How to Succeed in Business Without Really Crying

by Leifer, Carol

  Although I’ll admit that it’s still a personal challenge, it’s important to be open to constructive criticism, too—from others, and even from yourself. Learning from that kind of input can drastically lessen the amount of failure you’ll encounter moving forward.

  For example, as a writer I’ve come to learn my strengths but also my weaknesses. I think I’m best with dialogue and jokes, but story structure still remains a bear. So I make sure that when I’m staffing a show, I have a solid structure writer in the room to compensate for my deficiencies. I think my writing started to get much better when I acknowledged that this was a place I could really use the backup.

  The other thing about failure is that, with some tweaking, many times you can turn the situation into a win.

  I was dying to be on NBC’s Celebrity Apprentice. I was a true fan and watched the show religiously. I loved the tasks that were thrown at the celebrities and the ensuing strategy and alliances that were formed. And being so passionate about animal rescue, the idea of raising an insane amount of money for my charity, the North Shore Animal League, was extremely compelling. So when I finally got cast on the show, I was convinced I was going to seriously kick some ass. I mean, please! I was playing with the likes of rocket scientist Bret Michaels. My only fear going in was being the first one fired—no one wants to be that loser.

  Well, cut to me being the first one fired. (Does it really matter why? Upstairs/Downstairs the show is not.) As I heard my name falling out of Donald Trump’s mouth, my head was reeling.

  “Holy crap! Is this really happening?!” My worst nightmare, confirmed. But in that split second, I made a decision. Over my dead body was I leaving without something for my nonprofit. So I went for it:

  “Mr. Trump?” I asked. “When we started this competition, you said you were a fan of my charity.”

  “I did,” said Trump. “I admire the work of the North Shore Animal League very much.”

  “So, would you consider making a donation to them?” (Remember “You don’t ask, you don’t get,” from Chapter 2?)

  “Absolutely,” said Trump. “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars for them.”

  Bam! And with that, I left that show a winner. (And Donald Trump did make good on his promise; he sent a check to North Shore from his personal account. Believe me, I checked.)

  P.S. I think using the word “consider” helped me enormously in my ask for a donation.

  P.P.S. Bret Michaels went on to win, even though I think he stole my eyeliner.

  P.P.P.S. Little fun fact: After you get fired from Celebrity Apprentice, the producers offer you therapy if you want it. “No thanks, guys! I think I’ll be able to handle being fake fired from a fake job.”

  So, go ahead. Fall on your face. Wipeout. Crash. A lot. As any successful person will tell you, it’s par for the course.

  On the set of Celebrity Apprentice.

  With Lori and my mom on the set of Alright, Already.

  CHAPTER 18

  RESPECT YOUR YODAS

  There are legends in every business. And in my business of show, I’ve been lucky enough to interface with some special ones.

  So I was very excited one day when my bud Paul Reiser suggested a double-date trip to Vegas with him and his wife to go see Bill Cosby. Paul had seen his stand-up concert a year earlier and was way impressed. Especially with the fact that Cosby did close to two hours of material with no break or opening act. Paul also knew Bill personally, so he made all the arrangements for the tickets, which was a lovely perk. I got even more psyched for the trip when Paul told me that he had secured backstage passes as well.

  Cut to the Bellagio hotel. We enjoyed a nice dinner before the show—Paul and his wife, Paula, myself and my partner, Lori. (Well, as nice a dinner as you can have twenty feet away from a bank of slot machines. My brain continuously repeated the Wheel of Fortune theme for the next hour, easy.) After dinner, we headed to the showroom at the Aladdin and took our seats. (Dead center, three rows back. Love being a friend of a friend!) Then, around ten minutes before the eight p.m. curtain time, one of Bill’s people suddenly appeared at our seats and asked to bring us backstage. Oh, I guess we’re getting to say a quick hello to Mr. Cosby sooner than I thought! He whisked us from our row, and we all headed to Cosby’s dressing room.

  We walked inside and Bill was immediately warm and friendly. He told me he was familiar with my work as a stand-up comic, and I tried to keep my cool even though inside I was freaking out. After a few minutes of idle chit-chat, most of it Paul and Cosby catching up, I looked at my watch to see that it was now a few minutes past eight. I guess I had the showtime wrong, I thought to myself.

  Bill invited us to sit down, even offering us some drinks. As he sat, Bill turned to Paul and me and asked, “So what do you want to know?” I was slightly confused by the question, and sharing a surreptitious glance with Paul, I could tell he was feeling the same.

  “About stand-up,” Cosby clarified. “What do you want to know?”

  After a beat of awkward silence, I launched right in.

  “Well, I must say that when I watch you, Mr. Cosby—”

  “Call me Bill …”

  “… when I watch you perform in your specials, I’m always amazed that you not only sit down onstage when you do your act, but that when you get up on your feet, you stay in one spot. I find that if I’m not moving and pacing the stage when I do my stand-up, I feel like I’ll lose the audience.”

  Bill nodded and then went on to share his thoughts—how sitting onstage is a confidence thing that evolves with time. How the more secure you feel as a performer, the more secure you are in physically rooting yourself. He said that he felt it’s a sign of strength in a performer when he or she can hold the audience with just his or her energy, as opposed to trying to rouse the energy of the crowd.

  I hung on to every word, as did everyone else, sensing this rare opportunity at the feet of our personal Yoda, eager to share his wisdom. I remember Paul jumping in next (what else could he do, he was clearly on deck!) and Cosby having a very thoughtful answer … but for the life of me, I don’t remember Paul’s question. (I even checked with Paul while writing this chapter, and he doesn’t remember either!)

  All I knew was, when I next looked up at the clock on the dressing room wall, it was eight-thirty. Bill’s guy subtly signaled that it was time to go, so naturally we all got up to give Bill his privacy. I was surprised to see that when we did that, Bill got up, too, and exited the dressing room right along with us. The next thing I knew we were all walking backstage, and as Bill said a nice goodbye, the curtains parted and he walked out onstage to thunderous applause. We were led back to our seats (our late entrance making the members of our row squirm uncomfortably) and then went on to enjoy Cosby’s phenomenal show.

  Meeting Bill Cosby was like meeting Yoda … a taller, funnier Yoda.

  The truth is, the show did start at eight p.m., with our little backstage chat, which was responsible for the late onstage start. I guess I should have seen that coming—when you’re confident enough to sit onstage with the audience hanging on to every word, you’re probably confident enough to go onstage whenever the hell you want! To be honest, when we sat down I worried that the audience was going to be in a testy mood. But the minute Bill stepped out he was off and running, and no one gave a second thought to the late start. Maybe they should change that slogan to “What happens in Vegas, usually happens a half hour later than scheduled in Vegas.”

  Other bouts with greatness are achieved only after a true test of patience.

  To my generation of comics, appearing on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson was the pinnacle of success. It was a time when an appearance on that show could turn you into a star overnight: Freddie Prinze, Roseanne, Drew Carey—the list of comics who made their bones on that show is impressive.

  Needless to say, I wanted to be on The Tonight Show more than anything. My first audition was back in 1981, at the Comic Strip. The show’s talent p
roducer, a guy named Jim McCauley, came in to check out the stand-ups who were part of the club’s showcase. I had a great set that night and was optimistic that I might just have scored myself a booking. But word came back to the club about those Jim was interested in (I didn’t have an agent at the time), and my name wasn’t one of them.

  Who knew that my first audition for The Tonight Show would one day lead to twenty-two more auditions over the course of eleven years—all universally ending with “no, thanks.” I just couldn’t figure it out. I always had a good show when Jim came in, sometimes really killing it. I made sure to change up my material each time, so he would see new stuff. It got to the point where I would change some minute variable each time he came back, like wearing a dress or putting on a pair of heels, just to see if that would seal the deal. Still, all I ever got afterward was rejection.

  It sure got frustrating, and it tested me, but nothing was ever going to stop me from giving it another shot. I always went into it thinking, Maybe this time, who knows? Other comics told me they thought McCauley wasn’t putting me on because I was too closely identified as a Letterman regular, but Paula Poundstone segued to and from both shows easily. After a while, I simply got tired of asking myself “why?”—it was wasted energy.

  But looking back, I realized that I unknowingly followed the advice I’m trying to give so often in this book: I didn’t let the rejection defeat me. Was it discouraging? Absolutely. But this was business, so I just kept my head down and kept working.

  Soon Jay Leno started guest hosting a lot for Johnny, and he asked me to be in a sketch on the New Year’s show when he was filling in, a takeoff of the old dating show Love Connection. The producers, including Jim McCauley, were very happy with what I did. And lo and behold, a month later McCauley finally invited me to appear on the show as a stand-up. What changed, eleven years later? I think I just outlasted them. I had achieved a certain measure of success on my own without The Tonight Show, and I believe I finally got rewarded for that.

  Doing the show was a blast. After my set (which went extremely well), Johnny called me over to “The Couch,” which was a big deal back then. I was lucky enough to be on the panel alongside the great Bob Newhart. Our repartee was smooth and fun. During the commercials, a couple things occurred that still stand out in my mind. First, while watching at home, I always noticed Johnny tap his pencil along to the beat when Doc Severinsen and the Tonight Show Band played during the commercial breaks—Johnny was, after all, a drummer. Well, in person, seated two inches away, I noticed that Johnny’s drumming was crazy loud and at a manic pace. Second, Johnny complimented me on one of my jokes, which I’ll never forget. I used to do this one: “I don’t have any kids. Well, at least none that I know about …” During the break, Johnny turned to me and said, “Nice switch on that joke. Good one!”

  So, respect the greats, in whatever business you choose. Know who they are and what you would discuss with them if you could. Sometimes an opportunity to interact with a Yoda of your industry falls in your lap, and you don’t want to miss a chance to glean some wisdom. Other times, you’ll have to work really hard to get that opportunity, but the motivation to share a few moments with a legend can bring out your best work. I’ll add that after almost forty years in my profession, I now see this situation from the perspective of an old-timer. And I realize that it’s nice to be acknowledged for whatever contribution you make to your field.

  Always have a question ready, though. That way when a legend asks, “So, what do you want to know?” you’ll be prepared.

  HOW TO KEEP YOUR FOOTING WHEN YOU FINALLY GET A LEG UP TO THE TOP OF THE HEAP

  “Carol, you never know …”

  —Anna Leifer, PhD

  CHAPTER 19

  THANK YOU, STAND-UP COMEDY! I’LL BE HERE EVERY WEEK

  Not long ago, I went down to the Laugh Factory (where there’s one assembly line working on set-ups, the other on punch lines), a comedy club on the Sunset Strip, as I occasionally do to try out material. The owner, Jamie Masada, is an old friend who is always great about the “drop in” that comics like to do. Jamie slated me for ten minutes, following a guy I go way back with named Tom Dreesen.

  The emcee was on as I walked in, warming up the crowd. And I could see this group was not an easy one to wrangle—no surprise since it was a Friday, the worst comedy night of the week. The Friday crowd is filled with people who’ve been working hard (or just working) for the past five days, and all they want to do is get trashed and do it quickly. This was a particularly young crowd, too, making the room feel like a high school cafeteria that served drinks.

  The emcee was struggling; he couldn’t get the audience to focus or be quiet. Instead of doing his job—his only job, making sure the crowd’s in the zone before bringing up the first act—he bailed. He brought Tom right up onstage, as if to say, “You get ’em quiet, dude, ’cause I sure can’t!”

  Tom struggled the first few minutes—how could he not when the emcee left the audience in that state? But staying the course like a pro, and pounding the crowd with a steady round of good solid jokes, gray-haired Tom eventually won them over. And as I watched these young faces (some no doubt the age of Tom’s grandkids) surrender to the laughs, I thought to myself: that’s the beauty of the vocation I chose. In comedy, it doesn’t really matter how old you are, or any number of other variables. What matters is if you’re funny. Period. You tell your jokes, and the audience laughs or they don’t. Pretty simple.

  Oh, my schadenfreude when I see these poor schnooks who have to retire from sports or modeling when they hit old age at thirty. It’s not even an option for them; it’s an inevitability. But not my tribe. If you’re still getting a response from the audience, you’re still in the game. Yep, I chose my profession well.

  Not a day goes by that I’m not thankful I chose to start out as a stand-up comic. It was the smartest decision I ever could have made at the ripe old age of twenty-one. And even though my career has taken me in many diverse directions since then—as a writer, as a corporate speaker, and as a spokesperson—I could not have asked for a better foundation. Being a comedian has given me a priceless skill set for life and for the work world in general.

  Gratitude feels good. No doubt your own profession has graced you with a useful tool kit to be grateful for (literally, if you happen to be a carpenter). If you’ve been at it a while, I especially urge you to take an inventory as a way of reconnecting with what you love about what you do. Sometimes we get so caught up in the tangible rewards that come with a career—how much money we make, how nice our office is, how many free lunches we can wheedle—that we overlook the intangible ones. So make your list.

  I’ll start with mine:

  1. It takes a lot to spook me.

  Ask your average person what his or her greatest fear is, and most will say “talking in front of large groups of strangers.” Ask your average comedian what their greatest fear is and most will say “not talking in front of large groups of strangers.”

  Comedians are warriors. You have to be to become successful. As a result, we’re a pretty bulletproof assortment. It’s hard to be fazed once you’ve faced a roomful of drunks daring you to be funny.

  That’s why, when people ask if I’m afraid when I go into a network president’s office to pitch a new show, they’re surprised to hear that I truly look forward to it. Please! I’m pitching to a captive audience of maybe four people (depending on how many kiss-asses the big cheese likes to have around) who are sober (or at the very least not ordering drinks while I’m talking) and who are paid to be somewhat interested in what I’m saying. Believe me, as a “friend” once told me, when you’ve eaten it as a stand-up comic in front of twenty thousand people, following seven hours of acts at a comedy festival in San Francisco, entertaining four suits is a piece of cake. So feel free to contact me if you have an iffy return situation you’ve been avoiding at a department store. I’m confident I’ll get your money back, with a gift card to boot. Low-
level confrontations make my day.

  Fortunately, that quality also extends to staying calm in the face of danger. My partner, Lori, has often commented over the years about how cool I am in the pressured situations we’ve shared together. That only comes from vigorously protecting my own ass onstage all these years. (See my “Beach Boys-bombing-in-Lake Tahoe” incident, Chapter 7, and you’ll know why staying calm when my car broke down in the left lane of the 5 Freeway, with failing hazard lights, during rush hour, was no biggie.)

  2. I can read you like a book as easily as you’re reading mine.

  Working as a stand-up gives you a keen sense of people’s attention and whether you’ve captured it (or not). Which is a crucial skill to master in any business—and doesn’t hurt in your personal life, either. When you’re onstage, you’re constantly monitoring where the audience is, minute by minute. Sometimes you feel their energy flagging, and you need to counter that lapse by pumping up your own. Other times you sense them feeling neglected, so you take a few minutes to stop and talk to the audience to reengage them. And if you misread or lose them for a second, you can always count on a gentle reminder from someone out there (typically in the form of “You suck!”).