Poking a Dead Frog

by Mike Sacks

  Jon is literally the funniest person I’ve ever met or seen. He’s so quick and is able to make everything go down so effortlessly. But I know how much effort is going into it. That impresses me even more because I know how much he’s working to just make these calls sound like conversations.

  To make it all seem breezy and real and to be able to play the emotions and know when to start to get mad or sad—just to have the perfect gauge—is extremely difficult. He’s got so much range, and he’s got so much control over that range. He can very smoothly not draw attention to the fact that we’re trying to transition from one beat to another; you don’t even notice he’s doing it. Amazing.

  He has no comedic training, right? No acting background?

  No, no, he’s just a natural talent who has taught himself over the years. He has “it.” I can’t think of one thing Jon hasn’t been great at. He’s been at such a high level for so long, whether it’s comedy or music. To have two things that you’re great at is shocking. Inconceivable.

  Over the years, we’ve performed hundreds of bits. And a ton of characters. And I still receive plenty of calls from people who believe that the characters Jon performs week after week are actual people.

  How do these radio scripts take shape?

  We spend a lot of time writing these scripts. The scripts are usually 90 percent written, and 10 percent improvised. Jon and I talk by phone or e-mail and come up with some ideas. “Hey, I have an idea about a guy who does this.” Or “What about a guy who does that?” We’ll start laughing about a situation, and then we flesh out the idea. Most of these are very tightly scripted. It comes down to, “This is how this needs to be said at this point in the call for the joke to pay off or to set up the joke or to make sure that it all comes together.” We’ll also make notes for what not to say. Jon will tell me, “Don’t ask me this question because that will tip off a joke too soon.”

  I was going through some of the characters you’ve created for your fictional town of Newbridge, New Jersey, and I stopped counting at one hundred. The mythology for this town and its characters is so rich and dense. Newbridge has become almost the comedy equivalent of Middle Earth.

  [Laughs] Actually, there are more than two hundred characters. The world is very specific. I can’t even keep up with these characters. I have to ask a guy who keeps track of all of this. He’s almost like the show’s historian. We have characters who are distant relatives of characters we created years ago. We have sons, daughters, parents, grandparents, cousins, nieces, nephews. But I love that. That’s creating reality from out of nothing. And once you do that—once this world begins to take shape—the comedy becomes stronger for it.

  To me, the things I love the most are these comedy worlds, whether it’s Melonville [where SCTV took place] or the world that Steve Coogan created for [the BBC situation comedy] I’m Alan Partridge, or the Springfield that was created for The Simpsons—it’s all just so full and wonderful. Characters become more realistic, fully fleshed, instead of just being one-dimensional.

  A good example of one of your fully-fleshed characters is Barry Dworkin, who has appeared on the show multiple times over the years. In one bit that originally aired in 2002, Barry—as played by Jon—calls the show to seek musicians for a band he’s starting called The Gas Station Dogs. His requests are incredibly detailed. The keyboardist has to be an “albino who wears vintage late-sixties NASA-approved space suits,” and his nickname will have to be “Commander Giggles.”

  That’s a good example of a character who is totally delusional. And narcissistic. Barry is forty-four and his only musical experience is once playing in a Rolling Stones and Who tribute band called Tattoo Who. He’s four feet eleven inches tall. He has reddish-gray hair that’s balding, and a handlebar mustache. He has a purple birthmark on the top of his head the size of a softball. And his dream is to form a group consisting of only very young and extremely handsome musicians, and to record a song that he’s spent nineteen years writing called “Rock ’n’ Roll Dreams’ll Come Through.” The song is pure shit. There are about fifty characters in the lyrics, all with similar-sounding names [“Rodge,” “Roddy,” “Denny,” “Don,” “Betty,” “Kenny,” etc.]. And yet this guy’s ego is through the roof. He’s looking at everyone else under a microscope but has no quality control for himself. He’s just holding everyone else to some insane standard.

  It’s sad. It’s one of those situations when you know someone is doomed to fail, and everybody can see it but them. I’m obsessed with that.

  These characters that you create tend to be a bit clueless about their lot in life. A total lack of awareness.

  Jon has talked about this before, but a major influence for both of us was a scene from the [1988] documentary The Decline of Western Civilization Part II: The Metal Years. It was directed by Penelope Spheeris, who later directed Wayne’s World. In the middle of the movie Penelope asks a series of horrible LA heavy metal musicians where they’ll be in ten years. Every single one says, “I’m gonna make it!” Spheeris asks, “Well, how about if you don’t?” And they always answer, “Oh, but we will.” None made it. Total delusion.

  At the same time, I always admire anyone who even attempts to do something different. To accomplish anything is never easy. The easiest thing in the world is to not make stuff. The easiest thing in the world is to choose to not put your neck out there on the chopping block. That is the safest route you can take.

  Even if someone makes something terrible—like the music the Insane Clown Posse makes—at least they’re doing something that speaks to them. And they kept going even though people told them it was terrible. And they found their audience, and now they built a community around their work. Look, you couldn’t pay me to listen to their music, but I still feel like I have more in common with the Insane Clown Posse than I do with someone who just sits on the sidelines and shits on other people’s work and who never puts themselves on the line.

  But when meanness comes into the equation . . . when a terrible ego comes into play, then that’s something that’s always bothered me. Have you ever seen the [2003] documentary Overnight? It’s about a totally delusional, mediocre egomaniac—a writer and director in Hollywood—named Troy Duffy. I’m fascinated by guys like that. Guys like that are the patron saints of everything we do. Duffy is the type of idiot who thinks he’s a genius; there’s no doubt in his mind that he’s brilliant. And it takes no time for him to start rubbing this fact in everyone’s face. When you see someone act like that, it becomes clear that the real geniuses—the ones behind the scenes, the ones who quietly do all the work with little fuss—are not out there mouthing off and making people feel bad about themselves. They just do the work.

  On your radio show, you have complete freedom to write whatever you want. I imagine you didn’t have that complete freedom when you were working as a writer on Monk.

  Actually, my writing job on Monk was the best position for me to be in. I had one voice among 150 voices on Monk. We were all trying to build a TV show and to make that show as good as it could possibly be. I also had something that was completely my own at the same time—my radio show. But I think you have to learn how to play with adults. It’s a very valuable experience. You need to go through that experience of working with others. If you don’t, it’s going to be very hard to suddenly be in charge of your own show down the road.

  Look at David Chase, who created The Sopranos. He worked for years as a writer on Rockford Files. Look at Mitch Hurwitz, who created Arrested Development. He worked for years as a writer on The Golden Girls. You have to learn how to play nice with others.

  So, no, I didn’t have complete freedom on Monk, but I did learn a lot of valuable lessons.

  TV and movies are such collaborative mediums. You have to be ready to not have everything go your way—even if you’re in the top position. There were so many times on Monk that [writer and producer] Andy Breckman, who created the show
and was the showrunner, would face actors who didn’t love a certain piece of writing. The actors wanted to change scenes. Now, Andy could have just stomped and screamed and made the actors do it his way, but he didn’t. It’s a give-and-take. So being a part of that and learning that dynamic is a very important tool that you need in your toolbox.

  But when you do achieve the freedom to create what you want, it’s important to appreciate what you have. I never take The Best Show and the freedom that comes with it for granted.

  When you’re in a radio studio performing these comedic bits, you’re operating in a vacuum of sorts. It’s just you, alone with your producer, in a studio. How do you even know when any of the humor is working—or not working?

  That comes from just trusting yourself. Basically, I’m talking to myself. You just have to trust that the humor is bearing fruit. It does feel, at times, like I’m on this space walk. There’s nothing to grab on to. It feels that if the cable ever breaks, I’ll just be lost in space and I will die.

  But it’s helpful when it comes to writing. If I’m writing something by myself, I don’t worry that it’s not funny enough, because I have the confidence of working in silence. I don’t need everyone to be rolling on the floor because I know—or, at least, I hope—that the end result will be funny. That’s very valuable when it comes to writing. It’s the opposite of being a stand-up.

  I’d think that would be another advantage of long-form radio comedy. Silences are accepted. Not every moment has to be filled with laughs.

  That is an advantage. The worst part of stand-up, and the worst part of TV, is that sense of desperation. That neediness for a laugh. If people laugh, it works. If they don’t, it doesn’t work. Silence is death. I don’t think I have that same neediness because I’m not moving a hundred miles an hour. If I’m telling a story that I know is going to get funny, I have to just trust that people are going to hang with the straight part of the narrative.

  I’m at an advantage. Being onstage in front of an audience creates a different level of expectations. You want to see the audience smile. You can’t help that. So that type of comedy is going to have to be front-loaded.

  But yours is a solitary existence.

  Actually, I wish it would be more solitary. I don’t find myself writing as much, for the lengths that I would like to write. I wish I could just have all day to work on stuff without trying to hold down the business end of things.

  You know, in order to do the DIY punk thing, you have to actually work very, very hard. It’s DIY—Do It Yourself. But that takes effort. It takes a lot to do a show like this. I have complete freedom, but I don’t get paid a thing. So I have to find other work, and that can take up a lot of time.

  It’s a bit exhausting. I’m in a strange position. I do a thing that a lot of people love, and I appreciate how much they love it—it’s very, very validating. It’s the purest version of me that I’m doing. But it does not translate into money. It’s very challenging. It’s a hustle. For most people, if you do the thing you do the best you’ll find a way to get paid for it. Not me.

  But at least you’ve found the thing that you do best. And you have the opportunity to do the thing you do best. Most people haven’t—and never will.

  I could so easily be back working retail in New Jersey. That line is so thin. You look at all these people who never achieved what they wanted to achieve—they’re just broken down on the side of the road for one reason or another. They never found the right fit. Or they aged out. It’s so easy for something to have never clicked into place. And if that’s the case, the rest of it never would have been possible.

  Or you have people who are lauded now, but were entirely ignored while they were in their prime. I’ve gone my whole life idolizing the forgotten people, like Alex Chilton [the lead singer of 1970s rock group Big Star]. Or John Kennedy Toole [the author of the novel A Confederacy of Dunces]. Yes, it was a tough life, but at least they got to make the product they wanted! There’s nothing more valuable.

  There is a great freedom to be allowed to do what you want to do in the way you want to do it. But in order to do that, you need to create a two-track system: on one track, complete freedom but no money. On the other track, money but little freedom. That’s just the way it is.7

  You just said that you could still be easily working in the retail world. Do you really believe that?

  Absolutely. I could have easily bought the music store where I worked for years from the owner. When I was leaving, he said to me, “I’m going to sell the place. It’s time for me to check out also.” I could have said, “You know, if you’re going to sell the place I’m going to buy it from you, and this could be my job.” I could now be running that store, and that would have been fine.

  Do you ever wonder what that other life would have been like?

  Sometimes. But the urge to do other things was just too strong. I think that in some people they’re able to tamp down that need—to just be like, “No, I’m going to make the safe play here and go for the steady paycheck.” It’s kind of like a game show: “Do you want the two hundred dollars or do you want what’s behind door number two?” And I went with what was behind door number two.

  And you never really know what’s back there.

  It’s a scary thing. But I couldn’t have done it any other way. This is my life. This is the life I was supposed to have, for better or worse. I would be so miserable if I had done anything else, because I would have been so untrue to who I really was.

  If you truly want to do it, then you’re going to have to make the necessary choices in order to do it. You’re going to notice a little crack in the wall, with a little light shining through, and you’ll head that way. The crack will be the only thing to justify you going for it. And the thing is, other people would look at the situation and be like, “What are you talking about? That’s not a sign that you should go for it!” No, but to you it is a sign, because you’re looking for a sign. You’re looking for anything to give you that push.

  And then it’s up to you. The responsibility is yours. I give everything I have to make this show work. You can’t do it if you’re not going to do it the right way and if you’re not going to be true to it. Because you know what bad comedy is. You know what garbage entertainment is. And the worst thing for me would be to be responsible for more garbage entertainment. It becomes like a mission to do something good in the face of garbage.

  Speaking of garbage, when I entered the WFMU studios this morning in Jersey City, New Jersey, to interview you, I noticed an “Employee Tasks” board in the elevator. And I noticed that your task read: “Garbage.”

  We all have to volunteer here at the station. And garbage is actually not the worst task. I go to the garbage can in the studio, I pull the bag out, I tie it, I throw it off the fire escape into the parking lot and I put a new garbage bag in the can. Then, later, when I go to my car, I’ll throw the garbage into the Dumpster. So in the scheme of tasks, it’s not too bad. Everybody at the station has a job to do.

  You write and produce your own radio show that entertains more than half a million people every week, including a good percentage of top comedy writers, and yet you still have to hit the Dumpster after each show to take out the station’s garbage?

  [Laughs] I’ll do anything for creative freedom.

  Radio is such an ephemeral medium. Do you ever wonder how you’ll be remembered?

  You have to appreciate the journey. You can’t control where you’re going to end up. You better appreciate the experience; otherwise you’ll never be happy. As soon as I’m dead I don’t care if no one mentions my name once. I can’t get anything from it. It doesn’t matter to me. If I drop dead and am completely forgotten, it bears the same impact on me as if I’ll be remembered for a hundred years. Regardless, I’m done.

  But isn’t that the purpose of a creative person’s life? For their work to outlive their own mortality so that future ge
nerations can enjoy what they struggled so hard to produce?

  But that’s the kind of thing that people have no control over. You just can’t worry about it. It’s funny when you hear names of people who were once so enormous in the culture and they now mean almost nothing. Johnny Carson is currently heading toward that point, and he used to be huge. I guess for me it comes down to wondering why it matters to have your work be valued by anyone after you’re not here. It’s not even that important to me to have it valued by anyone now, on some level. If I’m happy with what I’m doing, that’s really all that I can control and it’s all that matters. It’s great when people say nice things about what you do, but that doesn’t help you do the work any better, right? And the concept of “future generations” seems like fool’s gold. There are authors who sold millions of books during their era but they didn’t stand the test of time, and people who didn’t sell ten books who are now revered. I can only focus on what I have a say in, and that’s what I’m working on today. Everything else is out of my hands, and it really doesn’t matter.

  If you’re trying to make things that will last forever, I can almost guarantee you that you won’t. The best things are the things that were made because they were powerful in the moment, and they were immediate, and they resonated with people. But if you’re swinging for only immortality, it’s just not going to happen.

  All you can really hope for is to connect with people and to hopefully put food on the table—and to then get a chance to do it again the next day.

  ULTRASPECIFIC COMEDIC KNOWLEDGE

  BOB ELLIOTT

  Writer, Cohost, Bob & Ray

  Writing for Radio

  For more than forty years, you were half of one of the most famous and influential radio comedy teams in history, Bob & Ray. Who were your own comedic influences growing up in the 1920s and 1930s?