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The Todd Glass Situation

Page 12

by Todd Glass


  But to 99 percent of the other people we ran into, I introduced Chris as my “friend.” There was no way I was ready to add those three letters to the front of the word. I really don’t know who I was fooling, or even if I was fooling anyone at all, but for now, this was the way it was going to be.

  The bigger problem arose when I was onstage. Relationships are full of funny moments and hilarious insights—in other words, great material. I just needed to find a way to talk about my relationship without really talking about my relationship.

  At first, I tried to disguise it, setting up jokes with lines like, “You know what I’ve noticed with my brother and his wife?” After a while, I felt confident enough to start using “my girlfriend” as part of my act.

  “So,” I’ve had people ask me, “you had to make up all of those stories?” No! I may have taken liberties with gender, but I didn’t make anything up. Every joke I told about my imaginary girlfriend was based on something that had actually happened between Chris and me. It’s an experience that taught me something—two things, actually:

  First of all, the issues that arise between same-sex couples are almost exactly the same as the ones that come up between heterosexual couples. Granted, there may have been a few restrictions: A bit that started with, “So I’m peeing next to my girlfriend in the bathroom at the airport . . . ,” probably would have confused most audiences. But the stories I told always got laughs from what I assume were mostly straight audiences because, at the end of the day, the experiences aren’t very different.

  Which gets to the second thing I learned: We’re all dealing with the same problems. Over the years, I’ve spent hours listening to men complain about their girlfriends (“You know what’s wrong with women?”) and women complain about their boyfriends (“What is up with guys?”). Well, guess what? There wasn’t a woman in my relationship, but I had a lot of the same issues that my guy friends had with their girlfriends . . . and a lot of the same issues the girls have had with their boyfriends.

  The bottom line is this: There are fucked-up men. There are fucked-up women. Sometimes you end up dating or even marrying them. But in the end, the issues are the issues, and we’re all trying to work them out. We all have baggage. The trick is making sure that it’s carry-on, so we don’t turn our partners into bellhops.

  CHAPTER 30

  LAST COMIC STANDING

  Did you get my fax?

  Most comedians move to Los Angeles because they want to further their career. It’s usually not until they get there that they realize what furthering their career really means: auditions.

  As I mentioned earlier, auditions have always been very hard for me. There are plenty of reasons why, but most of them stem from my days in school. I still have a hard time reading. I have an even harder time reading when I’m supposed to be concentrating on something else at the same time, like staying in character or hitting my marks—I can’t have two things going on in my head at once. I can barely keep track of one. The second I feel the pressure, I get nervous and sweat pours out of my body.

  A couple of years ago I did an episode of Louie. It was a simple scene—all I had to do was walk down the aisle of an airplane, talking on a cell phone. I’d spent the night before memorizing my lines (or, more accurately, my line) and felt like I was good to go. But as I was about to start, Louis said, “When you pull out the phone, can you cheat a little bit to the right?”

  “Okay, cheat to the right.”

  “And when you stop to talk to the other passenger, I know you’re stopping where most people stop, because that’s what you’d do if you were really talking, but I want you to stop around four feet away.”

  Are you shitting me? I can’t remember all that and still deliver my lines. Who the fuck could? (Answer: most actors. They do it all the time. It’s actually not that hard if you don’t have ADD and dyslexia.)

  Later on, I confessed my struggles to Louis. “It’s funny you say that,” he said. “You remember the first time you auditioned for my show?” He was talking about his first TV show, Lucky Louie. HBO was looking for somebody to play Louis’s costar, and someone suggested me.

  When I get to an audition, the first thing I try to do is figure out a way to read my part sitting down—that way I don’t have to worry about hitting marks and I can sneak a quick glance at the script on my lap if I run into trouble. It doesn’t really matter what the audition is:

  “Okay, you’re a cop, and you’re chasing the robbers on foot . . .”

  “Great! You mind if I sit down for this?”

  “In this scene you’re jogging with your friend and talking about your date last night . . .”

  “Got it. Let me just take a seat over here.”

  “You’re a waiter who keeps coming back to the table . . .”

  “Wouldn’t it be funnier if I was sitting at the table with the customers?”

  I managed to stay seated through the whole audition for Lucky Louie. The minute I left the room, Louis looked at the producers. “Are you all thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “He’s the fucking guy!” they said.

  “Yeah, he’s the fucking guy!” Louis said.

  Chris Albrecht, who knew comedy from his time managing the New York Improv, was running HBO. Like it or not, I’ve got to give him credit: He sensed there was something a little bit odd about my performance. “Let’s get him back in here for a minute,” he said.

  Someone called me back into the room. “We’d like to try the scene again,” the casting director said apologetically. “Only this time, can you walk around the room while you do it?”

  “You got me!” is what I should have said. Instead, I did the audition again, this time on my feet. Needless to say, I wasn’t the fucking guy, and Louis found another costar.

  Commercial auditions were even worse. They made me feel like I was back on a yellow bus driving to school. They made me sick the night before; they made me sick the day of; they made me sick the day after, thinking how bad I did the day before. (I’m starting to feel a little sick right now just writing about auditions.) My manager at the time, Bruce Smith, was pretty good about booking commercials for his clients, so I was nauseous about five days a week. The worst moments were the evenings when seven o’clock would roll around and I didn’t have any auditions the next day—Yes!—only to have Bruce call me: “Hey, guess what? Good news! I got you a reading for Kia tomorrow . . .”

  Cue the stomachache.

  Most of the people who were casting commercials were great—the majority of the time they went out of their way to be friendly and accommodating. That didn’t help. I would totally blow the reading, and someone would say, “Why don’t you go out into the hall, come back in, and you’ll do it again?” Or, “Do you want to come back in on Monday?”

  NOOOOOOO!!! Let me go! Please let me just go home now.

  “Let’s do it again, only this time we want you to try . . .”

  Okay, I’ll do it again, but are you okay that I’m going to do it exactly the same way?

  I know that auditions are a necessary part of the process—I’m not blaming anybody but myself for the constant stomach pain—but I think I hate them for the same reasons I love stand-up comedy. When you’re performing onstage, you are the writer, the producer, the director, the editor, and the star. If the joke bombs, you can’t blame anyone else. (Well, there’s always the crowd . . . the sound system . . . the lights . . . the comic who came up before you . . . but other than that it’s you.)

  Auditions feel like the opposite, especially commercial auditions, which are based primarily on the way you look. They tend to cast two kinds of people: the drop-dead gorgeous, and their best friend, who maybe isn’t ugly, but isn’t that great-looking, either. The first time I walked into an audition and saw a roomful of drop-dead gorgeous people, I smiled. So this is what I look like! Then some guy with a clipboard glanced at me and said, “You must be here for Clearasil. That’s down the hall.” By the time I got to the end
of the hallway, I had a much more accurate idea of how I really looked.

  Sometimes it’s so arbitrary your looks don’t matter. One time I decided not to go on an audition. I just didn’t feel like going, so I blew it off. The next day, my manager called. “Good news, Todd . . . You got a callback from Chevrolet.”

  He’s fucking with me, I thought. He knows I blew it off and now he’s fucking with me. I decided to call his bluff: “Oh good! When is it?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh. Good. Great. I mean, I thought I did a good job. Okay, well, you know, fax me over the information.”

  “I will.”

  “I’m sure you will. Thanks for the call.”

  Turns out, he wasn’t fucking with me. I’d really earned a callback for an audition I didn’t even go on. And yes, I ended up landing the part.

  But I still hated the whole process. I remember finding out that my friend Andy Kindler didn’t bother with commercials. “Do we really have to go on auditions?” I moaned to my manager like a whiny teenager. “Why do I have to if Andy doesn’t?”

  “Todd, you’re a full-grown adult. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  His words were on my mind when I went for what would turn out to be my last commercial audition. Like I said, most of the people involved in the casting process are actually very nice. But then there are the other people: the ones who are bitter about having to videotape two hundred people at a cattle call so that the client can look at thirty. “Okay, everybody come over here,” said the casting director, like he was talking to a group of unruly second-graders. “No one is doing this right. The guy in the ad isn’t happy, he’s excited. And he’s not disappointed; it’s more like he’s bummed out. Not anxious, but frustrated. Has everyone got that?”

  Now I didn’t know what the fuck this guy was talking about, but he seemed pretty confident about what he wanted. “Hey!” I said. “You sound like you know what to do. Maybe you should do it!” The line got a couple of snickers, just not from the casting director. I walked out of the audition, clearly having impressed no one.

  Well, maybe not no one. A few years later, I was at the Improv and Nick Swardson was telling me about a hilarious comedian that I had never seen before. So I walked down the hall to catch Zach Galifianakis doing a set and, within two minutes, I fucking loved this guy. After the show, Nick introduced me to Zach.

  “Actually, we’ve met once before,” Zach said. He’d been on that same audition and had seen me storm out. He was so amused by the pathos of it all that he’d stolen my Polaroid from the casting director and had held on to it ever since.

  •  •  •

  While I knew I hated commercial auditions, I was more conflicted when I heard about the tryouts for the second season of a TV show called Last Comic Standing. It was a reality show that put ten aspiring comics in a house somewhere in the Hollywood Hills, wired with microphones and about sixty or seventy cameras, and let them compete against one another until there was a winner. The show was hosted by my old neighbor and fellow outdoor peeing enthusiast Jay Mohr.

  I didn’t know if I wanted to do it. Reality shows weren’t really my thing and I suspected that they were more likely to damage my career than do me any long-term good. But I’d seen what Last Comic Standing had done for the Season One contestants—you couldn’t argue with the fact that being on the show had helped their careers.

  I was still on the fence the night before the tryouts. I probably wouldn’t have gone if it hadn’t been for Scott Aukerman and B. J. Porter, the guys who did Comedy Death-Ray. “This is a chance to do your act on network TV in front of millions of people,” they reminded me. “You really think you’re past that point in your career?”

  Lucky for me, the audition process just meant doing my routine in front of a few judges at the Improv. They flew me to New York for a second audition. Then a third in Las Vegas.

  I’ll admit it: By the time I got through the third audition, I really wanted it. When they called my name, I remember doing a Fuck yeah!

  Then I had to do the show.

  It should have been easy for me. A reality show. All I had to do was be myself, which might have been fine—if I wasn’t hiding a part of who I was. I could bring a noisy fan with me to help cover up my snoring, but concealing my sexuality in a house where every word and action was being filmed and recorded? I might as well have had to memorize a script.

  When you’re on a reality show, you really do forget that there are people watching your every move. You might glance into the refrigerator one day and wonder out loud to another comedian why there isn’t any orange juice. The next day, the fridge will be stocked with four different brands—an odd coincidence, until you remember that you’re wearing a microphone. One night I snuck downstairs for a midnight snack and accidently dropped a glass bottle, which shattered all over the floor. Before I could finish shouting whatever expletive popped into my head, a door sprung open. A guy I’d never seen before emerged with a broom and swept it all up.

  Okay, having secret elves to clean up after me was pretty cool. But the phone calls to the outside world were another story. They let me switch my microphone off when I called Chris, but I knew that I was still surrounded by cameras and probably more microphones.

  Fortunately, Chris and I were already used to hiding. We worked out a series of codes beforehand so that we could communicate with one another. “Did you get my fax?” meant “I love you.” “Can you resend that email?” meant “I miss you.” As an added benefit, keeping our relationship secret made my career seem a lot more thriving than it was—I was clearly waiting on a lot of faxes and emails.

  My biggest fear was that one of the other comedians would out me. I went into the house with the naïve idea we were going to spend nights around the fire talking comedy. “Who’s better, Leno or Letterman? What comedians do you like? Who do you dislike? What does it mean to sell out?”

  Some of those conversations actually took place. My friends Gary Gulman and Bonnie McFarlane and I had a lot of fun talking shop and doing bits with one another. Most of that material went straight to the editing room floor: The producers were much more interested in getting what I called the “Who ate my cookies?” footage.

  Like the night I climbed into bed and realized my fan was missing. I knew that the producers were messing with me, setting up a long night of me snoring while my roommates tossed and turned and cursed me. (It didn’t happen—instead I yelled at the top of my lungs that I was three minutes away from ripping cameras off the walls. One of the secret elves returned my fan a few seconds later.)

  They constantly tried to pit us against one another, encouraging us to form alliances, break alliances, and otherwise partake in all of the reality TV bullshit you’ve seen before on other shows. Gary, Bonnie, and I did our best not to get involved with any of the drama, sticking to jokes and bits and shoptalk. Alas, not everyone saw it our way. The smell of fame and fortune led the rest of the cast into schemes and betrayals. It broke my heart to see comedians act that way, but this was the nature of the show and I don’t blame them for it.

  And while I’d like to say that I avoided all the drama out of some noble calling, the truth is that I was terrified of pissing off the wrong person. I didn’t know if any of the other comedians knew that I was gay, but I suspected that getting outed in front of millions of viewers was the kind of material that reality TV producers dream of. I kept quiet, didn’t make any waves, and was the second person eliminated from the show. I guess when it came down to it, I was still a long way away from being ready for “reality” anything.

  CHAPTER 31

  THE CORONET (PART TWO)

  A brush with death causes Todd to rethink his life (for a few days, anyway).

  So I’m in the ambulance, the lights flashing, siren blaring, cutting a path through the traffic on La Cienega. “BLUE FORD TRUCK,” the driver says through his PA, his voice full of righteous anger. “MOVE TO YOUR RIGH
T, NOW!”

  I’ve got a huge grin plastered across my face. If this is what having a heart attack feels like, everybody should have one! Later it will occur to me that the good feelings probably have a lot to do with the gallons of morphine that they’ve pumped into my system.

  They lower me out of the ambulance and wheel me into the emergency room with a definite sense of urgency. A doctor in a white coat strides into the room, looking over my chart. “We have some really good news for you . . . ,” he begins.

  Your heart just skipped a beat is the way I finish the sentence in my head. A bit of a scare, but nothing to get concerned about . . .

  “One of our best doctors is on the way. He’ll be here in just a few minutes.”

  Fuuuuuuuck.

  This is bad. I mean, what’s he supposed to say? “He’s not one of our best doctors. In fact, he’s a little bit of a drinker. But . . . he’s got a great sense of humor and always makes us laugh. You’ll love him! You know, just last week he performed open-heart surgery while he was blackout drunk!”

  I finally puke. As I’m puking, I can’t help but remember one of my brothers telling me that my dad vomited right before he had the heart attack that killed him. I am now officially terrified.

  They push me out of the emergency room and down the hall into the OR. We pass Sarah Silverman and Jeff Ross on the way. They seem calm and playful. Maybe I’m overreacting. Still, just in case I’m not, and this is the last time I ever talk to them . . .

  “Sarah,” I mumble. “If I don’t make it, I just wanted to let you know . . .”

  “Know what, Todd?”

  “Your boyfriend cheats on you.”

  Later Sarah will confess that even though she put on a brave face in that moment, she was thinking the same thing I was: This could be the last good-bye. But you’d never know it from the way she’s acting now. “Todd, if you live . . . this is going to be really uncomfortable.”

 

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