Speaking of hair, when Lana and I first met, my sideburns looked like a cross between Mr. T’s and Elvis Presley’s. Lana generously waited about a year before sending me to her hair guy. On top of the burns, my hairstyle was like a flattop petrified by copious amounts of hairspray and gel. If you bumped into my head, you’d have to get your outfit dry-cleaned. If my hair touched your face, you’d need a facial. Pre-Lana, I thought this look was sexy. Now I realize it was startling.
PRO STYLE TIP: For any event, from parties to weddings to comedy specials, do a dress rehearsal in an outfit before you commit to it.
WHY WOULD YOU Do That? was shot in 2016 at the Beacon Theatre in New York City. I did seven sold-out shows there and taped two of them. That was a crazy week. My father was there again. Mom stayed in California watching my nieces so my sister and brother-in-law could come, too.
The Chicago show was cool because it was my hometown, but the New York show was more of a grand event. It sounds cliché, but New York City really does have such incredible energy. I felt it from the crowd, and it fired me up. I think a lot of the people in New York gravitate toward my comedy because it’s familiar to them. Many first-generation immigrants live in the city, lots of Italians. I get a great reception not just in Manhattan but on Long Island, in Brooklyn, down the shore in New Jersey. Anywhere in the Northeast is like I’m back in my own neighborhood.
Lana put the outfit together with a stylist friend named Michael Nash. Black pants, a white shirt with a black panel in front, like a penguin or a Kevlar vest. For the shoes, Michael said, “You might like these.”
They were black-and-white, like spats. I loved them.
The stylist said, “I worked for Justin Timberlake on his 20/20 Tour, and Tom Ford designed these for him for the tour.”
To be clear, these were not a copy of JT’s Tom Ford shoes. These were the shoes that Justin actually wore on his own feet while singing and dancing (and probably sweating profusely) on his tour. He’d had twenty-odd pairs made. Michael had held on to two pairs that weren’t trashed. They were my size, so he offered one pair to me.
I’m not the kind of guy who wears another man’s shoes. But I did like the look, and they matched my shirt perfectly. So I searched high and low to find the same pair in retail, but it was impossible. You can’t get them. They don’t exist anywhere but with Michael and JT. So I bought Michael a pair of brand-new Tom Ford shoes, and traded them for Justin’s hand-me-downs. As soon as I slipped them on, I felt like joining a boy band! They made me feel like dancing! And all week at the Beacon, I was especially agile on my feet.
I have a huge problem with sweating on stage. Always have, for my whole career. It’s grossly evident whenever I perform in a light-colored shirt, something I learned early on not to do. A giant sweat ring does not look good on anyone.
I heard that if you get Botox injections in your armpits, you don’t sweat as much. So I tried it. It works like a charm, but, as I say in my act, I think the sweat’s rerouted itself and now my ass gets drenched every time!
When you’re on stage, there is nowhere to hide. If you look at any physical performer—from Richard Pryor to Mick Jagger—these guys are soaked by the end of their shows, like they went through a carwash. For years, I’ve been on the hunt for a shirt that looks good and doesn’t show sweat rings, and I have finally found one. It’s a polyester spandex blend from Uniqlo, black, with a sheen that makes it look wet already. If it gets soaked on stage, you can’t tell. No rings in the pits. No blotches under the tits. I’ve worn it once already, in Biloxi, and it didn’t creep up at all either.
PRO STYLE TIP: To hide sweat, go with polyester. It makes you sweat even more, but no one will know.
8
* * *
THE DRY SWALLOW
It was a big week, the biggest in my career so far. And in my sort-of-humble opinion, I was on top of my game.
Just to set the scene: November 2014, my second special for Showtime—Aren’t You Embarrassed?—was coming out, and I was in New York to do a full week of press for it. I noticed a real shift in how this special was being received compared to my last one. In the almost two years since What’s Wrong with People? came out, I’d been touring like an animal all over the world, working on my act, especially the physical side of it. I liked how my comedy was evolving, and this new special was the result of all that hard work. I was definitely feeling solid. I would never say “super confident,” because I come from a family that always thinks negatively, but I was feeling really good.
Press week started on Monday with a radio tour. If you don’t know what that is, you sit in a room with headphones and a microphone, and a producer patches you into a different station every five or ten minutes to do basically the same interview over and over again, like eighty times. It was a prolonged version of what Vince Vaughn did every morning on the Wild West Comedy tour. Like him, I knew how important it was to do the interviews, and I was happy to do them, but after three days straight of repeating myself, I was exhausted. I never slipped into autopilot, though. I kept up the energy, and even the sound guy gave me props.
So that was in the mornings. In the afternoons, my manager, agent, and I went to meetings—four a day—with editors and publishers to pitch this book. More talking, more pimping. It was the first time I’d ever pitched a book idea, and nearly every editor I met got a look on his or her face that said, “I just don’t get this guy.” I’d seen that look before, early on in my comedy career (one word: “sandman”), so it didn’t affect me in the least. I went into every meeting with confidence that someone was going to get it and want to work with me. Most of the editors decided to “go in a different direction.” I’ve heard this phrase a lot in my career. I always want to preempt it by asking before the meeting or audition, “What direction are you going in so I can follow the map on how to get there?” Some of the editors did like my story, and on the Friday of that week, we accepted an offer from Simon & Schuster. And just like that, a whole new avenue of my career opened up.
It was a week of riding high, of everything falling into place. I’d been working my ass off for fifteen years—no one could ever call me an overnight sensation—and it was all coming together for me, and so many people I cared about were there to share it. My mother, mother-in-law, wife, publicist, and management team were all there in New York with me, and I fed off their excitement, too.
The big week culminated Friday late afternoon with a five-minute set on Jimmy Fallon. It was my first time doing The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon, and the New York studio fascinated me. Right here, Johnny Carson had given so many comedy legends their start—Redd Foxx, Rodney Dangerfield, Bob Newhart, Don Rickles, George Carlin, Joan Rivers. Walking through the studio, I was looking at the wall of photos of previous guests, taking it in with awe that I was going to perform on the same stage.
For my Fallon Tonight Show premiere, I had to look sharp. Very important to me, always had been. When I was in high school, I didn’t care about being a sports star or getting good grades. I just wanted to be voted Best Dressed (it’s an Italian thing). I chose a three-piece dark blue Tom Ford suit with a crisp white shirt, no tie, and the watch my wife had given to me the day we got married. I was tan, with a fresh haircut and satin finish manicure. I felt like Frank Sinatra.
I brought everyone backstage with me, and entertained in the dressing room like I was hosting a small party, saying things like “You guys need any carrots, or anything like that?” I was in and out, chatting with people in the hall, making introductions, cracking jokes, and having a ball. I remember my mother-in-law walking around backstage talking to different people, from writers to producers. I think she even asked the stage manager if I could get some couch time with Jimmy.
A producer came to get me for a walk-through. I wasn’t really paying attention as she led me around the stage—“Okay, the teleprompter is over there,” she said. “You’ll stand on this mark, you’ll wait for Jimmy to join you after your set,” etc.<
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In my head, I was thinking, I’ve got my set down cold. I know what I’m going to do. I generally don’t like to look at a teleprompter because it takes me out of being in the moment, but I politely listened as she checked off her bullet points and did a sound check. Then I returned to my dressing room to wait for my cue.
My wife asked me how I was feeling, and I said, “Good.” No nerves, no jitters. I’d had one hell of a week and couldn’t wait to get out there and cap it off with an appearance on national TV.
Finally, they called me to the wings and Jimmy introduced me. Applause, applause, applause. I walked out on stage, looked to my right and gave Jimmy a nod, and got right into it.
Listen, so good to be here. I just ran into Liam [Hemsworth] backstage. That guy is stunning, all right? It’s so good to be here. Jimmy Fallon. The Tonight Show. New York City. Love New York. A lot of Italians out here. I come from an Italian family, immigrant father. And if you come from immigrant parents, they put you to work real early. Okay? I’ve been working since I was eight years old. Watching TV, my father walks in the living room, he’s like, “Hey, go start a business.” Now?
The next bit should have rolled off my tongue, but nothing came out. I tried to remember what the next line was, but my brain was completely blank. I couldn’t remember anything. I couldn’t have told you my wife’s name at that moment. I tried to prompt myself by saying, “I’m Italian . . .” but after that, nothing.
I was literally standing on that legendary stage, not saying a word, my eyes blinking, as shocked as anyone by the spectacle.
The entire place was completely silent. You could hear a pin drop in there—a grenade pin. I was bombing.
I turned to my left and looked at the band. Questlove was staring back at me with a look of fear in his eyes. They all were. I could almost hear them thinking, This is the guy everyone’s been talking about? He can’t speak. He’s literally losing it on The Tonight Show.
So now, I remembered, The prompter! Look at the prompter! But I didn’t know where it was because I hadn’t paid attention during the walk-through. I scanned around for it, and finally found it, but by then, my eyes were blurry and I couldn’t make out what the hell it said. I couldn’t even read it. I remember thinking, Do I need glasses? When the hell did my eyesight get so bad?
It occurred to me that I had to start over from the beginning because this was worse than a midair collision. My five minutes were going by fast, and I had to snap out of this or they’d be completely gone. I started to look behind me to say to Jimmy, “I gotta start over,” but as I turned my head, my brain rebooted, and my set popped back in.
So after that long, mortifying gap, I picked up where I had left off, saying, “They told me growing up, who had what I wanted in the neighborhood.” My voice a bit subdued. The dead silence in the room was replaced with the audience’s gasp of relief. He can speak! Thank God. I kept going.
They didn’t buy us anything. We’re like, “Dad, could we get a dog?” “You want a dog? Three houses down, they got dog. You want to pet something with fur, you walk three houses down, and then you come back here and cut my grass.”
The audience started laughing. Maybe it was out of pity, but I didn’t care. My mouth was forming the words and my body was moving. I was doing my set pretty well, but in the back of my mind, I kept thinking, I’m fucked. I just shit the bed on national TV. I’m never coming back here again.
It wasn’t easy to be funny while mentally planning the funeral for my career. It was not the experience I’d hoped to have on that stage for the first time in front of two hundred people in the studio audience and 3.8 million at home.
I finished the set and Jimmy came on stage to announce a commercial break. I got to sit down with him for a minute and said, “Bro, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what the hell happened to me out there. I’m just so sorry.”
Jimmy said, “Don’t worry about it. We can edit it out, no problem. It happens all the time.” He was totally nonchalant about it.
“Oh, okay,” I said, but my heart was hammering.
I went back to my dressing room and everyone congratulated me and told me how funny it was.
“How long?” I asked.
Lana said, “It was nothing.”
“How long?”
“Thirteen seconds.”
Thirteen seconds. For thirteen seconds, I stood up there, as frozen as a wedge of tartufo, while my family, managers, and every person in the theater watched in agony and I thought, Did I just get fast-onset Alzheimer’s disease?
Think of how long thirteen seconds actually is. Right now, count it out in your head. Time it on your watch. Imagine talking to a girl at a bar, entertaining her by saying, “You want to dance with me?” and then suddenly falling silent with your mouth flapping open for a full thirteen seconds while she stares at you, waiting for you to say something. By the time your brain rejoined reality, she’d be long gone.
I’VE RUN INTO trouble on stage before, falling out of my set and being unable to remember how to pick it back up. So that wasn’t the first time I’d experienced a comedian’s worst nightmare. But when you’re on stage at a comedy club and you freeze, you can always just go to the audience. Pick out someone in the front row and say, “Where you from?”
It’s a stalling technique, but it works. You take a minute to collect yourself, and a line or a bit will surface that you can grab onto like a life preserver.
Grasping in a vast blankness of the mind doesn’t happen to me often—knocking wood, spitting in the evil eye—but there are triggers. If somebody in the first few rows starts looking at their phone, I immediately think, They’re not paying attention. They’re not interested in what’s going on up here. I’m not so insecure and sensitive that I need every single audience member to be riveted by every jewel that drips out of my mouth, but when someone is scrolling through Instagram while I’m in the middle of a performance, it’s a distraction. The phone light goes on. The person’s face starts glowing. It’s just as annoying to the people in the seats around them. I can’t help but be knocked out of my act. So what I do is address the phone user, especially early on in the set. I understand people are going to look down for a second now and then. Maybe they got a babysitter and they’re checking for emergency texts. I use a stock joke and say, “Hey, what are you looking . . . Is it the babysitter? Isn’t the reason you got a babysitter . . . Are you babysitting them?” And then I go, “When I grew up, my parents left the house, they didn’t come back for three days.”
It’s a way to address the problem, let them know I don’t like it, and keep the show rolling. If I have to call someone out, I do it in a nice way (unless someone is not nice back, then the gloves come off). The audience is there to relax and have a good time. If you come back at someone hard, the audience tightens up. They feel like they have to behave and be proper—the opposite vibe from what you want in a comedy club.
When you’re taping for TV and get stuck, however, you can’t go to the audience. You can’t even go to the camera guy and say, “Nice shirt. Did your mom pick that out for you?” The camera—which is so big, a guy rides in it—is right in front of you, and the audience is a mile away, it seems, and obscured by lights. Plus, the format of TV taping is pretty rigid. You hit your mark, do your set, and if there’s time and the host likes you, you sit on the couch and banter for a minute. In fact, most likely, your five-minute set is preapproved. You have to write it out word for word and hand it in. They make it very clear that you’re not supposed to stray from the material you said you were going to do.
Before what is known in my house as “The Night I Shit the Bed on Fallon” (as in, “Hey, babe, what hotel were we staying at ‘The Night I Shit the Bed on Fallon’?” “The London.” “Right, thanks”), I’d done plenty of TV. I knew exactly what to expect and what I had to do. But my years of experience evaporated during those thirteen seconds. It was like I was twenty-five again, back at Highland Grounds.
Come
dians work their whole lives for a shot on The Tonight Show. In the early days of standup, it was the venue, the one place that could launch a career into the stratosphere. Nowadays, comedians have more options, but there’s still a reverence associated with this stage. Only the best of the best get there. The stakes were sky high for me to kill, and I blew it.
I honestly thought my career was over, that those thirteen seconds would be the number one viral video on YouTube the next day. “Comedian Shits the Bed, Whole House on Fallon.” “Comedian Literally Dies Up There on The Tonight Show.” “Comedian Keeps Repeating ‘I’m Italian’ on Fallon. Duh, We Know!”
You might say I was overreacting. You don’t think thirteen seconds of horrible could destroy a decades-long career?
Look, I was sinking in quicksand for thirteen seconds, convinced I was going to drown. If I’d had the power of perspective, I would have told myself, Sebastian, you’re going to be okay. You’ll laugh it off, and it’ll be fine. During the interminable silent gap, though, for the rest of the set and the remainder of the evening, all I could think was It’s over. I am fucked. Thank God my father isn’t here.
AFTER THE TAPING, we went to Osteria Morini on Lafayette Street in Soho, a Northern Italian–style restaurant recommended by my manager Chris Mazzilli, a man who can name and rate a hundred Italian restaurants in New York off the top of his head. I’d been looking forward to this meal, and had spent an hour on the website, poring over the menu, drooling. The dinner was supposed to be the cherry on top, the big celebration of my week of triumphs—the special, the tour, the book deal. And Fallon.
I was a wreck. I sat down at the table. It was a nice place, rustic with long farm tables. I would love to go back there under more pleasant circumstances, but it was all I could do not to get up and leave the restaurant. I’m emotional, a crier, a man who lets it all out in front of other people, quivering chin, ugly cry face. I love to marinate in my own tears. I held them in at that dinner, mainly because I was still in shock.
Stay Hungry Page 13
