by Nell Scovell
In this sense, my Shandling experience was the perfect way to lose my TV virginity. The highs and lows set realistic expectations and the “inevitable disappointment” was offset by so many rewards. I made money. I got to play Ping-Pong with one of my comedy idols. And to prove Al and Mike correct that “you never know where a job might lead,” I ended up working with them again on several projects including The Simpsons and their own outstanding, animated show, The Critic.
Writing that first spec proved the SPY editor had been right: I could write for TV. More importantly, I’d enjoyed the scriptwriting process. It’s always better to like doing something than to be instantly good at it. If you’re successful but hate the process, you’ll stop doing it. If you suck, but the work intrigues you, you’ll keep at it and get better.
Five months after my Shandling adventure, I got hired on a new FOX late-night show. It was the fall of 1986 and I moved to LA and rented an apartment with my sister Claire in the Fairfax section of West Hollywood.
The Wilton North Report (named after cross streets) combined comedy with journalism and opened each night with a Weekend Update–style look at the news. A crew of correspondents taped reports and conducted in-studio interviews. This format had a lot of overlap with The Daily Show, which premiered ten years later and had the advantage of digital technology, only a half hour to fill, and a charismatic host.
After passing on Ellen DeGeneres, the Executive Producer settled on two bland male hosts who came from morning radio. In the week leading up to the Wilton North premiere, we held mock run-throughs. I wrote a SPY-ish piece where I made snarky comments about magazine ads. For example, I held up model/actress Kelly LeBrock’s famous “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful” ad and said, “No, Kelly, we don’t hate you because you’re beautiful. We hate you because you can’t act.” The crew laughed and later that day, the Executive Producer called me into his office and asked if I’d do the same bit on the premiere in two days. I was stunned. The last time I’d performed was as Amaryllis in a high school production of The Music Man. (Were you there? I killed.) If I agreed, I’d have to perform live on national TV on a night that would be reviewed by every newspaper in the country. It was an insane request and I gave an insane answer.
“Yes.”
I would never have volunteered for the mission, but when called, I served. There was a lot of chaos and little rehearsal time. As a lifelong nail-biter, I was hugely concerned about holding up the ads and the camera picking up on my nervous habit. I shouldn’t have worried. My hands were shaking so much that you barely noticed the chewed-up nails.
Live from LA: A deer in headlights.
Courtesy of the Wilton North Report
Close-up of my chewed nails.
Courtesy of the Wilton North Report
I got through the piece quickly—maybe a little too quickly. Most of the reviews ignored my short segment and focused on the hosts. The San Francisco Chronicle was an exception. They included this as one of the show’s “highlights.”
© 1987 San Francisco Chronicle
Not to nitpick but you really don’t need the word “undisguisable” in that sentence.
I did one more on-camera segment for Wilton North where I interviewed a Pee-wee Herman doll. My hands shook less, but I still wasn’t bitten by the camera bug. I saw the way Conan O’Brien, who was also writing on the show, relished his time on-camera and how much he added to the material. For me, it made more sense to write for Conan—like a New Year’s Eve 1988 bit where I had Conan pucker up close to the camera so that anyone home alone could get a smooch.
In early January, there were rumblings that Wilton North would be cancelled. Conan, Greg Daniels, and I spent hours in our offices trying to divine whether we’d have jobs in a month. At one point, Conan grabbed a marker and said, “Here’s how the executives will decide our futures.”
Drawing by Conan O’Brien, 1988
Artwork by Conan O’Brien. Reprinted with permission
We lost that coin toss. The Wilton North Report was gone two weeks later.
Both my first and second TV jobs ended in utter failure. But as every sportswriter knows, third time’s the charm.
Chapter 4
The Big Twist
A man steps into an elevator and sees a beautiful woman inside. As the doors close, he turns to her and says, “Excuse me, can I smell your pussy?”
She recoils in disgust. “You most certainly cannot!”
“Oh,” he says, “then it must be your feet.”
—Joke told to me by Eddie Gorodetsky
I LOVE THIS JOKE. IT STARTS WITH A SENSE OF MENACE then pivots to stinky feet—even babies laugh at stinky feet. When I’m directing, this is one of my go-to jokes to tell the crew to break the ice. It’s short, a little shocking, and ultimately harmless. It lets crew members, who are still mostly male, know they can swear around me. Also, for the rest of the shoot, prop guys and gaffers are pulling me aside to tell me their favorite dirty joke.
Comedy surprises you. Often the surprise comes from a shift of perception and reveals a surprising motivation. It’s the twist you never saw coming, but once it arrives, it makes total sense. Like most great jokes, this chapter has a big twist at the end. You’ll never guess what happens. Even with me telling you that you’ll never guess, you’ll still never guess. But when we get there, it will make total sense.
Fresh off Wilton North’s cancellation, I returned to the east coast in early 1988, eager to find another TV job. My top choice was Late Night with David Letterman and I asked my agent about the hiring process. He said I would need to write a submission that included ideas for desk pieces (pieces Dave would do at the desk) and remotes (pieces shot outside the studio). In a couple of weeks, I pulled together enough material for what is today referred to as a “packet.” The trick was to match Late Night’s mischievous tone. I included one gag where Dave gets a song stuck in his head and throughout the hour the song intrudes on the show at random times through the set’s speakers, distracting Dave, the audience, and the guests.
Gavin passed the packet along to the show’s head writer. A few weeks later, he called with a “happy agent” hello. My Letterman material had gotten me a meeting . . . just not with Letterman. The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, a relaunch of the once-popular prime-time sixties variety series, was looking for writers. Gavin had given my material to producer (and former Dick Van Dyke Show writer) Ernie Chambers. Ernie was in New York City for one day and wanted to meet me. Could I have breakfast with him the next morning? Yes! And did I know the Smothers Brothers? Are you kidding?
Actually, I barely knew them at all. The Smothers Brothers’ original show aired from 1967 to 1969 and I wasn’t that into political humor at age seven. I knew the brothers were named Tom and Dick, and that one played the bass and the other the guitar, but I couldn’t have told you which played which. Today, Google would have gotten me up to speed, but Sergey Brin and Larry Page were still in high school. I ran to the only place where you could watch old television episodes: a museum.
Sitting in a cubicle at the midtown Museum of Broadcasting and Radio, I watched three episodes of The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, laughing loudly enough to disturb others. Dick played the bass and the straight man. Tom played the guitar and the fool. The template for these sketches was ingenious: the brothers would start singing a song until Tom interrupted. Dick would react annoyed as Tom launched into a bit about something topical. That bit would build to a punchline and then the brothers would return to the song. So often comedy sketches don’t know how to end so going back to a catchy song created a natural and satisfying finish.
Tom and Dick started their careers as clean cut, All-American folksingers and their variety series was promoted as a hip alternative to The Ed Sullivan Show. The show’s tone changed as the country grew divided in the late sixties. Tom started to give airtime to “radical” voices who opposed the Vietnam War and promoted civil rights.
Despite network wa
rnings, the Smothers Brothers remained political, openly promoting peace. In the second season, the brothers committed an even worse sin: they grew facial hair. By the third season, sponsors complained and in April 1969, CBS abruptly pulled the plug. Months later, the writing staff—which included Steve Martin, Lorenzo “Carlton the doorman” Music, Mason “Classical Gas” Williams, and Carl “Jaws” Gottlieb—won an Emmy for Outstanding Writing Achievement in Comedy, Variety or Music.
Slowly, the country evolved toward Tom’s way of thinking. Watergate took down Nixon and everyone now agrees that the Vietnam War was a colossal clusterfuck. Two decades after the original series was cancelled, CBS invited the Smothers Brothers back for an hourlong special. The old writing staff returned and ratings soared. Variety shows had been declared dead, but CBS sensed a faint pulse. The network ordered five additional episodes. The only problem was that the program couldn’t secure the all-star writing staff beyond the reunion. That’s where I came in.
I headed to my breakfast meeting with Ernie and immediately a slight misunderstanding arose. Based on my material, Ernie thought I was currently on staff at Letterman. I had to explain that he had read my submission, but I had never worked there. It was awkward, but it secretly pleased me that someone thought my pitches sounded like they could have aired on Letterman. Ernie kept an open mind and hired me. Two weeks later, I was flying to LA for a few months of work. I had no plan on where to sleep or how to get around. I was twenty-seven and didn’t care about logistics. Besides, a rental car could solve both problems.
My first night in LA, I joined my new boss for dinner. Tom Smothers plays an idiot on TV, but in real life he’s brilliant, thoughtful, and unpretentious. We talked about comedy partnerships and his admiration for Laurel and Hardy. At the end of the dinner, Tom asked where I was staying.
“At a hotel for the moment,” I said. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”
“If you want, you could stay with me,” he said. “CBS rented me a huge place. There’s a maid’s room you could sleep in.”
Tom described the West Hollywood apartment: a stately brick building just down the road from the Chateau Marmont, huge living room, big fireplace. Movie stars Clark Gable and Myrna Loy once resided there. Bette Davis and Christopher Guest still did.
“And we could drive to work together,” Tom added.
I was taken aback. How do you respond to an offer like that?
Apparently, you say, “Yes.”
It was probably inappropriate for me to move in with my boss. Still, it made some sense. I was the help so why not live in the maid’s room? I didn’t worry about Tom crossing any lines. He was famous. He had hung out with the coolest people on the planet and smoked pot with Harry Nilsson and John Lennon. He had hot-tubbed with Tuesday Weld. He was twenty years older than me.
Okay, I was new to Hollywood.
My first night in the maid’s room, I was in bed wearing just a t-shirt and reading a book when I heard a knock on my door.
“Nell, you still up?”
My heart started beating faster. Maybe I’d been wrong and the situation was about to get uncomfortable. I pulled on pants and opened the door. Tom was holding a book.
“I wanted you to have this,” he said.
He handed me a copy of Shadow Dancing in the USA, a book of essays by journalist Michael Ventura. Tom said good night and walked away. A twist! I slipped back into bed and flipped open the cover. Tom had inscribed the first page with a simple message: “I hope you enjoy the book.”
Tom turned out to be a superb roommate. Each morning, we’d drive to the office in his white Mercedes and talk about books and politics. The commute became my favorite part of the day—the only time that’s ever been true for me in LA. Maybe the only time that’s ever been true for anyone in LA.
The first day of work, I met the rest of the writing staff who all had twenty years on me. Head writer Mason Williams was soft-spoken and cerebral, apt to quote George Bernard Shaw. He was openly disdainful of Hollywood and yet he had three Grammys and an Emmy. Mason didn’t like showbiz, but showbiz sure liked Mason. The room also included Jim Stafford, a novelty singer who’d scored a hit in the mid-seventies with a song cowritten with David Bellamy. “Spiders & Snakes” made it to number three on the charts when I was fourteen. The premise was a boy and girl go for a walk and he keeps harassing her by shaking frogs in her face and looking for critters to drop down her shirt. She, however, is interested in a more mature relationship and informs him, “I don’t like spiders and snakes.”
Stafford parlayed his folksy appeal and boyish good looks into a summer variety replacement series in 1976. It didn’t last long. Nor did his 1978 marriage to country music legend Bobbie Gentry, who wrote and sang the mega-hit “Ode to Billie Joe.” Gentry’s song relates the Gothic tale of a Mississippi teenage couple spotted throwing something mysterious off a bridge. The lyrics never make clear what the couple tossed or why Billie Joe McAllister went back later and jumped into the murky waters himself. The reason for his suicide was a pop culture riddle and when someone asked Stafford about living with his famous ex-wife, he archly replied, “Let’s just say, I know why Billie Joe McAllister jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge.”
It was a great joke. Unfortunately, Stafford’s dim view of women extended beyond ex-wives. He preferred hanging with the guys, smoking cigarettes, and playing guitar. As far as he was concerned, I didn’t belong. To a certain extent, he was right. If you were singing “one of these things is not like the others,” I was the obvious answer. I was also the only one who was young enough to have grown up on Sesame Street and get that reference.
From left to right: Jim Stafford, me, John Hadley, Mason Williams, Bob Arnott. Just because the guys were older, didn’t mean they were mature. Note Bob Arnott still at the making “bunny ears” stage.
Courtesy Comedic Productions
At SPY and Wilton North, our humor was snarky and nothing was sacred. One day at Smothers, we were headed to the stage when someone brought up the late Mamas and Papas lead singer Mama Cass Elliot. The rumor at the time—now debunked—was that Mama Cass had choked to death on a ham sandwich. I was walking behind Tom and made some wisecrack like, “She should’ve had the soup.” Tom wheeled around with a stern look.
“Cass was amazing,” he scolded me. “And I loved her.”
Tom’s reprimand has stayed with me ever since. I felt so mean and small. He was right to scold and remind me that an important rule of comedy is: know your audience. I should have known they were friends. Truly one of the sweetest clips on the Internet is Mama Cass singing “Dream a Little Dream of Me” to a sleepy Tom in 1968. I apologized at the time, but the moment still eats at me, much like—(Nell, don’t!).
Each week, the five writers had to generate a cold open, two musical bits for the brothers, and intros for their guests. I got assigned a lot of intros, which often meant meeting the artists. Once, Tom sent me to interview singer-songwriter John Hartford who wrote “Gentle on My Mind,” the only song I ever learned to play on the guitar. John turned down a dressing room, preferring to relax in his tour bus that was parked in the studio lot. When I boarded, half a dozen card-playing band members whipped their heads in my direction.
“Hi,” I said. “Tom wanted me to talk to John.”
Without a word, the band members threw down their cards and hustled off the bus. It struck me as odd until someone later explained that one of the “rules of the road” is when a lady gets on the bus looking for the boss, the crew disappears. Fast.
Intros tended to be more clever than funny and I was desperate to come up with a solid bit for Tom and Dick. I sat in my tiny office and churned out sketches. In one, I had Tom tell Dick that he had an idea for a movie. Dick asks what kind.
TOM: It’s a love triangle.
DICK: A love triangle sounds good. Who’d be in it?
TOM: You and me.
DICK: You and me and . . . ?
TOM: . . . a triangle.
/> In a sketch designed to lead in to “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You,” I had Tom confess to Dick that he’s dating a much younger woman.
DICK: (to audience) Now I know what you’re thinking and I disagree. I think it’s fine that my brother’s going out with someone his junior.
TOM: She’s a senior. (beat) Marshall High School.
Tom kind of liked that last one and personally edited it, penciling notes in his neat cursive. Tom’s comments included a lot of “Not right yet” and “This gives the wrong impression.” It was hard to capture the brothers’ complicated onstage relationship and make Tom just the right shade of stupid. It was also important that the bits be socially relevant. Sketch after sketch of mine fell short.
For the second episode, the brothers were looking for a bit to pair with the song, “Give Me That Old Time Religion.” I started working on an idea about Cain and Abel.
“They were brothers just like us,” Dick would say, “only they got along better.”
I filled out the sketch. Tom liked the broad strokes as well as the final punchline. He and Mason did a pass and “Cain and Abel” went into the script. Even more amazing, it stayed in.
Standing in the wings during the taping, I felt like Steve Martin in The Jerk when he sees his name in the phonebook. Tom and Dick launched into the song, then Tom interrupted to talk about his favorite Bible stories like “Joseph and his coat of many collars.” The jokes were landing. The audience was laughing. As the bit neared the end, Tom went off-script. He often ad-libbed to make his performance edgier, which was fine so long as he landed on, “And that’s why Abel was killed.” He needed to use that exact wording to properly set up Dick’s final zinger. But Tom wasn’t going near the line. Dick tried to prompt him. Tom kept spinning. The energy in the room dipped and my grin dropped. Tom had forgotten what he needed to say. I started to panic. Then, suddenly, he pivoted.
