Hey. How have you been? That’s good to hear. Things are good on my end. Not sure if you have seen some of the stuff I’ve recently done for SPIN, but there’s a handful of pieces that I’m really proud of. Mainly, my long piece on the Canadian sketch comedy troupe The Kids in the Hall. You can read it here.
I also just recently signed a deal to write a sitcom pilot for an unnamed network. Well, they have a name, I’m just playing coy. For now. The deal is only for a pilot script, so I can’t say that I sold a show. But it’s a cool project and, God willing, it’ll one day see the light of day.
The following piece is one I’ve been working on (and off) for over two months now. It’s a beast and I’m only giving you half of it now. Because no one should be on the toilet for that long. I want to entertain, not give you hemoroids.
The second half will hopefully drop before I head off to Europe in two weeks time. My wife is over in Sweden right now staging at an incredible restaurant called Knystaforsen.
My Cleveland episode of The Horse’s Mouth should hopefully be up by then, too. Fingers crossed.
Anyway, here’s part one of a tale involving the game show Deal or No Deal, crummy jobs, and Bill Murray.
-Mike
CHAPTER ONE: Salad Days
When I first moved to Los Angeles, over 15 years ago now, I held a handful of very random, very uncommon jobs. Uncommon to a Midwesterner, I should say. Crummy, low-paying gigs from which I could barely cover my astronomical (again, to a Midwesterner) rent.
For a time, I worked at a camera store off Ventura blvd, in Studio City. Business was generally slow. The digital camera bubble had all been popped by then, due mostly in part to the advancement of the smart phone. For most of my shift I just stood around and chatted with employees decades my senior, or pretended to clean, or did some actual cleaning, if I felt like it. I rarely felt like it. Running the store was a middle-aged woman named Vanessa, a Scientologist who only ever attempted to sell cameras whenever a celebrity rolled in. I still remember her physically elbowing me out of the way to sell a Nikon D50 to Dave Grohl. The job sucked. I quickly moved on.
Through a friend, I picked up some work driving around the city checking up on billboards. The pay was $100 a night and all I had to do was mark down the exact location of the 14 foot high advertisement. That was it. Didn’t matter the condition of the ad, how weather-beaten it may have been. My boss just needed the address. Which he gave to me. I know this is all a bit confusing, so I’ll restate the occupation: my job was to drive to a location given to me to make sure that the billboard structure was still there.
I remember thinking on my first cruise down Sunset, looking for a structure near the Chateau Marmont, “Do billboards move?” One of the perks of the gig was ducking into some watering hole I had heard or read about as a kid in movie magazines, places like Musso & Frank’s on Hollywood; Frank & Hanks on Western; the seedy downtown dive The King Eddy. I popped into all of them. Even grew a little friendly with the barkeeps holding things down. Establishing a nice buzz, I would continue my route. Booze often made my sense of geography go askew and eventually I got canned for giving bum addresses. Which was odd, considering I already had the addresses handed to me. Still not unconvinced that wasn’t a fake job.
My very first gig, however, upon arriving to town was as a waiter for the graveyard shift at the then popular, now defunct Jerry’s Famous Deli in Studio City. My shifts usually started around 11PM and went to a little after 6AM, when the head waiter Tom, an older gay man who had been working at Jerry’s since he was a teenager, arrived. Tom had begun his Jerry’s career as a busboy and coke dealer to the kitchen staff. Successful on both fronts, he moved up the ranks and was more or less the boss of everybody. Even the managers on duty took orders from him. If you wanted a day off, you went to Tom. If you wanted a better shift, you went to Tom. If you wanted some toot, you went to Tom.
Tom was a genially enough guy - as genial as one could be that early in the morning - who essentially had the whole restaurant to himself before the next server arrived around 7AM. He was on a first-name basis with most customers, spoke fluent Spanish to the kitchen crew, and had a less-than-convincing dye job for his faded brown locks. A diamond stud adorned his left ear.
After 5AM, the place was usually pretty dead and I spent the hour before Tom’s arrival refilling all the mustards, ketchups, salts and peppers, brewing fresh coffee, and counting my tips. My live-in girlfriend at the time would show up around 5:45 - we shared a car and Uber hadn’t been invited yet - and sit at the counter while I finished up my duties.
It was common practice for the two of us to head west towards beach where we would watch the sun rise and take a well-earned nap on the sand. By late morning, she would very often have some model casting she had to make in various parts of town, most were inside reputable casting offices, while a handful would be in some crummy, nearly empty, office space, including one that we later learned was rented by one of the Coreys (former 80s heartthrobs) to act as their own private dating service.
The Jerry’s gig was a tough one. The hours were awful, but at least the pay was lousy. I spent most of my night dealing with drunks. Since I was also attempting a career in comedy (not to mention my own problems with John Barleycorn), it seemed I was always surrounded by plastered people, screaming at me to either get them some more ranch dressing or to get off the stage, depending on where I was at the moment.
Needless to say, this was not an ideal job. Also, Jerry’s served terrible coffee and I had done enough blow in New Orleans to be over that drug. So I quit.
After a few weeks collecting government scraps, a friend of mine turned me onto the idea of being an extra in the TV or movies. The pay was pretty good. The job was easy enough. Most of the time you sat around in some holding area with dozens of other stiffs, waiting to be herded to set like cattle. They even fed you! Like cattle.
Within a few weeks, I was in heavy rotation at the casting office, finding myself on the set of various now-canceled shows, usually dressed as a cop or sitting in a jury box pretending to be aghast at the brutality of that week’s crime-of-the-week.
Things were good, finally. My girlfriend and I moved out of my friends’s pad in the Valley and found our own spot in the then-happening neighborhood of Los Feliz. Our place was located directly across the street from The Dresden, a old-school lounge that was featured heavily in one of my favorite movies, Swingers.
My lady found work down the street at a Greek joint called El Greco while I continued to do extra work. At night, we closed down The Dresden, sipping on Brandy Alexanders - made to perfection by Johnny, the Cuban elder statesman of the bar crew- as we listened to Marty and Elaine do their jazzy renditions of disco hits like “Staying Alive”. At 2:30AM, we would stumble back home or over to Fred 62’s for an after hours bite. Money was flying out of my pocket and I didn’t care.
Then the Writers Strike of 2007-008 happened. The shows I worked on stopped production. Work ceased to be. It all dried up.
Except for game shows.
With empty pockets, I soon became a regular audience member of numerous network game shows. The pay was way less and the treatment way worse. As an extra on a show or movie, there is the slight chance you could get bumped up to a speaking part and from there who the fuck knows (see: Gunther on Friends). 2nd ADs always kept this notion in the back of their minds. Can’t be too mean to some schlub because you never know who might, in a flash, catapult to mild success. But with game shows there was no such hope for advancement. You weren’t next in line to host the show, you were a body occupying a seat and nothing more. You didn’t like where you were sitting? Leave. You wore the wrong clothes to the taping (something flashy or with a logo)? Leave. Oh, and there was no meal for audience members. Nor were you allowed to bring a snack with you. If you were caught munching on something, hour six into the gig, you would be told to leave. No exceptions.
Broke (Brandy Alexanders aren’t cheap) and desperately trying to avoid graveyard shifts, Scientology starfuckers and billboard detail, I found myself two to three times a week in the audience of Deal or No Deal.
CHAPTER TWO: The Grand Poobah
Ricky Green sold used cars. Not that he left any wonder as to his occupation. He looked like he sold used cars: short-sleeved olive green shirt worn thin from a thousand spin cycles; bulging beer-belly, permeant Baby Huey look on his face. His voice boomed with a Mason-Dixon draw that gave away his roots in the upper-South of Tennessee. Ricky Green, who wore green, was from Greenbrier, TN. Get the picture, yet?
“We’re not real flashy people,” Ricky announces at the start of his episode. “We’re from Greenbrier, Tennessee!” The crowd erupted in applause. Even I couldn’t help but clap along. This fella came to play. He brimmed with energy, even going as far to bear-hugging the famously contact-averse host Homie Mandel. We, the audience, hooted and hollered as Ricky contemplated his first briefcase selection.
NOTE: To keep this short (lol), I’m just going to assume you know how the game is played. If not, I am providing the entire episode below.
He choose briefcase 13. Did Ricky Green think 13 is a lucky number? Or unlucky? Either way, that was the briefcase he picked. An extremely hot model with obvious extensions sashayed across the set and handed the briefcase to Howie. She then endured a bear hug from Ricky, obviously. They don’t build them like that in Greenbrier.
I was half-way through sneakily unwrapping a Snickers bar (I stupidly skipped breakfast and was now playing with fire) when suddenly there was a lot of commotion on set. The taping abruptly stopped and multiple people holding clipboards with wireless earpieces came running up to the podium.
Briefcase 13 was on the ground, at the feet of Ricky Green and Howie Mandel.
“I’m real sorry about that, Howie,” Ricky said. His puffy cheeks flushed the color of his favorite hot sauce.
I leaned over to the person to my right, an older man who I had seen at a few past DoND tapings. “Don, what happened,” I asked, as I broke off a piece of the chocolate nougat bar. As I licked caramel off my thumb, Don explained that Ricky Green’s large, bulbous belly had knocked the case off its stand.
The delay went on for another 15 or 20 minutes as the production team, undoubtedly dealing with this type of issue for the first time, figured out if the show could go on.
A blonde-haired woman with two(!) clipboards, as well as one of those phone/walkie-talkie things that sold well for a brief period in the early aughts, repeatedly asked Green if he had seen what was inside the briefcase. “No, ma’am, I did not,” Ricky professed. Other crew members took turns inspecting the case. It did not appear to be broken or cracked. The secret dollar amount inside was still secure. The game could move forward.
Ricky was to open six cases, hoping for a low dollar amount in each. He started off on a hot streak. Briefcase 1 revealed $400. Briefcase 3 - these are the both the actual briefcase numbers and the order in which he chose - revealed $300. Briefcase number 6 was…the penny case. Ricky’s family stood up and gave each other high-fives. Howie, for the fourth time, exchanged fist bumps with the Tennessean. “This deserves a hug,” Ricky exclaimed. As he came around the podium to smother the host, Ricky’s right arm knocked the Banker’s Phone off the podium.
“I can’t touch it, they won’t let me touch it,” Green said, mid-embrace with Mandel. “They told me not to touch anything.”
Ricky concluded the first round on a high note, choosing a briefcase with a measly $50 inside and another Howie bear hug. “I don’t know why I wish I was a phone,” Howie quipped. “But now it’s time to talk to the Banker, a man you don’t want to hug.”
For theatrical purposes, Howie had to say that, but I knew a different truth. The first time I met the Banker, he gave me a long, deep hug, because I was doing the small favor of saving his ass.
CHAPTER THREE: Opening Night
Peter Abbay was his name. Or still is, I guess. He’s not dead. By the time we met, he had been sitting in the Banker’s bunker for more than a few years. It was a non-union gig, which meant the pay was shit, but it was steady. Besides, it only filmed a couple times a week, giving him plenty of time to pursue his true passion: playwriting.
I was in my usual seat at Bar One, a red-velvet curtained dive in the Valley, nursing a craft cider, and watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre on mute. The movie was my choice. Arthur, the bartender, would often let me pick what to play from the bar’s two Case Logics full of classics. Always go with something purely visual, I thought. The bar was usually cranking reggae music, anyway. Peter Tosh and Leatherface are quite the combo.
Bar One was my spot. The owners Sean and Arlene, a husband and wife team from Long Beach, opened doors right around the same time I moved to LA. It was right down the street from that first apartment and even though we had moved over the hill to Los Feliz, I still found myself nestled at the bar, watching some classic flick on mute, three or four times a week. Often, I was the first customer to greet them when they opened doors at 5PM.
I was in a contemplative mood that night. Shit, when was I not in a contemplative mood? Earlier that afternoon, my buddy and upstairs neighbor Herbie had knocked on my door to ask me if I had any interest acting in a play with him. Herbie was a working actor, had been since he was a teen - his claim to fame was some movie where the kids tie up the parents and run amok - and he recently agreed to play the lead in some small production off Melrose.
The play was in big trouble. Herbie filled me in on the details. The other lead, some hothead who had once been a regular on some daytime soap had quit in a huff, two days before opening night. “Wanna replace him?”, Herbie asked. “You’ll love the director, real New York guy.”
I hadn’t been in a play since kindergarten. It’s a hazy memory, but I do remember it was a summer-themed production and that I played a surfer. Being the middle of Ohio, there weren’t a lot of surf boards laying about, so some ladies volunteering to provide costumes and props had stripped the fabric off an old ironing board and painted it teal. Voilà - a surfboard! We did one sold-out show. Our only show. The entire cast at one point sang “I Get Around” by the Beach Boys. Other than the tune, I don’t even think I had any lines. My best acting came off-stage: after rehearsal I had convinced a few of the volunteers that my one of my contact lens had fallen out. For what seemed like a long time, two women were on their hands and knees trying to locate a 7 year old’s ocular prosthetic. Of course, my mother straightened the whole issue out when she arrived to pick me up. “He doesn’t wear contacts,” she told the two women. “He likes to make shit up.”
Herbie stood in my doorway with a big grin on his face. “C’mon,” he said. “We’ll play brothers. You get to be a hard-ass to me every night, for two weeks.” Having no manager or agent to confer with, nor any other promising positions on the horizon, I agreed to playing the other lead. “Great,” Herbie said. “Cast meeting tomorrow at noon. Do your best to learn your lines. You’re gonna be terrific!”
I woke up the next morning feeling hung over and in no mood to meet new people, especially theatre actors. They can be an overzealous bunch. My lady was already out of the apartment. She had booked a modeling gig, the cover of a bridal magazine. Fifteen hours in a wedding dress, cavorting in the Malibu hills. Beats working in a factory. Or doing audience work.
A production van had picked her up, so I had the car to myself. I drove over to the 101 Coffee Shop on Franklin Ave, just short of the freeway, hence the name. I needed something in my belly besides fermented apple juice.
The 101 is a funky diner with brown leather booths and a long counter. The back wall is made of stone, part of a major remodel from a decade earlier. In the 90s, the place used to be part diner, part market. Again, the movie Swingers plays a role here - the final scene was shot there. The walls of the lobby are lined floor to ceiling with the headshots of former stars. Marty Feldman’s hangs by the stairs.
I sat at the counter and ordered the Mikey Fitz, two eggs, two pieces of bacon, and two pancakes. I had just missed the Rush Hour special. Even fully priced, the meal was on the relatively cheap side. The coffee was hot and terrible. The coffee was always bad at the 101.
The Pan Andreas Theatre was located behind a Columbian restaurant, hidden from the street, and in bad need of repair. Ivy leaves smothered half the exterior and the door was one brisk pull from coming off the hinges. It looked exactly how I felt.
Entering the space, I had expected to see thespians warming up vocal chords or doing mirror work. Quite the opposite. The air was similar to a funeral. Lifeless actors were scattered amongst the audience seats. Herbie was sitting on the stage, his head in his hands. They had been waiting on me for over an hour. I could’ve swore Herbie told me noon.
Dressed in a NY Mets t-shirt and jhorts, Peter Abbay beelined it my way and gave me a hug. “You’re saving my fucking ass,” he said, in a thick Brooklynn accent.
He started with the introductions of the other cast mates. There was Glenn, an intense looking South African who was playing Vincent Van Gogh. A pretty blonde named Margie, she was playing a nurse. Bob was a part-time fireman who wanted to give acting a try. His role was essentially an extra part - a lunatic who babbles incoherently. Emma was a British sexpot with a pixie haircut. She was playing my wife. Finally, Peter made it around the room and landed on one last fella sitting slumped over in the front row. “And this is John Murray,” Peter said. The man looked up at me, nodding his head and said, “Hey.”
I cocked my head. “‘Moving Violations’ John Murray?”
“Wow, you remember that one,” John said. A smile creeped across his face.
When I was a child, Moving Violations was a movie in constant rotation on HBO. To sum it up: it’s basically Police Academy set in the DMV. Both movies were written by Neal Israel. I found it hilarious. John Murray played Dana Cannon in his first lead role, after a few bit parts in other films. John was the youngest of the Murray clan. He never reached the level of success as his brothers Brian, Joel, and, certainly not, Bill. But I never forget the face of somebody who made me laugh. We became fast friends.
The play was a god damn disaster. I’m no Larry Olivier - and with the exception of Herbie, who is a fantastic actor - but every cast member stunk. Even the fuckboy fireman who was only tasked with standing in the background of three scenes couldn’t hit his marks. Oh, and almost everybody in the cast was drunk. Like, drunk drunk. Three sheets to the wind.
The following morning after our opening night, Abbay held a cast meeting to confront his actors about imbibing during a performance.
“Look,” he said. “I like to have a drink or two, myself. Takes the edge off. And if you guys wanna have a beer or a cocktail before the show…hell even during the show, just, you know, take it easy. Remember, we’re ACTORS! People pay to see us act, not drink.”
Everybody shuffled out of the theatre either embarrassed or hungover. For some, both. John Murray and I decided to grab lunch at the Columbian restaurant 100 feet away, La Fonda Antioquena.
I picked at my Arroz Con Pollo, wondering how I got myself into this mess, while John scarfed down some Carne Asada. My new buddy and I also shared a couple arepas. Surprisingly, considering the place had bars over the windows and the yellow tiled floor could’ve used a good mopping, the food was delicious. Then John dropped a bomb on me.
“I think my brothers are coming to tomorrow’s matinee,” he said. My eyes locked with his, and with a mouthful of Spanish rice, I said, “Say that again, John”
“Bill and Brian are in town. They want to come see the show.”
I calmly put my fork down and leaned across the table. “John, are you telling me that Bill Murray is going to come see this fucking terrible play?” I asked.
John shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said.
I was distraught. My head started shaking back and forth for what seemed like five minutes.
“I can’t have this happen, John,” I said. “Sure, he’s your brother, but he’s my fucking hero. I can’t have Bill Murray see me in this play. I won’t”
“He wants to come. I can’t stop him.”
I pushed my plate away. Suddenly my stomach was doing somersaults. Beads of sweat formed on my brow. I was having a mild panic attack.
John scooped up a forkful of my rice. “Are you gonna finish that?”
TO BE CONTINUED…