biggies, the seven-nights-a-week places that I wanted desperately to crack in to. They each had an amateur night, too, and I decided the Improv was my best shot. I drove down to the club one night with my crummy little shoe box of props. (Yes, I was still using the props. I used them for my first two years as a full-time comedian, but at this point I had whittled the kit down from my mom’s old honeymoon suitcase to a shoe box.) I had decided that if I passed the audition, I could try to get maybe two or three spots a week and then I could afford to move out to Los Angeles permanently. I put my stupid name in a stupid hat, and waited. I sat in the back of the club, in my stupid outfit. (An old Batman sweatshirt, tight jeans, and Reebok high-tops. Batman signals comedy, I guess?) The booker would pull seven names at a time, and each time a name was called my stomach would tighten and I would sweat a little more, in panic that I would get chosen next. I sat there like a dope, waiting from eight to midnight, watching the crowd dissipate, and never got called, and then I had to leave because of the dogshit 8 A . M . filing job. My first trip to the Improv was a total bust. I realized pro showbiz would have to wait a little bit longer.
I went back home with my tail neatly placed between my legs and did stand-up in Arizona again, and then hit the road for another few years to get better. That Improv disaster scared me off L.A. a bit. Then a comedian I had met named Fred Wolf got me a show at the San Diego Improv, opening for a comedy team called the Funny Boys with Jonathan Schmock and Jim Vallely. Fred was a comedian who was cool to me when he saw me go on in Arizona. He was a traveling road comic and threw me a bone because he liked my act. (We stayed friends. Later he worked on SNL and we wrote Dickie Roberts and Joe Dirt together.) The Funny Boys were great. Super-cool and hilar. They told me I needed to come back to Los Angeles ASAP and audition at the Improv. I listened to them because they were a great comedy team that had been on TV shows and even worked as writers on some (also; trivia alert: Jonathan famously played the maître d’ in Ferris Bueller ). Jim even said I could crash on his couch for a while. My response? “Fuck yes.”
I drove out west in my crummy red ’72 Volvo a week later. I somehow ran into Louie Anderson soon after I arrived, and he told me he could get me an audition at the Comedy Store. Louie was an even bigger deal. He was a regular at the Comedy Store and had been on Carson as well as many other shows. So I was sitting pretty this go-round in the big city. I had three legit comedians vouching for me and all I needed was one of these places to say yes. Either one would have been a major step for me in terms of becoming a pro comedian. Since there was such a rivalry between these clubs, you didn’t get to play both unless you were a major pro. I wasn’t gunning for anything like that. One would have been just great, thanks.
So, this time I headed to the Comedy Store, a hallowed place famous for launching the career of Richard Pryor and so many others before me. The woman in charge there is named Mitzi Shore, and she is notoriously tough. Plus she’s Pauly Shore’s mom, but that’s beside the point. I thought I had a tight six minutes to showcase for Mitzi. I wasn’t as crazy nervous as I had been that time at the Improv a few years back. I had finally ditched the props (thank God). I was ready. Louie came up and told me that I was on in twenty, so I hit the bar to have a drink and get my set together in my head. Only now, the stress was starting to get to me and my head started pounding. I threw back two Anacin tablets (or something equally dated, maybe Bufferin). Now here’s where it gets interesting.
This situation was so stupid, yet I remember every detail. I had only about an inch left in my Greyhound (vodka and grapefruit juice) when I tried to chase down my dry old-school
I went back home with my tail neatly placed between my legs and did stand-up in Arizona again, and then hit the road for another few years to get better. That Improv disaster scared me off L.A. a bit. Then a comedian I had met named Fred Wolf got me a show at the San Diego Improv, opening for a comedy team called the Funny Boys with Jonathan Schmock and Jim Vallely. Fred was a comedian who was cool to me when he saw me go on in Arizona. He was a traveling road comic and threw me a bone because he liked my act. (We stayed friends. Later he worked on SNL and we wrote Dickie Roberts and Joe Dirt together.) The Funny Boys were great. Super-cool and hilar. They told me I needed to come back to Los Angeles ASAP and audition at the Improv. I listened to them because they were a great comedy team that had been on TV shows and even worked as writers on some (also; trivia alert: Jonathan famously played the maître d’ in Ferris Bueller ). Jim even said I could crash on his couch for a while. My response? “Fuck yes.”
I drove out west in my crummy red ’72 Volvo a week later. I somehow ran into Louie Anderson soon after I arrived, and he told me he could get me an audition at the Comedy Store. Louie was an even bigger deal. He was a regular at the Comedy Store and had been on Carson as well as many other shows. So I was sitting pretty this go-round in the big city. I had three legit comedians vouching for me and all I needed was one of these places to say yes. Either one would have been a major step for me in terms of becoming a pro comedian. Since there was such a rivalry between these clubs, you didn’t get to play both unless you were a major pro. I wasn’t gunning for anything like that. One would have been just great, thanks.
So, this time I headed to the Comedy Store, a hallowed place famous for launching the career of Richard Pryor and so many others before me. The woman in charge there is named Mitzi Shore, and she is notoriously tough. Plus she’s Pauly Shore’s mom, but that’s beside the point. I thought I had a tight six minutes to showcase for Mitzi. I wasn’t as crazy nervous as I had been that time at the Improv a few years back. I had finally ditched the props (thank God). I was ready. Louie came up and told me that I was on in twenty, so I hit the bar to have a drink and get my set together in my head. Only now, the stress was starting to get to me and my head started pounding. I threw back two Anacin tablets (or something equally dated, maybe Bufferin). Now here’s where it gets interesting.
This situation was so stupid, yet I remember every detail. I had only about an inch left in my Greyhound (vodka and grapefruit juice) when I tried to chase down my dry old-school
Similar Books
