L.A. Stories
My first serious attempt to live in Los Angeles came in 1984. It had nothing to do with comedy or showbiz, but because I was deeply infatuated with a woman named Mary. She desperately wanted to be a star, and she went for it. Mary threw herself into the showbiz machine, to the degree it knew she existed.
As I'm sure you've already guessed, it did not turn out well for her. She appeared in a couple of commercials (one where she was the sole performer), but that was about it. Mary was pixie-ish, cute, broad smile, and willing to do pretty much anything to make her dream come true.
When I visited her in LA, she was staying at a beach house in Malibu. This was no shack. It was owned by a guy who made glass eyes for celebrities. His walls were adorned with framed photos of Peter Falk and Sammy Davis, Jr. His next door neighbor was Johnny Carson.
Mary and I took a walk along the beach, and there was Johnny, sitting in a deck chair, wearing shorts and no shirt, reading a newspaper. He paid us no mind. Mary hoped to get his attention, but to no avail.
Back in NYC, Mary broke up with me, dismissing me as a loser while she coupled with an executive with Pan Am. I last saw her outside my apartment in the West Village, wanting some kind of connection. I slammed the door in her face. Very cinematic, which I hope she appreciated.
In the Fall of '85, Ray Combs, whom I knew in the Indianapolis comedy scene, invited me to live with him and his family in his spacious home in Glendale, California. I was coming off a Letterman pitch (more about that another time), and thought I had nothing to really lose. So I took up Ray's offer.
It was a strange arrangement, but not an awful one. I had my own room, adjacent to the swimming pool. There was a basketball court where I shot free throws while working through ideas. Ray's wife, Debbie, was very welcoming, though I had no idea about her existential struggle. I'd watch classic cartoons with Ray's kids and explain the period references. I'd like to think some of that sunk in.
Ray was the top warm-up comic for numerous sitcoms, especially the highly-rated ones. I watched him work up close. The studio audiences were primarily tourists excited to see the their favorite shows and actors in real time. Ray whipped up their enthusiasm. I stood in awe. He definitely had the gift.
Ray insisted that I write for one of the shows. He gave me scripts for The Golden Girls and The Facts Of Life. Both were hiring. I chose Facts, simply because the cast was closer to my age than those older legends (another misstep). But when I interviewed with one of the producers, who wore a Cosby sweater (the rage at the time), I immediately realized this was all wrong. This was not where I belonged.
Ray was furious with me. He said there were countless comics who would kill for such an opportunity. I didn't care. I left LA as soon as I could, moving back to NYC where, a year later, I learned of a radical media group called FAIR. Though it didn’t fully hit me, this was what I was waiting for.