The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption, and Pee
Page 14
"Oh my god! Yes!"
"Wash your face!" I gagged, running to the ladies' room to wash my own, slippery, strange-lady's-vagina-on-my-face face. Mortified, Dave followed suit.
To recap: I urinated on Dave's legs, and he got vagina juice on my face. Taken separately, these acts might seem highly regrettable, but I like to think this exchange of fluids functioned as a kind of "friendship sealant." A really fucking gross friendship sealant.
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Garry Shandling Is More Like the Buddha Than One Might Have Guessed (Though I Say This Never Having Met the Buddha Personally...)
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Dave was part of a regular Sunday-afternoon basketball game at Garry Shandling's house, and on one afternoon in 1995 he brought me along. I was such a huge fan of Garry's and was completely in awe; it's difficult to meet your idols. Not, I suppose, as difficult as living in a refugee camp in the Sudan, on the brink of starvation and murder, but I did find myself pretty tongue-tied. Still, I was able to show some prowess on the court, and I piqued Garry's interest enough that he came to see me do stand-up. About a year or so later, he and writer Alan Zweibel created a role for me on an episode of The Larry Sanders Show as one of the writers on the show-within-the-show. It was probably my biggest career thrill since getting hired to be an actual writer at Saturday Night Live. There was just one thing standing between me and a whole new level of career prestige: my agent.
I got a call from Justin, the writers' assistant at Sanders, whom I knew from basketball at Garry's house. He said, "You should know this. I was asked to call your agent at CAA to get tape on you, so that the other writers here could get familiar with you and write the part in your voice. But when I made the request for your tape, your agent said, "Well, what's the part, because I've got lots of girls?"
"What?"
I was baffled.
"Your agent tried to pitch other actresses for a role that is being written for you."
By this point I was no stranger to show-biz disenchantment, but still, I mean, really? I confronted my agent about it, and he took me to lunch to smooth it over. He showed up with a bunch of movie scripts for me to read. That was the "good guy" part of his strategy. He also had a "bad guy" component, which consisted of belittling me with comments like, "Well, you're not hot," and, "You're a hard sell--why would anyone want to cast you when they could get X or Y?"
When we left the restaurant, in what could have only been genius foresight on his part to make this story fucking perfect, he realized he had no cash and asked me for money for the valet. I gave him enough for the fee and a tip--but he gave me the extra money back saying, "Don't tip, it's figured into the fee." Some people just never disappoint. I waited for him to leave and gave the valet his tip along with mine. After this most disheartening afternoon, I called my manager and told him I wanted to fire CAA, but the diabolical bastards went ahead and dropped me first. They really must be good at what they do, though, because ten years later, they signed me again, and I'm still with them.
Despite all the above, I did end up doing the part on Sanders, appearing in three episodes. Getting to work on one of my all-time-favorite comedies was not only a life highlight but also a tremendous learning experience. The show was brilliantly written, of course, but now I could see that it was just as brilliantly run. Garry would encourage the actors to go off the page at any impulse. This was something I hadn't encountered before. And I saw that a writer not married to his own words is a winning combination. Garry would say, "Just say what the line means, and don't worry about the words. If you can convey it by just saying 'pineapple' so be it." It was fun and it was loose.
When people tried to capture the magic of Sanders in subsequent imitations, they stole the wrong thing. They made all these copycat shows that took place behind the scenes of some kind of television program. But the brilliance of Sanders wasn't its setting, but its process. They would have had to steal Garry himself.
I gleaned so much from Garry I don't know how I can ever repay him. From his stand-up I learned to embrace the quiet moments, rather than to fear them. And he taught me that while some things come too early, nothing comes too late. I thank God that I didn't get the role in Suddenly Susan that I auditioned for, and that I got fired from the pilot of an NBC sitcom called Pride and Joy, in which I was to play a wife, career woman, and mother with two wacky neighbors. I'm grateful that I had my time on SNL, and I'm grateful that it was short--it didn't wind up defining me. Garry helped me realize that fifteen years was not too long to be in this business before getting a chance at a show of my own. And he gave me an invaluable warning: Nobody in show business will ever tell you that you're taking on too much. No agent, executive, or producer will ever say, "Sarah, you're working too many weeks in a row for your own good," or "You're doing too many episodes and their quality might be sacrificed." Garry emphasized that it would be up to me to set limits, to know what I can and cannot do, and that "quality of life" does not mean "the most money you can possibly make."
So, thank you, Garry Emmanuel Shandling, for being my teacher and my friend. I write this because, realistically, it is very likely I may not get the chance to say it on stage at an awards show. Although that dream might not come true, I'm still holding out hope that I will someday get my face on money. (Please, no pesos.)
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To Not Be Suze
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When a female comic is cast in a film role, her character tends to be one of the following: the bitchy ex-wife; the lead character's cunty girlfriend before he finds out what love can really be; or the quirky best friend, a character who exists purely to convey to the audience information about the main protagonist ("but you're a lawyer and he loves you!"). She may also play the female lead in a comedy serving her male counterpart thusly: "You're acting like a child! When are you gonna get your shit together and get a job?"
I'm not unproud to say that I've played all of these. And, not to brag, but as I write these very words, a stack of scripts sits just inches away from me, all with roles like the above. And they are all named "Suze." If not literally, then most definitely in essence. In homes all around my neighborhood, there are more such screenplays being generated, all equipped with two-dimensional Suzes whose sole purpose is to facilitate more complex three-dimensional roles.
But I'm lucky, I can always sustain myself with stand-up, which I love. Because of stand-up one renegade producer with genius instincts and balls of steel took a chance and gave me a leading role in a film that would define a generation and redeem the world. The film was called Sarah Silverman: Jesus Is Magic, and that producer was me. I didn't even have to blow me to get the job, but I did anyway.
An early set list for Jesus Is Magic
Jesus Is Magic combined concert footage of my stand-up with music videos of my songs and scripted scenes. Soon after its run, Comedy Central approached me about doing a show. They offered me total creative freedom. Anything I wanted. Plus, there was the prestige of being on a network that has comedy right in its name! Fancy! The amazingly talented writing team of Rob Schrab and Dan Harmon came aboard to collaborate with me on creating a pilot (more about them later). After fourteen years in the business I finally had the chance to write my dream part and show the world what I was really capable of. And when we were done writing, shooting, and editing the pilot, my boyfriend and I sat down to watch it.
He pointed out that in the first five minutes, my character ignored dying children on her television screen, lied to get out of helping a friend move, and threw a tantrum when a walkathon for the handicapped blocked off access to a convenience store. In short, he said, I seemed to be playing a cunt.
"How about that," I thought aloud.
But it wasn't the same thing at all. My character on The Sarah Silverman Program is three dimensional, with layers and back story, and big love in her heart. I would argue that she's less a cunt than a clueless, arrogant ignoramus in search of an identity. She doesn't exist merely as a vessel to deliver
exposition. And her name is not "Suze."
* * *
Mein Kampf: Preface
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Anyone who works at Comedy Central and reads this will probably appreciate when I say that I am fully aware that I can be a gigantic pain in the ass. I don't say this proudly, only as fact, and I imagine that if I hadn't been a pain in their ass, my show might have been a very different one. I'm only guessing that what follows will be interesting to you, dear reader, because it's way interesting to me. So with no further adoooo, here are some of our more notable, funny, and/or retarded behind-the-scenes struggles.
Rob, me, Steve, and Brian taking a break outside Stage 5
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Mein Kampf, Part One: Steve
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I knew right away that I wanted my buddy Steve Agee in the show. I met him in the late nineties when he was a guitarist in a play that another friend, Dave Juskow, had written and performed at a small theater in Hollywood. Steve and I talked after the show and immediately connected over our mutual struggles with depression. We became fast friends, and before long we were spending every night at my apartment, smoking weed, playing Nintendo 64 (GoldenEye and 007 in particular) and You Don't Know Jack (TV and movie versions), and making each other laugh to the point of tears.
Steve's real passion lies in making elaborate home videos, starring himself. My personal favorites are an ongoing holiday series. On Thanksgiving, Christmas, Halloween, etc., he films himself lying naked in bed, vigorously masturbating with a black rectangle censoring his penis--while moaning in ecstasy about various things associated with each particular holiday: "Ooohhh cranberry sauce. Oh yeah, stuffing. Ohhhh family arguments, oh god fucking yams..." For me, this was more than enough evidence that Steve was ready to star in a television series.
Steve Agee pretends to smoke.
When it came time to cast TSSP, Rob, Dan, and I told Comedy Central we wanted Steve. We had, after all, already written the part of "Steve" for Steve. But since they hadn't heard of him, much less seen him act, and he had literally no resume, they were concerned about giving him a lead role in a series. So we had Steve send them his home movies. Incomprehensibly, holiday-themed masturbating still did not convince the network that Steve could handle this or any job. We had to fight them, but we were ready to die on that hill--and they knew it. Incidentally, Steve, if you're reading this, you're welcome. Hope you've enjoyed all the pussy.
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Mein Kampf, Part Two: Rob Schrab Rapes Fruit
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Rob Schrab is the hilarious, creepy, gorgeous, tortured, sweet, gentle, slender man who co-created TSSP along with his partner, Dan Harmon, and me. Rob is an executive producer, one of the lead writers, and the main director, as well as a recurring cast member playing multiple roles. His previous project with Harmon had been a pilot for Fox called "Heat Vision and Jack," starring Jack Black and directed by Ben Stiller. It's legendary for being one of the funniest pilots that never got picked up, courtesy of Fox. Rob and Dan then created Channel 101, one of the very first Web sites devoted to short comedy videos and the launching pad for the careers of countless comedic actors, writers, directors, and animators. Dan Harmon is an amazingly talented writer with a unique gift for phrase making, which he demonstrates in lines such as, "I've seen things that would make you crap a book on how to puke," and "I don't know who put a nickel in you, but it's time to make change." After the pilot, however, in an attempt for him and me to not kill each other, Dan left the show and eventually created NBC's hit Community.
Rob Schrab shooting a fake commercial for TSSP as "Baby Man Sr."
We all assumed that Rob would direct the pilot. He'd directed a music video for Deathcab for Cutie, plus countless short films--animated and live action--and had a very distinct visual style. What he hadn't done was direct an episode of narrative television, and this was a serious obstacle at Comedy Central. I told them how much I wanted Rob, but they just wouldn't approve it; he wasn't experienced enough, they insisted, which translates roughly to, "We don't have the ability to know if his work is good unless a million other people have already said so." I wanted them to see in Rob what I did, so I sent them the video that made me fall in love with him in the first place. Steve had shown it to me on one of our stony Nintendo nights. It was called Jaws 4: The Revenge, featuring Michael Caine--or, rather, featuring an orange with the magic marker face of Michael Caine. The character is voiced by Rob, and though he identifies himself as Michael Caine, he sounds instead like a horrible impression of Bill Cosby. The other central character is Jaws, the shark himself, as played by Rob's penis, decorated with tiny eyes pasted onto the head and a dorsal fin affixed to the shaft. Spoiler alert: Michael Caine ends up getting orally raped by the shark. Reminder: Michael Caine = orange; Jaws = Rob's flaccid penis. I can't tell you how many times I've watched this video without tiring of it. Though I have to say, part of the joy is imagining Rob alone in his apartment, starting and stopping his video camera, while his soggy, sticky orange juice-soaked penis dangles in wait for the next shot.
Stunningly, the video did not end the debate between the network and me. But by now I was starting to learn that not giving in--being a pain in the ass, in other words--is actually a very effective strategy for getting your way. Why didn't I realize this when I was eight??
In later seasons, Rob wanted to hire various friends to come aboard as guest directors, and Comedy Central was, again, very reluctant to go with anyone "unproven." Even though they loved how their gamble on Rob turned out. Their lack of trust infuriated Rob, and after one conference call with the network about the issue, he slammed down the phone and shouted, "Why won't they hire this guy?! What had I ever done before this show?? I stuck my dick in an orange!!"
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Mein Kampf, Part Three: Gigantic, Orange, and Gay
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When we finished casting the pilot, we were struck by the fact that Steve Agee and Brian Posehn ("Brian," another main character) are comically similar-looking. They are both extremely tall, large, red-haired, bearded, slovenly, lethargic, nerdy, and bespectacled. To have these two in an ensemble begged for them either to play brothers or lovers. In the main title voice over of the original pilot, we included a joke about not knowing which they were. But as we began to write more scripts, it was clear that the funnier and richer choice was for them to be a couple.
Brian and Steve: America's Sweethearts
Comedy Central was nervous about the idea. Not because of a particular institutional morality--their parent company is MTV Networks, which is pretty gay-friendly--but they had their demographic to consider. The channel's target is basically fourteen-year-old boys and stoners. In theory, at least, it was already a risk to center a show on a female; to then throw gay characters into the mix seemed like too much. The network never said we couldn't do it, but they asked me to reconsider again and again. This was maybe the most offended I've ever been by them. They operate out of fear and second-guessing, I get that, but Jesus, if this network is more worried about the chance that a few date-rapey frat boys might change the channel, then this is not the place for me. Their concern, to me, was so obviously outweighed by the fact that it would not only be hilarious to cast these two gigantic, gentle, stoner slobs as lovers, but it would also be supercool to have gay characters playing against the classic hard-bodied, queeny stereotypes that comprise 99.999 percent of fictionalized homosexual males on TV. The network also seemed either to miss or to diminish the importance of the fact that while Brian's and Steve's characters on the show might be gay, in every other way they act precisely like fourteen-year-old boys and stoners. They play video games, eat garbage food, get high, worship heavy metal, and argue over idiotic things. These traits make the gay characters a mirror image of the Comedy Central audience. That, and the fact that they get literally zero pussy.
The network finally backed off because I continued to be stubborn about it, as did Rob Schrab; as did Dan Sterling, the executive produce
r and head writer. So Comedy Central sucked it up, and with some understandable indigestion over what seemed to them like yet another big gamble, condoned Brian's and Steve's homosexuality.
Brian and Steve became breakout characters pretty much instantly, and the network couldn't get enough of them. Thank God the show did have two gay main characters, because several years down the road, a gay cable network would save The Sarah Silverman Program show from ruin. But more on that later.
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Mein Kampf, Part Four: Penis, Vagina, God
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The Sarah Silverman Program occupies a somewhat tricky piece of territory on Comedy Central. It airs in prime time but, unlike South Park, is not rated TV MA (the most restrictive content rating on TV). We're rated TV 14 as a result of some sort of network calculus I don't understand. But a lot of what makes the writers and me laugh is right on the border of being too sexually, scatalogically, racially, or religiously offensive for the MTV Networks' Standards and Practices Department. Of course, this is a universal complaint among all TV comedy writers--everyone wants to do "edgier" material. But the struggle is more intense with us, because doody, farts, penises, and vaginas are some of the show's main reasons for existing. Up to this point, anyway, for better or worse, that is just part of the promise when a show has my name in the title.