insult to injury, I had to coach him on how to do the Michael J. Fox impression. Basically, I had to give Carvey the best thing I knew how to do, and then follow him on and look like a copycat. Shit. I fell in line like a good soldier and went to Dana’s office to walk him through, and he locked it immediately, as predicted. Dana was ten times better at impressions than anyone at SNL, so that was not a shocker. I went to bed a bit grumbly that night.

  At dress rehearsal the next night, the monologue was fine, but the sketch about child stars was crazy, because when I was playing opposite Fox, dressed as Fox, Michael started laughing. That always makes a sketch crush. When we did it on air, it worked, but Fox didn’t laugh this time, and a little spark was lost. It was still a big moment for me, but I couldn’t help wish that the dress version was what had made it to air.

  As if things couldn’t get better than being on air twice in one week (Yay! $1,500 paycheck that week!!), I finally had my very first sketch make it to air. It was called “Not Gettin’ Any.” It was a talk show consisting of a bunch of guys sitting around complaining about not getting laid. Very original, right? I was on my own, totally in charge of wardrobe, wigs, set design, line readings, and getting all my cuts and changes to the script to the cue card department in time for the live show. This was quite an undertaking, and I quickly realized you have to pace yourself and pick your fights in these situations. You have to stay focused on the decisions that really matter—and those are the ones about the jokes. When someone grabs you in the hall and says, “What kind of couch should you guys be sitting on . . . is it modern or more of a cozy L-shaped one at home?” just say the first thing that pops into your head or outsource that shit to someone who is better than you at those kinds of details. I sucked at those decisions.

  It played okay. It didn’t set the world on fire. But of course, the thing I remember most fondly is something my boy Farley did. I had Chris Farley in the sketch because he was a score machine and I needed him. I wrote a line that had him asking a girl if he could “lay her down in the tall grass and let me do my stuff.” That’s a line from a Fleetwood Mac song but I knew he’d say it in a funny way and make it work. During rehearsals he pulled me aside and said, “Davey, in that sketch you wrote, what if I said, ‘I have a weight problem, hell my folks don’t even know. I swallow a lot of aggression, along with a lot of pizzas’ . . . Can I say that?” And I said, “Shit yeah, that’s pretty funny.” So I added those new lines in. The sketch made it through dress rehearsal and by some miracle got on the live show. I was stoked it was finally happening. As I was walking onto the set Saturday night, Farley grabbed me and said, “This is going to be great, Davey.” And I said, “Yeah, I hope so. And that stuff you added killed.” And then he got a weird look on his face as we are walking along before grabbing my arm really hard and whispering, “Psss psss sss . . . Stripes.” With the band playing and all the noise in the studio, I sort of yelled, “What’s that?” And he sheepishly said, “Ummm, I think that was from Stripes.”

  I got a chill down my spine and it all hit me. “Wait a minute, CHRIS . . . those lines you gave me are something John Candy said in the movie Stripes???” I was like, WAIT . . . WH
AAAT? He started hemming and hawing: “Aww Davey, it’s okay, no one will know.” The look on his face was one of panic and guilt. I knew you couldn’t use a line from a movie in a sketch. That was stealing. My stomach dropped. And then Joe Dicso, the stage manager, yelled, “David, sit down! We got ten seconds . . . five . . . four . . . three . . .” I glared at Chris and he walked to his seat knowing he had done something wrong. The sketch went off fine and afterward he grabbed me really hard because he knew he was in trouble with me. “David, don’t be mad at me, it’s fine.” “Chris, people are going to think I stole it because I wrote it.” And then he started laughing because he knew it was wrong but didn’t really care. He started singing, “Won’t you lay me down in the tall grass and let me do my stuff . . .” out of nervous energy. I couldn’t help but laugh at this moron. Stuff like that always, always got him out of trouble, with me and everyone else. Scenarios like that are sort of what turned into the movie Tommy Boy, or at least parts of it . . . which we will get to in a bit.

  Overall the Michael J. Fox episode was a victory, but I still didn’t think I had made enough of an impact on the show and the season was almost over. I wasn’t totally worth keeping yet. It could still go either way, and could easily be back to doing stand-up at the Arkansas Rib Tickler by June.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SNL 1991–1992

  The summer after my first full season, I was back driving around Los Angeles in my used Acura Legend waiting to find out if I was going back. I had gotten rid of my dinky New York apartment on the corner of Eighty-Fifth Street and West End Avenue, because I couldn’t get anyone on the show to tell me if I was going to be hired back three months later. In hindsight, this seems very stupid. It was such a hassle to move all of my shit out of my apartment, get it back to L.A., then find a place back in New York that I could rent month-to-month, wait for the cable guy, find a new bed, rehang the autographed picture of myself, blah blah blah. It was never worth it. If I thought for one second I’d be somewhat famous or have money one day, I would never have lifted a finger and just rolled the dice and hoped for the best. Those just add to the intangible (but somewhat tangible) things that make Saturday Night Live a stressful place that drives people crazy.

  I finally got the call to come back, which was a huge sigh of relief personally and professionally. I was very driven at that time and wanted to do well in my field that everyone told me not to pursue. I had such a massive chip on my shoulder about being an underdog from Arizona with no show business connections. I had to see how far I could get. Add to that the fact that I hated disappointing the people who were trying to hang in there with me back home. I’d get a lot of calls from friends and other comedian buddies saying, “Dude, I waited up.” Which meant, they stayed up all the way to the end of the show hoping to catch me once . . . and got nothing. Sometimes I’d go onstage at the end when the host and the band wave good-bye, just so people would see that I hadn’t been fired. I used to joke with Farley that some weeks, I counted that as a sketch.

  We launched our first show that season with none other than the G.O.A.T., Michael Jordan. He was an upbeat, fun guy . . . but also very intimidating. It was business as usual the first show back, with me appearing in one sketch with one line. Actually it wasn’t even a line, it was a reaction shot, which I counted as a line. The sketch took place in the 1960s and we were a shitty all-white basketball team that was very resistant to adding Michael Jordan to our roster because he was black. No one would pass the ball to Jordan, even though he was clearly the best guy on the team. It was very funny. At halftime, Michael gave an impassioned speech about teamwork, until Mike Myers told him, “We don’t want you on the team.” Taken aback Jordan said, “You all really don’t want me on the team?” And then he looked at me and asked, “Even you, Pee Wee?” I quickly averted my eyes in shame. I got a laugh, that tiny rush of adrenaline. I wanted to run to Lorne and say, “Look, Lorne, I got a laugh without even saying anything. I’m magical!” But I opted against it. Instead I just wrote it in my diary.

  The one thing that stands out most about Michael Jordan hosting SNL is how many people wanted his autograph. I’d never seen a line like the one outside his dressing room. It was the cast, the writers, the crew, everyone. We were supposedly cynical and cool, but I remember seeing Al Franken standing there holding three basketballs to sign. Finally, Lorne put a stop to it. It was the only time a sign had to be posted at 30 Rock that said “NO MORE AUTOGRAPHS.” How embarrassing. I was waiting to get a picture at the end of the week. My strategy went out the fucking window.

  Our next host was Jeff Daniels. Jeff is one of those everyman types that is sometimes hard to write for because he is such a talented actor that he blends in a bit. It can be hard to find the angle to hang a sketch on (I’ll take any excuse I can get). He’s not super-handsome. He’s not the fat guy. He’s not angry or pushy. So . . . he seemed destined for sketches that had him cast as the husband in a family bit or the host of a game show. But we tried. Unfortunately, what could have been a pretty straightforward week turned into something pretty traumatic in the office of 30 Rock.

  On the Friday night before the show, Jeff was scheduled to get a face mask made. For those of us who have had this done, it can be a terrifying experience. If the makeup department wants to make a dummy that looks like you, or there needs to be a shot of your head blowing up, a plasterlike substance is poured on your face to create a mold that can then be used to sculpt a replica. This process is nerve-racking and plays on all of our primal fears. I’ve had it done, and I totally freaked out.

  First, a stocking cap is placed over your hair to make it smooth. Then this white crap that looks like Bisquick gets spread all over your face. Two straws get stuck up your nose so you can breathe, because your mouth gets covered with this junk, too. I had been warned that the worst part was when your ears were covered. I said, “Hey, guys I’m not a pussy.” (I am.) “I get what’s going on.” When the time came I said, “Just go slowly . . . I’m not freaking out.” I realized what was happening, and I started taking deep breaths to get ready. I was okay when they covered my eyes, but then again, as if the makeup artists were talking to a child, they’d say, “We’re just covering your ears, don’t freak out.” I said, “Guys, I get it, I get it. I don’t care. Just do it.” About five seconds into it, I got a rush of anxiety and started screaming. I demanded some Valium, which of course someone had because clearly this was a common occurrence (and everyone involved in showbiz is a drug addict). They stuffed it down my gullet before they closed it up with plaster. It took everything I had to calm myself down enough to let them finish and then wait the fifteen minutes it takes for the plaster to harden. It is hard to explain why the freak-out happens so often, but I think it is because your body goes into panic mode thinking you are being buried alive. That’s all I can figure. Well, poor me.

  Anyway, for some sketch we needed a Jeff Daniels doll. He was told to show up at 7 P.M. in the makeup room for the face mask process. As the story goes, the makeup artists put the straws up Jeff’s nose and slowly applied the pancake batter as per usual. He was very cool about it all, even when they covered the eyes, ears, and mouth . . . knowing he didn’t have a big choice in the matter. I guess he wasn’t a total pussy like me. After waiting fifteen minutes for it to harden, the makeup artists started to try to peel it off. Usually the mask comes off in one sticky piece. It feels pretty gross, like your skin is being removed. Well, not this time. After a few minutes of struggling, it became clear there was a MAJOR problem. This wasn’t makeup on Jeff’s face. It was some kind of actual plaster.

  Everyone immediately went into panic mode. This shit was not coming off his face. Everyone started yelling at him so he could hear beneath the plaster, “Don’t worry, Jeff! Just a few more minutes, Jeff!” even though they knew this was not true at all. Some folks snuck off to call Lorne at dinner and ask something to the effect of “WHAT THE FUCK DO WE DO, BOSS?!” Lorne called a plastic surgeon to come to 30 Roc
k to suss out the situation. By the way, it had been about a half hour at this point, and Jeff Daniels now realized that something had gone terribly wrong. He wrote on a piece of paper, “I’m feeling sick.” In return, he got this little nugget: “Don’t throw up or you’ll die! The puke has nowhere to go!” Thanks, that’s COMFORTING!!

  Two hours later, the plastic surgeon comes in. They peel the plaster off Jeff’s forehead as far as it will go, but his eyebrows and eyelashes are stuck in it. Doing the grimmest move possible, but the only option, the surgeon sticks an X-Acto knife down the front of the mask and carefully cuts off Jeff’s eyebrows and eyelashes so the doctor can get the plaster off the rest of his face. I can’t imagine the relief and the pain Jeff must have felt at that point. Everyone was worried that the show might get canceled the next day. Daniels was traumatized. They fixed him up medically and sent him home. To his credit, and the reason I love Jeff Daniels to this day, is that he showed up the next day and did the whole show without being a drama queen (which is called for when there’s actual drama), and he didn’t sue or bitch or talk about it incessantly like I’m sure I would have. He just showed up, busted his ass through every sketch like nothing happened, and did a great job. If you watch that old show, you can see his eyebrows were painted on. To this day, it is still a mystery how that mix-up happened in the makeup department. I have my theories (they involve aliens and 9/11).