I'm Dying Up Here: Heartbreak and High Times in Stand-Up Comedy's Golden Era by William Knoedelseder by William Knoedelseder
Authors: William Knoedelseder
Ads: Link
center camera. This was it.
“I grew up in a suburb on the south side of Chicago called Harvey, Illinois,” he began, and the audience applauded, presumably for Chicago. “It was what you’d call a ‘changing’ neighborhood.”
He told of attending “St. Rocky Graziano grade school” and of all the black guys who apparently thought he was some Chinese kid named Sayfoo “because every time I walked by they’d call out
‘Say, foo’!”
The line got a big laugh, and he was off to the races. He described what happened after one black classmate taught him the art of “woofing,” which was (much like a dog barking) bluffing an 1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 69
I’m Dying Up Here
69
opponent by acting braver than you really are: “One day, one of the nuns reached into her drawer for a ruler to rap me on the knuckles, and I said to her, ‘I’m thinking you better be pullin’ a gun outta there.’”
After counting eleven applause breaks, he closed with an endearing appeal to the crowd. “You’ve been a wonderful audience,”
he said. “And because this is my first appearance here and show business is such a tough life, I’d just like to say this to you: If you liked me and you are a Protestant, then say a prayer for me. If you are a Catholic, then light a candle. And if you are Jewish, then someone in your family owns a nightclub, so please tell them about me. Thank you very much. Good night.”
He’d killed, and he knew it. He turned and walked back through the stage curtain, where Craig Tennis grabbed him by the arm and propelled him back toward the stage. “No, no, no,” he said. “Johnny wants you back out there to take a bow.”
The audience was still applauding wildly as he stepped back into the lights, waved, and bowed. Over to the right he could see Carson smiling broadly, nodding approval, and giving him the big okay sign. He thought he might pop. He had never experienced such a sense of exhilaration.
Back at the Comedy Store, David Letterman, George Miller, and Johnny Dark were gathered around the little black-and-white TV in the kitchen, watching their friend’s triumph with a mixture of pride and envy. He was the first of their class to make it. As Dreesen walked on rubber legs past the stagehands on his way out that night, they all turned toward him and applauded.
The next day, a William Morris agent named Herb Karp got a call from CBS development executive Lee Curlin, who said, “I saw this kid on Carson last night. His name is Tom Dreesen. Do you have him under contract?”
“Why, are you interested in him? ” Karp replied, not answering the question.
1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 70
70
William Knoedelseder
“Yes, we are.”
“Deal interested? ”
“Yes, deal interested.”
“I know Dreesen,” Karp said. “I’ve played softball with him.
I’ll give him a call.”
Karp told a surprised Dreesen that he’d like to take him on as a client. “I won’t lie to you,” he said. “There’s a deal waiting for you.”
So, within twenty-four hours of his first Tonight Show appearance, Tom Dreesen had signed with the biggest talent agency in Hollywood and had a $25,000 development deal with a major TV network. That was enough to pay for his food and rent for an entire year.
He would never again pick up an unemployment check.
1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 71
The Boys’ Club
When Elayne Boosler arrived in Los Angeles in the spring of 1976, she already had a rep. She was, after all, the only female regular at the New York Improv and a headliner to boot. It didn’t hurt that she’d been Andy Kaufman’s girlfriend and protégé for two years—he was the newest big sensation on the comedy scene.
And unlike most of the young comics on the West Coast, she was making a living. She’d toured as an opening act for the Pointer Sisters, had performed on an NBC comedy show called Saturday Night
“I grew up in a suburb on the south side of Chicago called Harvey, Illinois,” he began, and the audience applauded, presumably for Chicago. “It was what you’d call a ‘changing’ neighborhood.”
He told of attending “St. Rocky Graziano grade school” and of all the black guys who apparently thought he was some Chinese kid named Sayfoo “because every time I walked by they’d call out
‘Say, foo’!”
The line got a big laugh, and he was off to the races. He described what happened after one black classmate taught him the art of “woofing,” which was (much like a dog barking) bluffing an 1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 69
I’m Dying Up Here
69
opponent by acting braver than you really are: “One day, one of the nuns reached into her drawer for a ruler to rap me on the knuckles, and I said to her, ‘I’m thinking you better be pullin’ a gun outta there.’”
After counting eleven applause breaks, he closed with an endearing appeal to the crowd. “You’ve been a wonderful audience,”
he said. “And because this is my first appearance here and show business is such a tough life, I’d just like to say this to you: If you liked me and you are a Protestant, then say a prayer for me. If you are a Catholic, then light a candle. And if you are Jewish, then someone in your family owns a nightclub, so please tell them about me. Thank you very much. Good night.”
He’d killed, and he knew it. He turned and walked back through the stage curtain, where Craig Tennis grabbed him by the arm and propelled him back toward the stage. “No, no, no,” he said. “Johnny wants you back out there to take a bow.”
The audience was still applauding wildly as he stepped back into the lights, waved, and bowed. Over to the right he could see Carson smiling broadly, nodding approval, and giving him the big okay sign. He thought he might pop. He had never experienced such a sense of exhilaration.
Back at the Comedy Store, David Letterman, George Miller, and Johnny Dark were gathered around the little black-and-white TV in the kitchen, watching their friend’s triumph with a mixture of pride and envy. He was the first of their class to make it. As Dreesen walked on rubber legs past the stagehands on his way out that night, they all turned toward him and applauded.
The next day, a William Morris agent named Herb Karp got a call from CBS development executive Lee Curlin, who said, “I saw this kid on Carson last night. His name is Tom Dreesen. Do you have him under contract?”
“Why, are you interested in him? ” Karp replied, not answering the question.
1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 70
70
William Knoedelseder
“Yes, we are.”
“Deal interested? ”
“Yes, deal interested.”
“I know Dreesen,” Karp said. “I’ve played softball with him.
I’ll give him a call.”
Karp told a surprised Dreesen that he’d like to take him on as a client. “I won’t lie to you,” he said. “There’s a deal waiting for you.”
So, within twenty-four hours of his first Tonight Show appearance, Tom Dreesen had signed with the biggest talent agency in Hollywood and had a $25,000 development deal with a major TV network. That was enough to pay for his food and rent for an entire year.
He would never again pick up an unemployment check.
1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 71
The Boys’ Club
When Elayne Boosler arrived in Los Angeles in the spring of 1976, she already had a rep. She was, after all, the only female regular at the New York Improv and a headliner to boot. It didn’t hurt that she’d been Andy Kaufman’s girlfriend and protégé for two years—he was the newest big sensation on the comedy scene.
And unlike most of the young comics on the West Coast, she was making a living. She’d toured as an opening act for the Pointer Sisters, had performed on an NBC comedy show called Saturday Night
Similar Books
