Episode 4, Season 7 of NBC’s Last Comic Standing aired tonight. We were featured prominently. We are trying to assess what kind of impact our appearance may have had. And watching the footage has jiggled some memories loose. Here is our lengthy recounting of the audition/showcase process and the events leading up to it.

Somehow or another, Both Halves of the Staff ended up with appointments to audition for Last Comic Standing.

Did we say “somehow or another?” Yes, we did. The sequence of events is blurry.

One minute, we were corresponding with the show’s producers, via email. They were keen on getting the information out about their New York and Los Angeles tryouts.

A few weeks later, we were headed north on the New Jersey Turnpike, onboard a BoltBus bound for Manhattan on a dreary Monday morning in March.

We were dazed, exhausted and filled with a vague sense of dread.

At one point, when we were disembarking onto a chilly, rainy W. 34th St., it occurred to us that this feeling that had come over us was familiar… it was as though we were headed to… a funeral.

Many, if not all, of the symptoms were there: We had that 1,000-yard stare and that bone-deep fatigue that hits you in the days or weeks immediately following a death.  We were all too familiar with it:  To get by, you put one foot in front of the other, you pine for a long, uninterrupted nap, you assure yourself that sun and warmth and hope is just around the corner.

For the twelve weeks leading up to this moment, we had worked a wicked schedule that saw us travel, by car and/or plane and car to Newport News, Boston, Springfield, IL, Minneapolis, Richmond, VA, Asheville, Atlanta and Charlotte, among other locations. (Mind you, we aren’t complaining.)

And in that span of time, several other things happened:  The Female Half fractured her medial head (that’s “elbow” for the laymen), The Male Half underwent outpatient surgery, both halves dug out of several major Northeast snowstorms and The Female Half got a wicked, historical head cold.

Schedules like the one listed above are normally somewhat tiring. But when you throw in healing, shovelling, fighting off infection, pain killers and anxiety… things get a little weird.

And somewhere in there, we found ourselves on the cellphone with the show’s producers, while hurtling down the highway– on the way to one of those many road gigs– nailing down the times and dates and details, while Maryland whizzed by at 65 mph, for what seemed a far off date in the future, to audition in NYC at Gotham… for Last Comic Standing.

Now, on this Monday in late March, that date had finally arrived. And, as we stumbled out onto the street, the light drizzle forced us to open our umbrellas and catch a cab south.

Ninety minutes earlier, we fleetingly considered turning the car around and heading back home– trashing the whole notion of heading north on the bus. The fatigue– and our natural skepticism– had us thinking that we might be walking into a trap. For years, we had publishied several thousand words about just how awful Last Comic Standing was and we were dumbfounded at the idea that this new regime of producers might be genuinely pleased that we saw fit to audition for the newest iteration of the show, the seventh season. Surely, our paranoid brains concluded, their intentions were not all good. Indeed, they might be hard-bitten TV-types of the worst kind, eager to lure us up to the Big Apple with promises of fame and fortune, only to strike us down in the harshest way, using editing and sound effects and cunning. Surely no one who had read our past assessments of the show could find it in their hearts (if they indeed had such an organ) to treat us with fairness or dignity. It came over us in short, regular, chilling wavelets that we
might be two of the biggest saps in all of show business for consenting to be part of the show that we had for so long decried as evil.

Or… perhaps they just wanted us to sign the Non Disclosure Agreement. Once the ink was dry on our signature (an instantaneous matter when it comes to ballpoint pens!), they’d bum’s rush us out onto 23rd St., secure in the knowledge that they had tacked down our silence… legally.

But when this lazy Susan of suspicion spun around and around, one thing would rotate through our consciousness: The new producers has secured the services of Andy Kindler as one of the judges. If they were truly evil, why ever would they enlist Kindler? And, if Kindler were to consent to be a judge in this whole affair, how likely is it that he would compromise his public persona and demolish everything he had stood for in his twenty or so years in the business?

Let’s be real here: Kindler might be second only to us in terms of people who have voiced extreme displeasure with the way the show has gone in its first six seasons.

His State of the Industry Address at the Just For Laughs Festival frequently touched on just how corrosive LCS was, in his opinion, to standup comedy.

But when we heard that Kindler was signed as a judge, our position shifted.

In our discussions– between the time we had obtained an audition appointment and the time we heard that Kindler would be a judge– we were totally willing to back out, to let the appointment go to someone else, to let the opportunity pass.

Upon hearing that Kindler was in, however, we went from 20/80 to 80/20.

But, in our exhausted state, we weren’t 100 per cent sure that we were doing the right thing.

We arrived at Gotham and were immediately greeted by one of the many production assistants (PA’s) that are an integral part of the huge undertaking that is shooting a network television show. We parked our backpacks and immediately set about filling out a rather lengthy form– a release– without which we couldn’t be taped.

Seated in the long, narrow hallway that leads to Gotham’s showroom were several other comedians that we knew from our travels throughout Standup America, our forays into New York and Los Angeles, and our various visits to Just For Laughs in Montreal. A steady stream of comedians came in from out of the gloom, signed the clipboard, obtained a release and set about filling in the blanks.

And all the while, at the end of the hall, near the double doors that are the entrance/exit to the show room, a camera crew– light, sound, camera, producer– waited for the successful auditionesr to exit those double doors… and submit immediately to an interview for the camera.

“How do you think you did?”

“How do you think you’ll do onto tonight’s showcase?”

“What did the judges say?”

Meanwhile, the rest of us, hunched over our forms, are eager for any clue as to what’s transpiring inside the near-empty showroom, any clue as to what might make our audition go smoothly, any shred of evidence that our set (as we’ve planned it) might be exactly what the judges are looking for. The atmosphere is more reminiscent of a church vestibule than a comedy club in New York City.

The sound guy is peeved because every time a comic makes some sort of humorous statement in his interview, the comics filling out the forms guffaw… it’s a gallows humor kind of thing… we’re all facing a similar fate and we’re grateful for any bit levity or insight. But the sound guy shushes us.

The entire exercise is like a psych experiment. Is it intended to measure stress?

To gauge our altruism? To see if subjects can maintain a sunny attitude while filling out a 24-page form? It’s all very twisted. And, needless to say, high-stress.

All the while, we’ve got to be ready for our scheduled time. We’ve got to fill out our papers, and, in packs of six, head through the Gotham kitchen to the far side of the showroom, where we wait in a cramped hallway, to do that 2 to 3 minutes that might result in a set later on in, at night– when comedy is supposed to performed!– in front of a packed house.

And all the while, a steady stream of unsuccessful auditioners– many of whom we are also familiar with– heads out to 23rd St., having been turned down for a chance to impress a full house of comedy fans.

We fill out our forms. We make small talk, renew friendships, connect with some folks we only know through the internet. We encounter the occasional comic who is filling out the Big Form– the one required of those who make it to the evening showcase– and congratulate them. We wait. We can’t hear anything coming out of the near-empty showroom. We don’t relish the thought of going up in front of three judges and a camera crew. We’re reminded of the time… actually, we can’t really think of any situation that is remotely like it. We try to conjure up some sort of analogous scenario from the past… and we come up empty.

The call is made. A gang of six or so heads through those double doors and through the kitchen.

We wait in the hallway while a PA and a floor director tell us exactly what will transpire, how the whole thing will go down. And they answer the questions.

Comics are adept at gaming out a scenario and conjuring up a surprising number of questions. There could never be a Last Comic Standing FAQ, because it would be too big. No matter how many questions a gang of editors could dream up, a group of freaked-out comics could come up with a thousand more. Especially in the minutes leading up to the actual audition.

The auditions go quietly. Occasional bursts of tiny laughter seep through the curtains. We’re not permitted to observe the goings-on. We’re kept in the chute while the others do their thing. It’s maddening, especially considering that the Female Half is up two before the Male Half… so the Male Half is frustrated in his attempt to hover near the curtain and observe the fate of his other half. He hears snippets– The Female half getting a laugh from the crew… Giraldo speaking… The Female Half dissing Kindler and getting a laugh… Giraldo barking out, “Do another joke…” and then barking it out again… and again… and all the while The Female Half complying– and then, it seems that The Female Half has gotten through to the
nighttime showcase.

The Male Half goes out and does his short routine, then engages in banter with the judges. It is determined that he is worthy of a look-see at the nighttime showcase.

Then, it’s the double doors and an interview.

The producers are keen on finding out what might happen if one or the other half makes it through and the other doesn’t. We sense that this is a theme that they are intent on hammering away at… as if a narrative has already been formed and they are determined to garner footage of one or the other or both reinforcing some scenario they’ve cooked up. We’re wary of this, but we’re also understanding. It’s how the game is played. The question will come up again, in various forms, over the next eight hours.

After the “double doors” interview is done, we’re instructed to head downstairs to yet another interview… this one, ostensibly taking place before we have been passed onto the evening showdown. There are lights, a camera, a bored crew and the mandatory producer. They ask the usual probing questions.

“What will this mean to you if you win?”

“What happens if your husband makes it to the finals and you don’t?”

“Where are you from?”

We are ushered upstairs again… to the hallway… where we are asked to fill out another form. This one is twice the size of the other and it delves into your work history, you addresses from the past, your education, your hometown, whether or not you have a criminal record and if there are any family members you’d rather not have the producers contact. It’s more of the psych experiment, only more diabolical– here you are… exhausted from the ordeal that is an audition for a primetime network television show… and you are asked to recall odd details from your last ten or twenty or thirty years.

Some of these details aren’t all that pleasant. And filling out the form is a bizarre experience. At the very least, recalling those details in the dank hallway of a comedy club in NYC, at 11:45 in the morning, while one’s career decision from 20 years or so ago is being rethought, could be considered mildly disconcerting at the very least and mind-blowing at the very most.

The Female Half screwed up.

“What is your worst quality?”

I’m too hard on myself.

“What is your best quality?”

She forgot. And left it blank.

And, as if this particular exercise wasn’t stressful enough, we were asked to briefly interrupt our work. put down our pens, and grab an umbrella or two and stroll down 23rd St. for a few hundred feet for some “B-roll.” You know, should the producers want to do a “package” on us.

We dutifully grab our umbrellas and comply.

“Go down to the Chelsea Hotel awning and then start walking down toward the crew and then turn and go into the club.”

We comply.

Of course, by this time, we had been separated, or had been so thoroughly caught up in the forms process, that we had had very little time to talk. So… when we unfurled our bumbershoots and started walking toward the film crew, we were talking a mile a minute, sharing our notes on the king-hell crazineess that had just transpired over the last hour and a half.

We were so intent on sharing information that we neglected to “turn and go into the club.” We screwed up the direction. It might have been the simplest direction anyone had ever given.

“Cut!’

“Okay… take it down about halfway to the Chelsea and then start walking… and this time, turn into the club.”

We laughed hysterically. The Female Half yelled, “We suck at this!”

We did it flawlessly the second time. We resumed our work on the forms, then caught a cab and carried on to our hotel in the financial district. (Club Quarters Wall Street)

It was odd, sitting in our lovely room, literally just steps away from the stock exchange. Our plan was to tack down a room via Priceline, somewher in NYC, so that we’d have a place to crash– after we’d crashed and burned at the audition.

And we had vague plans for a night out on the town– which was a way to make lemonade out of the lemons– the lemons that would surely be our lot after being rejected for Last Comic Standing.

But… we hadn’t been rejected. We were, instead, promoted to the evening showcase. We had an entirely different night on our agenda.

And, to make matters even more complicated, we had been told to show up that evening wearing exactly what we had worn that morning. (That was news to us!)

So, after procuring some edible food from a Greek cafe frequented by traders and other financial drones a block from the hotel, we changed out of our show togs and tried to eat. And tried to rest. And both were impossible

It was just a lot of pointless, half-hearted nibbling followed by a few hours of speculating… in the dark. No real eating, no real sleeping. Just a whirr of thinking and speculating and planning.

We donned our clothing from the morning and prepared for our trek back uptown to Gotham.  (We had been advised– in no uncertain terms– that we absolutely had to wear the same clothes for the evening showcase that we had worn that morning.  Fortunately, for us, we dressed exactly how we might have wanted to for the evening’s show.)  We ventured out onto the streets of the Financial District and set about hailing a cab for the trip north.

We got wet… again.  Our whole day had been spent getting somewhat moist and then trying to dry off… and trying to mitigate the effects– physical and aesthetic– of having been wet and then having dried off.  So we might not have looked as great as we could have when we appeared on camera.  Flat, wacky hair and somewhat rumpled clothing was, for us, and no doubt the rest of the hopefuls, the norm.

So… add that to the stress level.

When we arrived back at Gotham, we were extra early.  So, on the advice of some PA’s, we retired to the barbecue joint next door, where we found a comic with Philly roots– Buddy Fitzpatrick– who was dining with Tina Giorgi.  We were now finding out just who had made it to the nighttime show.  We shared tales of the morning’s surreal audition and we also discussed strategy and tactics and speculated on whether or not we’d be able to repeat material that we had done several hours earlier.

After a bit, we got the all-clear to head into Gotham for the walk-through.  It was then, when all 33 comics were assembled for the pre-show directions, that we learned just who had made it.  Oh, sure the ostensible purpose for the meeting was to inform us as to how to get on the stage, how to exit, etc.  But most folks were assessing just who was included in the elite gang that was assembled in the Gotham showroom.  Who would cancel out whom?  Who is similar to whom?  Who is unique?  Who is more experienced?  Who the hell is that guy?  Is he a comic?

Then it’s down to the basement.

We were relegated to the downstairs bar, a holding pen, in the hours prior to the start of the showcase.  It actually accommodates 33 nervous comics nicely.  And a sound and film and light crew.  And a couple hangers-on.  We chatted and caught up with old comedy friends and occasionally honored requests from the film crew for interviews.  It was a strange atmosphere– hyped up because of the obvious stakes, but isolated from the showroom… and made just that much more bizarre because of the TV cameras.

It was a fun atmosphere, not unlike a festival.  But it’s somewhat tense, because we had no idea what was going on in the room just above us.  We had giant hunks of Subway sandwiches and tubs filled with bottled water.  We had access to the bathrooms across the hall.  We had lousy cellphone coverage.  We were in a comedy bunker with benefits.

The show started.  The word that ricocheted around the bunker was that the house was packed and that they were really hot.  They took us away in packs of five or six.  The chosen would be escorted up and through the back stairway of the club to a spot way over stage left.  One of the five would be stationed in a seat in the showroom, awaiting an intro.  The other four would wait in the narrow hallway.

We did not have the benefit of an emcee on our night– Craig Robinson was a no-show due to a scheduling conflict.  We instead came to the stage after someone– we’re not quite sure who, looking back on it– announced our name.

And we were only allowed to see the comic who preceded us.  And after we were finished, we were instructed to exit, stage right, and park ourselves just this side of the double doors at the Gotham showroom exit.  There, we would wait until a PA told us to barrel out the doors, where another film crew awaited for a post-showcase interview– not unlike the morning’s drill where we did the same with a post-audition interview.

So… when your name was called… and you were among the five being escorted into the chute for the showcase, it set off a rather surreal 30- or 40-minute chain of events that saw you emerge from the basement, wait for your set, do your set, exit, do an interview, then return to the basement.  There you would be greeted by your colleagues who would debrief you on what had transpired.  Not unlike a gang of reporters drinking in the lobby of a warzone hotel peppering intrepid reporters for news of the front.  Only this lobby had no alcohol.

As the reports filtered down to us, various comics tried to use the information to assess and adjust.  A lot of second-guessing went on.  It didn’t help any that, at one point, just before the show began, we were told by a producer that we were not to repeat any of the material that we had done in the morning’s audition… or that were not allowed to repeat any material that had been used today… or that, from now on, no repetition of material… whatever… it was vague… and confusing.  And the source of ever more second-guessing and last-minute editing and hurried set construction.

Which no doubt hurt some comics.  Or at least took a bit of wind out of their sails as they mounted the stage to do battle.

The Female Half opted to do the first 2:30 of her standard club set, figuring, at the very least, that it would be something she was intimately familiar with and, thus comfortable with.  And, let’s face it, looking comfortable is a good part of the battle.

Others cobbled together sets on the spot.

Others trusted that television producers rarely stick to what they say and forged on with a planned set, figuring that they’d deal with the consequences when they got to Hollywood.

All sound strategies.  It’s television, after all.

And all the while, the camera crew wanders around, snagging this comic or that, for an interview.  And one wonders just how over-the-top or hearfelt or TVworthy one should frame the responses.  Or if the responses can be edited to make the respondent look poorly after editing.  Or if the remarks come off as too mean… or if the sarcasm comes through… or not.  Add to this the fact that we’re asked the same question or two multiple times over the course of ten or twelve hours.  Should we stick to the same answer?  Should we acquiesce to the producers’ obvious desire that we trip up and offer an alternative to that which we’ve offered the previous three times?  What are they up to?  Or am I just paranoid, punchy from lack of sleep?  Oh, and I’ve got a set to worry about.   It’s the psych experiment all over again.

And, of course, there’s the knowledge that we’ll have to consent to yet another interview immediately upon exiting the stage.

Is it not hard enough to mount the stage in front of a packed house at Gotham without a roving film crew, vague direction from producers and no alcohol?  Oh… and, it’s all going into the Blurb-O-Matic at NBC to be aired 90 days hence.  The degree of difficulty edges up to 11.

We’ll have more to add in the next day or so.  Stay tuned.