he had to do something, so they recommended a woman named Cynthia Seghetti, who taught at the Coronet Theatre. When Conan turned up there, he realized it was extremely informal, the kind of class where you stuck ten bucks in a jar when you left. The students, such as they were, seemed engaged in various exercises. One was “space work”—doing things like pretending to lift an imaginary heavy desk. Conan went at this assignment with his customary 100 percent conviction—so much so that an attractive tall blond girl came up and complimented him on his commitment to the exercise. Her name was Lisa Kudrow, and a long, sometimes romantic, always warm relationship was born.
The group performed improv in places like the basement of the Scientology Center, where it was almost impossible to get audiences because people were afraid of being shanghaied on their way in. There was no money in it, but money wasn’t the point; O’Brien was already making a fine salary for an LA newcomer, thanks to his HBO job. But in off hours he was also accepting oddball assignments like industrial videos, driving two hours out into the San Fernando Valley in his 1977 Isuzu Opel, applying his own makeup during the drive. Often he played the know-it-all salesman whose technique drove the customers away. He would make up patter on the spot—something else he discovered he had a talent for. The level of gratification in this sort of acting was as slight as the pay, but it was an opportunity to perform.
Mainly, he was writing. The Not Necessarily the News job soon led to another gig: O’Brien and Daniels, already making an impression, were hired by a new late-night show concocted for the Fox network and touted as being the first real alternative to the staid talk-show format. The Wilton North Report —a bizarre amalgam of fake news and silly gags—lasted less than two months. O’Brien figured it was good experience doing “service on a ship that sank.” Plus he occasionally got to warm up the (sparse) crowd.
But Conan knew in his gut the show he really wanted to write for—the show that had so captured him with its comic sensibility that he cringed with regret when it was impossible for him to catch it every night when he was in college. Everything about what David Letterman was doing on his NBC Late Night show spoke to the creative core of Conan O’Brien, and he was spurred by the possibility that he could someday write for Dave and find ways to satisfy his jones to perform at the same time. His inspiration in that regard was Chris Elliott, the young Letterman writer who had become a regular performer on the show, creating off-the-wall characters, most memorably “The Guy Under the Seats,” in which he played a nutjob who lived beneath the seats of Letterman’s studio.
Conan finally put together a packet—a collection of comedy pieces based on what the show was then doing, including monologue jokes, material written for established sketches, and some the writer would invent—sent in his submission, and waited for the good news.
The wait was considerable, because writing openings on Letterman’s show were rare and, with a sizzling-hot show on their hands, the staff was flooded with submissions. But Conan’s packet eventually made its way to the top of the pile, and when the first opening in a long stretch came up, he learned he was in contention for the spot with just two other guys. One was a kid named Rob Burnett, who had been on the Letterman staff for a while as an intern, receptionist, and anything else he was asked to do; the other was an advertising copywriter from Oklahoma named Boyd Hale.
The show went with Hale. Steve OʹDonnell, the already legendary head writer for Dave—who had succeeded the equally legendary Merrill Markoe, Dave’s first head writer and also once his longtime girlfriend—called Conan with the bad news. O’Donnell, himself a Lampoon alum, told Conan, “Dave doesn’t want to go with another
The group performed improv in places like the basement of the Scientology Center, where it was almost impossible to get audiences because people were afraid of being shanghaied on their way in. There was no money in it, but money wasn’t the point; O’Brien was already making a fine salary for an LA newcomer, thanks to his HBO job. But in off hours he was also accepting oddball assignments like industrial videos, driving two hours out into the San Fernando Valley in his 1977 Isuzu Opel, applying his own makeup during the drive. Often he played the know-it-all salesman whose technique drove the customers away. He would make up patter on the spot—something else he discovered he had a talent for. The level of gratification in this sort of acting was as slight as the pay, but it was an opportunity to perform.
Mainly, he was writing. The Not Necessarily the News job soon led to another gig: O’Brien and Daniels, already making an impression, were hired by a new late-night show concocted for the Fox network and touted as being the first real alternative to the staid talk-show format. The Wilton North Report —a bizarre amalgam of fake news and silly gags—lasted less than two months. O’Brien figured it was good experience doing “service on a ship that sank.” Plus he occasionally got to warm up the (sparse) crowd.
But Conan knew in his gut the show he really wanted to write for—the show that had so captured him with its comic sensibility that he cringed with regret when it was impossible for him to catch it every night when he was in college. Everything about what David Letterman was doing on his NBC Late Night show spoke to the creative core of Conan O’Brien, and he was spurred by the possibility that he could someday write for Dave and find ways to satisfy his jones to perform at the same time. His inspiration in that regard was Chris Elliott, the young Letterman writer who had become a regular performer on the show, creating off-the-wall characters, most memorably “The Guy Under the Seats,” in which he played a nutjob who lived beneath the seats of Letterman’s studio.
Conan finally put together a packet—a collection of comedy pieces based on what the show was then doing, including monologue jokes, material written for established sketches, and some the writer would invent—sent in his submission, and waited for the good news.
The wait was considerable, because writing openings on Letterman’s show were rare and, with a sizzling-hot show on their hands, the staff was flooded with submissions. But Conan’s packet eventually made its way to the top of the pile, and when the first opening in a long stretch came up, he learned he was in contention for the spot with just two other guys. One was a kid named Rob Burnett, who had been on the Letterman staff for a while as an intern, receptionist, and anything else he was asked to do; the other was an advertising copywriter from Oklahoma named Boyd Hale.
The show went with Hale. Steve OʹDonnell, the already legendary head writer for Dave—who had succeeded the equally legendary Merrill Markoe, Dave’s first head writer and also once his longtime girlfriend—called Conan with the bad news. O’Donnell, himself a Lampoon alum, told Conan, “Dave doesn’t want to go with another
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