Praise for Carol Leifer and
How to Succeed in Business without Really Crying
“The only thing more impressive than Carol’s success is how she has retained and polished all the lessons she’s learned along the way. And the fact that she has decided to throw them your way for just a few bucks is such a ridiculously good opportunity for you, I can hardly believe it!”
—JERRY SEINFELD
“Carol is relentless, and an entrepreneur to the core. Read this book and learn! I have no doubt she will corner you if you don’t!”
—MARK CUBAN
“I’ve been in the comedy business for 30 years and thought I’d seen and heard it all … until I read Carol’s book! It’s witty, classy, and filled with real-life advice gleaned from her years of getting laughs and enjoying success.”
—CAROLINE HIRSCH
FOUNDER OF THE LEGENDARY NEW YORK COMEDY CLUB CAROLINES
“I was sad when I finished this book. I don’t know if it’s because I didn’t want it to end, or because I’m just sad in general.”
—LARRY DAVID
“Funny and sage. A great read. I even loved the parts that weren’t about me.”
—PAUL REISER
“Carol’s gift is that she sees ordinary, everyday things in a very funny way. She’s made other comics say, Why didn’t I think of that?”
—JAY LENO
“To survive in life, you need a major trust fund and/or a sugar daddy. Carol has neither, but she’s still managed to come out way ahead. Here’s how she did it, and how you can, too.”
—JOAN RIVERS
“Carol Leifer is a wonderful woman of first-rate character. This alone should be reason enough to buy her book. Please do the right thing. I would.”
—DAVE LETTERMAN
“A remarkable memoir that’s packed with anecdotes, advice, and humor, all while maintaining a high level of dignity and self-awareness.”
—STEVE MARTIN
Copyright © 2014 by Carol Leifer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.
eISBN: 978-1-59474-682-6
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Number:
2013911680
Designed by Gregg Kulick
All photographs courtesy Carol Leifer
Production management by John J. McGurk
Quirk Books
215 Church Street
Philadelphia, PA 19106
quirkbooks.com
v3.1
To my parents,
Anna and Seymour Leifer,
for imparting the gift of loving
what you do
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction
PART ONE:
How to Handle Yourself during the Frenzied Scramble for Gainful Employment
Chapter 1: And the Hammy Goes to …
Chapter 2: My Boss Was a Dick—Even When You Got to Know Him
Chapter 3: Desperately Seeking Soupy
Chapter 4: So I Stole Soda from Aaron Spelling
Chapter 5: Spielberg Wasn’t Available
Chapter 6: The Rule of Ten
Chapter 7: Bad Vibrations
Chapter 8: I’m Harry Dean Stanton’s Mommy
PART TWO:
How to Maintain Your Sanity While Stubbornly Advancing an Ever-Arduous Career
Chapter 9: The Singer, Then the Ventriloquist, Then the Chick
Chapter 10: Don’t Develop a Drinking Problem
Chapter 11: Who Else Is a Proctologist Gonna Talk To?
Chapter 12: Heckled by Stephen Hawking
Chapter 13: SNL: Hired by a U.S. Senator, Done In by Politics
Chapter 14: Frank Sinatra Called Me Big
Chapter 15: The Show about Nothing Taught Me Something
Chapter 16: Keep Your Sour Cream off the Counter
Chapter 17: Again with the Failure?
Chapter 18: Respect Your Yodas
PART THREE:
How to Keep Your Footing When You Finally Get a Leg Up to the Top of the Heap
Chapter 19: Thank You, Stand-Up Comedy! I’ll Be Here Every Week
Chapter 20: Walter White’s Work Ethic
Chapter 21: There’s No Use Kvetching over Yesterday’s Pickles
Chapter 22: The Fish Stinks from the Head Down
Chapter 23: In Closing: My Top Ten Personal Thoughts on Success
Scrapbook
Acknowledgments
About the Author
INTRODUCTION
When I was growing up, my only connection to show business was my Uncle Berni, who was a writer for the game show Let’s Make a Deal. Berni and my Aunt Julie had a big house right by the ocean in Santa Monica (which seemed very exotic to a Long Islander). He was handsomely paid and always had great stories about “the biz.” (He started out as an actor on Broadway!) My Grandma Becky even used to keep his “Written by” credit proudly framed on a table in her living room. To me, coming from a family of academics, this all seemed so mysterious and exciting. Which raised one question in my mind: How exactly do I get into this racket?
During my sophomore year of college, Berni told me he had a big-time television producer friend in Manhattan who was looking for a gopher and that I should call the guy when I was home for the summer. Maybe he would hire me over the break. So I called and set up an appointment to meet this producer in New York City.
But on the day of the meeting, extenuating circumstances reared their ugly head. First, I was forty-five minutes late because the Long Island Railroad was delayed. Second, I hadn’t written down what floor this producer’s office was on or his company’s name (which was not the same as his name). So I had to ask a few people in the building before I could find his office. Third, I arrived sopping wet because it was raining and I didn’t bring an umbrella.
When the producer called me in, we had what I thought was a nice enough meeting, during which I talked mostly about my college journey and my comedy aspirations. I left convinced I’d given a bang-up interview!
Well, I must say I was surprised a few days later when I heard that I hadn’t gotten the job. “What gives?” I thought to myself. “I’m the niece of this guy’s good friend, Berni Gould from California! Besides the fact that I’m a delight and a pleasure.” But when I look back on it now, I cringe. How clueless was I, to think I’d be hired after showing up unforgivably late, vastly unprepared, and soaking wet to boot (not to mention dressed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt)? On top of all that, I don’t think I asked the producer even a single question—about himself or the job—during the entire interview. My reference point had been college, where on a daily basis it was all about me, me, me! And I never realized that looking for a job meant that I seriously had to reorient my entire perspective and behavior.
This book you’re holding is the book I wish I’d had when I started out in my career. It’s a collection of lessons I’ve learned since then, and although the industry I’ve persevered in happens to be the business of show, I believe those lessons are universal. Whether you’ve just embarked on the career you’ve always wanted or are already snarled in the struggle for success, I hope you’ll find some useful counsel here.
But this book isn’t only for people looking for career advice. If you’re curious about the entertainment business, if you’re a fan of comedy, or if you’re the type of person who enjoys a good yarn about a plucky Long Island gal who went after her dreams, then this is the book for you. You’ll find funny stories,
some poignant moments, and hey, there’s pictures.
And if my guidance can help just one reader avoid the career traps that I was unaware of—like, if it’s cloudy on the day of your job interview, be safe and bring an umbrella—well then … let’s hope that person has a huge Twitter following and can spread the word about where she got such great advice.
Performing in Wheatley High School’s Varsity Revue, 1974.
HOW TO HANDLE YOURSELF DURING THE FRENZIED SCRAMBLE FOR GAINFUL EMPLOYMENT
“Stand-up comedy is a cash business, Carol. And you can’t beat cash!”
—Seymour Leifer, O.D.
CHAPTER 1
AND THE HAMMY GOES TO …
“Find a job you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life.” So goes the saying, and no truer words were ever spoken, except maybe “Never eat at an empty restaurant.” I feel lucky that, even as a child, I knew I wanted to be in comedy. But there did come a day when I had to decide if I should stay on the comedy path or follow the road more traveled.
As a child growing up in East Williston on Long Island, New York, comedy was a natural interest for me. (As finding a husband would have been, except that it held no appeal to me for the same reason there’s no Mrs. Anderson Cooper.) Comedy was revered in my house, as it is in many Jewish homes. Believe me, it’s a long tradition of my tribe. Humor makes a great counterbalance to a history of persecution. And my late father, who was an optometrist (named Seymour—how perfect is that?), remains the funniest person I’ve ever known. I have yet to meet a pro who tells a joke better than he did.
My first head shot! What, too much powder?
Anna and Seymour Leifer, the original comedy enthusiasts.
And he taught us well, my pop. Living in our household was the best comedy education anyone could have. My parents constantly played the popular comedy records (yes, kids, I did say records) of the time: The 2000 Year Old Man by Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner, Alan Sherman’s My Son, the Nut (which included the hit “Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah”), The First Family by Vaughn Meader, various records by Mickey Katz (Joel Grey’s father, who was a vaudeville performer), and the list goes on and on. But especially The 2000 Year Old Man, which we could recite line for line as it played. “Nectarines! Half a peach, half a plum, it’s a helluva fruit!” My family and I were lip-syncing long before Britney Spears was born.
My dad would always call us all down from our rooms when the great comedians appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show. I watched the best—Jackie Mason, Rodney Dangerfield (whose HBO Young Comedians Special I would later appear on), a young George Carlin, Jackie Vernon—comedy kings of their time. And to this day, I can still remember the laughs that echoed in our family basement while we watched and listened to comedy. (Sure, on the Sullivan show we occasionally had to sit through Slavic people wearing tights and spinning plates on broom handles, but it was worth it.)
I would put on shows in our basement and go around the neighborhood door to door selling tickets (in the days when you could do that and not worry about getting your head chopped off). I went to sleep-away camp and enjoyed being considered the funny girl of summer. And I loved winning the camp’s coveted Hammy Award, despite its non-Kosher status. In my heart, the Hammy rivals any of the big-time awards I’ve received as an adult.
As I got older, I became a serious fan of I Love Lucy, and I would watch reruns religiously every night. I came to know every episode and was a walking encyclopedia of the show. It was my first glimpse of sitcoms, and it left an indelible impression on me. (Note: In the comedy rooms I’ve worked in over the years, there seems to be a big dividing line re: I Love Lucy. I tend to find that women and gay writers worship the show, while straight male writers don’t usually dig it.)
Even when I became a cheerleader in high school, my proudest moment was when the sketch we wrote and performed was the hit of the annual Varsity Revue. It was nice that we didn’t have to spell out some jock’s name while wearing Spandex to get noticed.
So it made sense that when I went to college in upstate New York (Seymour told me, “You can go to any school you like, Carol, as long as it’s a state school!”), I would meet the guy who would forever change what I intended to do for a living. I was a theater major at Binghamton University (then named Harpur College)—which was about as practical as being a philosophy major—when I met Paul Reiser. He was in my dorm’s theater group, Hinman Little Theater, and the funniest guy I had ever met (aside from my dad, of course). And Paul had a similar background to mine; he was raised in New York City in the same type of comedy environment. I discovered I wasn’t the only nineteen-year-old who could recite The 2000 Year Old Man by heart.
We started dating, and Paul related his dream of becoming a stand-up comedian. During the summers, he would go to open-mic nights at comedy clubs, which were just becoming popular in New York City: places like the Comic Strip, Catch a Rising Star, and the granddaddy of them all, the Improvisation (a.k.a. the Improv). Keep in mind, this was the late seventies; the stand-up boom with everyone and their mother doing five minutes in front of a brick wall was still years away. When Paul first told me he was performing at nightclubs, I must admit I thought, “Who is this guy, Vic Damone?” (Okay, younger readers, I’ll just wait here while you google Vic Damone.)
At Harpur College, we’d sometimes spontaneously burst into song.
Paul Reiser in my dorm room. Ah, the days of the “Jewfro.”
Jerry Seinfeld writing material in his first apartment.
Jerry emceed my first audition at the Comic Strip.
So one night I watched Paul at his open-mic audition at Catch a Rising Star, and I was dazzled. Paul was really good at it—he was a natural. I decided to give it a try.
The scheduling was a simple process that remains in place to this day. You line up outside the club in the afternoon to get your “number,” and later that night you go on according to the number you drew. It’s what I’ve always loved about becoming a stand-up comic (that and not starting work until 8 p.m.). It was, and remains, uncomplicated. Get a number, go onstage, and voilà! You’re doing stand-up comedy, my friend! (The self-loathing, regrets, jealousy—there will be plenty of time for all that later.)
So I put together five minutes of my best assumption of a stand-up comedy set. Stuff like, “Trident Gum. Their slogan is ‘Four out of five dentists recommend sugarless gum for their patients who chew gum.’ So who is this fifth guy? What’s he recommending—rock candy and Jujubees?”
Not half bad. (I still have the tape of my first five minutes, and when I hear it, I feel like I’m listening to my daughter.)
As fate would have it, the emcee when Paul and I auditioned at the Comic Strip was an up-and-comer named Jerry Seinfeld. The emcee at Catch a Rising Star when I auditioned there was another comic who’d been at it for a couple of years named Larry David. They both gave Paul and me the thumbs-up, told us that we had passed the auditions … And that’s how long I’ve known these guys—literally since my first day in show business.
So now we arrive at what was, or at least should have been, my first adult career dilemma. I had passed the audition at both clubs, but I still had a year left of college in Binghamton. (Paul was a year ahead of me and had already graduated.) So do I go back to school and defer my dream for a year? Graduating with a degree in theater seemed such an amorphous accomplishment. But the comedy clubs were giving me this real chance at starting in something new and exciting.
In fact, I never even debated the question. I decided to transfer to Queens College in New York City (a very tough school, by the way—you needed a pen to get in), finish my degree by day, and learn how to become a stand-up comedian by night.
To my surprise, my parents were immediately supportive. When I told my father that I’d passed the audition at the Comic Strip and wasn’t sure about returning to college upstate, he swore, “Carol, you gotta strike while the iron’s hot!” Even writing this now, I’m floored by his advice. At the time, I was a colle
ge junior who wanted nothing more than to seize the opportunity. But now, as a parent, I can hardly believe how cool, calm, and convinced my father was at that moment. Maybe his certainty came from never getting to live his own comedy dream, and he saw the possibility in me. Who knows? But I will always treasure how he and my mother were unwavering in their support for me to chase my dream.
At that point, I didn’t think about what it would be like as a woman to enter the male-dominated field of comedy. It just never entered my mind. I attribute it to my upbringing. As far back as I can remember, my mother in particular instilled in me a fierce confidence—an assurance that I could do or be anything I put my mind to. What sex I was never entered the equation. Even to this day, when I’m challenged, I hear my mother’s voice telling me to always believe in myself and trust my instincts.
My first time ever doing stand-up, as a college sophomore, in 1976.
My path after that decision, of course, wasn’t easy. It rarely is for a stand-up comic. You bomb. A lot. I’ve had sets in rooms so quiet, a yoga class broke out. And you get heckled, which is unique to comedy. I’ve been to some operas, and no one ever yells, “Hey, fat boy! Yeah, you, the basso! You blow!” (But maybe it’s because I’ve never been to an opera in Jersey.)
None of that mattered, though, because at the core of it all, I was just so happy doing what I love. I still perform at clubs around L.A. when I’m polishing up for a gig or trying out new material. And I don’t earn a dime for it—occasionally, they’ll give you something to eat if you’ve killed and they’ve got a kitchen. But there’s nothing better than standing onstage with a mike in your hand telling jokes. My love for it hasn’t changed from the first day I stepped in front of an audience. (Fortunately, my sense of fashion has … I hope.)
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