Performing is a particularly nerve-wracking way to make a living. But any career comes with its risky, high-pressure moments, and there’s no quick-fix substitute for learning to ride that fear. When you succeed in doing that, you also learn another invaluable lesson: how not to look nervous even though you are. I’m really proud of my twenty-six stand-up appearances on Late Night with David Letterman. But I was nervous each and every time. If you watch a clip of any of them, you’ll see that after my set, as I walked to the desk to talk with Dave, he whispered something in my ear:
“Carol, your hands are ICE COLD!” he’d say, slightly shocked. And I’d giggle with embarrassment.
Since that night in Vermont, I’ve never taken another drink before going onstage. And I’m happy to report that this unhappy dance with the hooch didn’t spill over into other parts of my life. Thank the good Lord, because Mommy does love her cocktails!
But the best part of this story is that, to this day, Paul Reiser has never asked me what the hell was up that night. I needed a friend in the worst way in that moment, and Paul came through with flying colors. Simple as that. It’s one of the things I’m most grateful for in my career.
There’s a bond among the comedians I started out with, my “class,” that’s as strong as a chain link. I don’t doubt that Eddie Murphy or Rosie O’Donnell would have done the exact same thing for me that night. Comics get each other in a way that nobody else does because we do the same nutty work. And as much as I have a wonderful family and a partner and old friends I’ve known since grade school, no one will ever understand a comedian like another comedian.
So, don’t develop a drinking problem. Or a drug problem, or an M&M problem, or any problem that arises from trying to cheat your way around the stresses and fears that come with your chosen profession. Always be wary of the easy way out. I had this poster hung up on my wall in college, and damn if it isn’t as true today as it was back then: “The best way out is always through.” (At the very least, it’s holding up much better than my Loggins and Messina poster.)
With Paul Reiser backstage in Atlantic City, 1982.
CHAPTER 11
WHO ELSE IS A PROCTOLOGIST GONNA TALK TO?
Back when I was starting out in New York, I got booked to do a corporate gig, and like most of these jobs, it was in a hotel ballroom. Typically, my agent would book these gigs, but I would go by myself. I’ve always been pretty low maintenance and don’t require much hand holding.
So I arrived at the job to find two of the three things that a comedian requires to do a show: a microphone and a stand to hold it. But not the third: a spotlight.
“Excuse me,” I said as I approached the tech guy. “Who is going to be working the follow spot for me tonight?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he replied.
“It was in the contract,” I tried to remind him. “It’s the spotlight to follow me while I perform.”
The dude looked at me blankly and then said, “Well, we don’t have it.” Only he said it as if he was annoyed, like, “Oh, get a load of this diva. We don’t have her spotlight!” As if I was Cher or something.
So, while making a mental note that my agent needed to double check this detail for future gigs—like a lot of things in my haphazard profession—I decided to grin and bear it.
That is, until a fellow comic stepped in and came to the rescue …
I was fortunate enough to be introduced by Joan Rivers, who’d been booked for a brief appearance at the event. Sure enough, Joan strode into that ballroom (agent-less, as I was), and like any pro she got an immediate lay of the land. It didn’t take one minute.
“Where’s her spotlight?” Joan asked.
“Huh?” Mr. I-Could-Give-a-Crap responded.
“Carol’s follow spot. Where is it?”
“Ummm …,” the tech mumbled. Then, pointing to me, he said, “I told her I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s just unacceptable,” Joan said. “That’s an important element of her show. It brings a sense of focus to the audience.”
The dude just shrugged helplessly as a frustrated Joan bounded onstage. After a couple minutes of doing her thing, Joan turned to my introduction.
“Look, I’m just a pop-in guest here,” Joan said to the crowd. “But the woman who’s going to entertain you for the bulk of the evening has a big stumbling block ahead. You shtummies didn’t provide a spotlight for her. And lest you think that’s a trivial omission, it’s not. You’d know that if you were me, but you’re car salesmen! So give her your full attention, because I’ll accept nothing less!”
My hero.
After giving the tech guy a solid “toldja so!” look, I walked onstage. And lemme tell ya, that audience gave me everything and more. (Would you want to face the wrath of Joan Rivers?!)
All it took to turn things around was another comic to fully understand my situation. And here’s the lesson behind this particular incident: Make sure you cultivate a fellowship with the people you work with, because that will come in handy in times like these.
Whatever you do for a living, no one will ever understand your job like someone who does it, too. My partner, Lori, is my rock and foundation. We’ve been together for seventeen years, and I don’t know where I’d be without her daily love and support. Yet, when I have work-related concerns or problems, as much as I love my Lori, I usually turn to fellow writers or comics for advice. Lori doesn’t take it personally. As with me, when she has challenges in her work—real estate—she knows that I’m not an expert (although I have heard it bandied about that location is important). So, on your professional journey, I encourage you to forge strong bonds with your peers. You’ve got to watch out for one another, because sometimes a fellow member of the club is the only one who gets it.
This is one of the reasons very little joke-stealing happens in the world of stand-up. Oh believe me, people try, and some may get away with it. But word gets around quickly. And in comedy, as soon as a thief is discovered … Well, it’s not exactly the mob. The offender won’t be shot and buried in a landfill somewhere in New Jersey. But that may be the only venue he ends up playing.
Here’s another reason to cultivate professional camaraderie. In any work situation, you have to protect your reputation, especially among peers. If you’re hitting it out of the park with your clients but are not particularly well liked by your coworkers, you’re setting yourself up for a big fall. Because someday you’ll need the support of your brethren, and they’ll be more than happy to step out of the way as you stumble. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times.
So, love what you do. But also see the value in connecting with the other people who do what you do. It’s a principle that probably applies to any vocation out there. When I think about a job like, say, proctology … medical degree aside, that seems like the most unsavory job anyone could have. Yet I’m sure that when all those colorectal surgeons get together at their annual Proctologist’s Convention, what a hoot this bunch must have comparing notes on patients. Oh man, the stories (that I’d love to miss). As I’m sure they’d all agree, no two assholes are alike—certainly in their business, and in whatever endeavor you choose, too.
This is an apology letter I received after a horrible corporate gig. I wish more bosses made their drunk employees send these!
CHAPTER 12
HECKLED BY STEPHEN HAWKING
There was a point in my career as a road comic that I unaffectionately refer to as the “comedy condo” years. Basically, club owners got smart. Their epiphany was: “Why should I pay to put up my comedians in a reputable midpriced hotel when I can simply buy a cheap condo and toss them all in there for the week?” Of course, what the club owners didn’t consider were all the amenities that hotels provide for their guests. Simple things, like daily maid service and a secure environment. But as much as I hated these condos, they were, unfortunately, a deal breaker with my gig offers. Anytime my agent requested a hotel for me instead, the answer
was always a resounding “take it or leave it.”
Occasionally, these comedy condo gigs had a silver lining: I got to work with a friend. So I was very happy when my agent scored me a week-long gig in Phoenix with my buddy and fellow comic Sue Kolinsky. Comedy condo or not, nothing beats having a pal along to brave the uncertainties of a week in a strange town.
Fresh from the airport, Sue and I arrived at the comedy condo and were greeted by the usual suspect, a friendly thirtyish white guy, the probable opening act (Sue was middling and I was the headliner). He showed us the other two rooms available, and Sue and I planted roots with our suitcases. Looking around, I saw that this comedy condo was pretty standard—not the cleanest ever (the kitchens in these places, oddly, never seemed to have a single sponge). But there was a swimming pool, so that raised its score by many points. Sue and I put on our bathing suits and enjoyed a couple of hours by the pool with White Guy before having to head over to the club.
Around seven p.m., now freshly showered and dressed, Sue and I went to the front door to head out to the venue. As was typical, we waited for White Guy so we could all go together. But he was nowhere to be found. Sue shouted, “We’re ready to go down to the club! You coming?” The next thing we knew, White Guy, still dressed in his swim trunks, came to the front door to tell us, “No, thanks. I don’t need a ride.”
“Well, how are you going to get over to the club?” I asked him.
“And you’re still not dressed,” Sue commented.
“Oh, I’m not a comic,” he said blankly. “I just live here.”
Seems the slimy club owners also learned that renting out rooms to complete strangers made the condo an even smarter investment decision. Sometimes I wonder how this story never wound up on NBC’s Dateline.
At the comedy condo. Which of these people is not a comedian?
Trust me, one day you’ll have your own work horror stories to share (if you don’t already). These things are just part of everyone’s journey pursuing a career. I hope that knowing this fact ahead of time will help you have a sense of humor when a workplace disaster inevitably lands on your head.
When I started to earn real money doing stand-up, it was such a thrill. Going from making cab fare (five bucks) to an actual paying gig—the feeling was phenomenal. These first bookings were mostly what we called “Jersey gigs,” clubs in New Jersey towns, like Long Branch, Asbury Park, and West Orange, that were all clamoring to be part of the comedy boom. Mind you, I use the word “club” loosely. Five minutes before, these “clubs” had been Knights of Columbus meeting halls, or the occasional sub place that lost its license because of food code violations. Jersey gigs paid around forty bucks, which might not seem like a lot now, but I can’t even begin to describe the feeling of cold hard cash in your pocket earned simply from telling jokes.
One night, it was the usual drill. I was set to meet the driver in front of the Improv at Forty-fourth and Ninth who’d take me out to one of these Jersey towns. This guy pulls up in a beat-up ’72 Duster. When I get in, I notice that the car has no rearview mirror. I became slightly alarmed, and I pointed it out to my driver. (I also use the word “driver” loosely. Five minutes ago, the “driver” was probably stealing this car.)
The guy says to me, “Don’t worry, honey. I get the entire picture from the sides.” Meaning, I assumed, the side mirrors. “Most people are not aware that the rearview is purely optional.” Maybe he considered brakes as just a suggestion, too.
It wasn’t just getting to and from the clubs that provided moments I’d rather forget. I’ve made some big mistakes onstage over the years that still make me shudder. I once worked at a dive in Pittsburgh where I was being heckled mercilessly. I mean, the guy just wouldn’t let up. And to make matters worse, he was doing it in this odd, breathy voice. This was around the time that Return of the Jedi came out, and I figured he was doing a parody of Darth Vader. So I started to go at him good.
“Oh, big man doing his big Star Wars impression with the funny voice! Why don’t you get up here on stage and then see how it goes?”
The guys heckles back, “I can’t go up on stage.”
“Well, of course,” I said, “because you’re a coward, asshole.”
“No,” he said. “I can’t go up on stage because I’m crippled, that’s why.”
I put my hand over my eyes to shield the stage lights, and I looked out into the audience to find that the heckler was, in fact, a guy in a wheelchair. Not exactly the kind of “rolling in the aisles” that a comedian dreams of. And he was using an electronic voice box because he didn’t have a larynx. Oh, perfect. I thought. I’m being heckled by Stephen Hawking.
I’m still not exactly sure what the expression “being run out of town on a rail” means, but I’ve always thought that if ever there was an opportunity for that to happen to me, it would have been that night. I literally had to be escorted to the car, so anxious was that crowd to tar and feather me. (That expression I can pretty much figure out.)
So, never forget these words: “This, too, shall pass.” Console yourself during the difficult times with the thought that, if nothing else, you’re banking some great stories to tell down the road. And please, if you ever come to one of my shows—disabled, fully abled, somewhere in between—don’t heckle me. I swear, I still get spooked every time I see a handicap parking space.
CHAPTER 13
SNL: HIRED BY A U.S. SENATOR, DONE IN BY POLITICS
Saturday Night Live premiered in 1975, while I was in college, and comedy would never be the same. From the minute the show went on the air, it popped right off the screen as fresh and funny, and it immediately set a new standard for television comedy that continues today. So, in 1985 I was excited as anything when SNL’s creator, Lorne Michaels, returned to the helm after Dick Ebersol’s five-year reign. And even more excited to hear that the show was setting up auditions for new cast members at the Comic Strip, my home-base comedy club in New York City.
The night of the audition, I saw Al Franken walk into the club. Yes, that’s now Senator Al Franken. (And if you’re too young to find that disconcerting, imagine this in twenty years: Vice President Daniel Tosh.) I was familiar with Al from his appearances on the show with his comedy partner, Tom Davis, and was a huge fan. A fellow comic mentioned that he’d heard Al was going to be an occasional performer and producer on the show that year. He also mentioned that the head writer, Jim Downey, was part of the SNL posse that came to see the auditions. I had no idea if these things were true. When it comes to gossip, my fellow comics could put a couple of Boca yentas to shame. But I was excited nevertheless.
When you audition at a comedy club, it’s risky, because you’re at the mercy of two mercurial variables: the crowd and the performance order. You never know what audience is going to show up. They might be friendly and supportive. Or they might be drunk and hostile (a.k.a. every comedy club audience in Trenton, New Jersey). On the one hand, if you go on stage too early in the lineup, the crowd may not be warmed up enough to respond well. On the other hand, when you go on too late, your audience is leaning toward “tired” and/or “one cocktail too many.”
It turns out I had some good karma the night of my SNL audition. I went on near the early middle of the lineup, a great spot. And as luck would have it, a warm and receptive audience showed up that night. (Little did those two hundred people know they were going to have a big say in the comedic fates of a dozen comedians.) I did better than I’d hoped.
After my set, I hung out at the bar, relieved and happy it had gone well. A few other comics had stand-out sets that night, too. Then, as the Saturday Night Live crew was leaving the club, Al Franken and Jim Downey came over to me, telling me that they thought I was funny and did a great job. They said I’d hear from them soon.
“You’ll hear from us soon” is to show business what “I’ll call you” is to one-night stands. But a week later my agent got a call: they liked my audition and now wanted me to meet Lorne Michaels. I was ecstat
ic! I was gonna meet Lorne over at a rehearsal studio on the West Side of Manhattan. I walked into the room, said hello, and shook hands with him. He told me that Al Franken and Jim Downey had highly recommended me to be a writer on the show, and I said I was glad to hear it. Then Lorne asked, “You know the hours are crazy on this show, don’t you? Oftentimes, writers sleep in their offices the night before the read-throughs. Are you okay with that?” I emphatically assured him that I was, even though I wasn’t exactly certain what a “read-through” was. And that was it. The meeting lasted maybe two minutes. I wasn’t sure if that was good or not, until the next day when they called my agent and said that SNL did indeed want to hire me as a writer. I’ll admit I was disappointed not to be offered a spot as a cast member, but I was also thrilled as hell to be offered any kind of job from this comedic institution. (The job also couldn’t have come at a better time. I was recently separated from my husband, a fellow comic, and the SNL hire got me out of Los Angeles and back to New York. The distance away from my impending divorce helped enormously.)
I found an apartment in New York within walking distance to the show. To this day, I’ve had few experiences that rivaled working in Manhattan at legendary 30 Rock, and simply putting on a pair of sneakers to get there. The job got me into the union, the Writers Guild, and I was making their minimum, fifteen hundred dollars a week, which was a fortune to me at the time.
I’ll call the season that I worked on SNL the “weird cast” one. Totally out-of-the-box hires like Joan Cusack, Randy Quaid, Robert Downey Jr., Jon Lovitz. The only comedians hired whom I knew were A. Whitney Brown and Dennis Miller. (Whitney was hired as a supporting player, and Dennis was a full-time player).
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