* First person account authored by Brian McKim & Traci Skene, but recounting the experience of Brian McKim.
One of my favorite moments of this whole ride was back on March 22. Just after the showcase at Gotham was over.
Rich Vos (from LCS Season I and III) was the comic designated to entertain the crowd while the judges tallied the scores and determined who was to get red envelopes.
After those red envelopes had been handed out, the twenty or so semifinalists– from this evening and and from the showcase two nights earlier– were herded back onstage and introduced to the audience. That’s not the best moment, though.
The evening’s red envelope winners were then marched off the stage and held against the wall, in the dark, near the exit doors, as the audience filed out. Vos was hoveried nearby. He spotted the newly-minted semifinalists– some of whom were dazed, many of whom were exhausted– and seized upon the opportunity to offer some… advice.
“This means nothing!” he said, in a very loud voice. Then he cackled. It’s a Vos specialty– giving voice to your worst fears.
I cracked up.
I laughed especially hard because I suspected he might be right. And I laughed hard because none of the others (to my recollection) laughed! Hadn’t they been thinking the same thing? How could they not? Hadn’t they wondered if this entire ordeal might amount to absolutely nothing when all was said and done? God help any of them if they thought that winning that red envelope would lead to fame and fortune. Hell, I had already imagined several scenarios in which I didn’t even make it to Los Angeles, red envelope or not! From all the anecdotes we had heard through all the previous seasons of the show, I had learned that not only did the envelope contain nothing more than a blank piece of white paper (true!), but it was in no way a guarantee of a spot in L.A.
And while it might eventually lead to a shot on primetime network television, it represented a beginning, not an end. (And, as we eventually see, four of those who flew to the west coast in April and taped the semifinal show ended up not appearing on that show. One’s appearance can, for a multitude of reasons, be “disappeared.”)
Of course, everyone expects his situation to be different. But I took Vos’ advice and internalized it. If you find yourself in a situation that might take you through some sort of wormhole, that might be a crazy shortcut to success, it helps to temper that anxiety with some reality.
We were as stunned as anyone even securing a spot on the evening showcase. Indeed, when planning our trip to NYC for the morning audition, we decided to make a day of it– we reserved a hotel room near Wall St. and we figured we’d retreat to it after our audition, take a nap, then maybe take in a show… do the tourist thing in the evening and then mosey on home the next day.
So much for that plan!
The next day, Traci and I walked from Wall St. to our bus stop at 34th St. and 8th Ave. Walking 3.7 miles through Manhattan was therapeutic after the surreal events of the previous day. (When we were cutting west on 14th St., I got a call from Vos. He congratulated me. I told him what he had said– he didn’t remember saying it… he apologized half-heartedly. I told him no apologies were necessary and that his advice was just what I needed.
* * * * * *
One week later, I got an email from the producers of the show requesting my proposed 4-minute set, in writing. “The sets need to be approved by our NBC Director of Standards and Practices before the Semifinals. Please do not repeat material that you used in your audition or showcase.” The transcript of the set was due in a week.
I wrote back saying that I wasn’t quite sure what I had done in the audition… or the showcase. They replied, “Just do your best.”
So… I did my best.
I worked up a set that I thought would time out to four minutes. I performed it at a couple of local clubs, jiggered it a bit here and there, timed it and then transcribed it. I sent it in well before the deadline.
Weeks earlier, we had made air and hotel reservations to be in Los Angeles (coincidentally around the same time as the seminfinals taping), and we were scheduled to fly out of PHL on the 9th. On April 7, I got an email saying that my set was approved by S & P.
Then, at 3:34 PM on the 8th (just about 24 hours before we were to leave for the airport), I got another email saying that, even though my set had been approved, there were two jokes that had been used in the audition on March 22. I was asked to submit “replacement jokes… by the end of the day, if possible.” Gulp.
Hmmm… The set was pretty well constructed… it had a them of travel running through it. But, the two jokes that were disqualified were the heart and soul of the set. So I had to scrap the entire four minutes and fashion an entirely new one.
Which I did. And I emailed a transcript of that set to the producers by the end of the day.
Fortunately, I had four opportunities to do the set over the next three nights– three times at the Comedy & Magic Club in Hermosa Beach and once at Bruce Fine’s Sunday night room at d’Cache in Toluca Lake. But it wasn’t timing out right… it needed massaging and manipulation… and lots of it.
So, I did it. And got it down pretty well.
And, out of all of that material, only 85 seconds of it made it onto the broadcast. 1 minute and 25 seconds! Well, at least I didn’t blow a whole lot of material on my first TV shot in 17 years.**
* * * * * *
On Sunday, we checked out of the Crowne Plaza LAX and checked into the Glendale Hilton– a day early. The Hilton was the headquarters for the semifinal tapings, Ground Zero for Last Comic Standing, Season 7. Situated atop downtown Glendale, just south of the foothills, and only a short shuttle ride away from the Alex Theatre, the Hilton is a modern, well-appointed and comfortable hotel
The Female Half kept a low profile. (Technically, she wasn’t supposed to be there.)
I checked in with the production assistants, filled out a bunch of forms, got a packet of information about shooting schedules and whatnot and was handed a wad of cash– the per diem… a bit of walking-around money. I was scheduled to meet with Wardrobe the next day. I was instructed to bring any and all “outfits” that I intended to wear– for the interview, for the shoot and a backup. Now, this is strange– I bring my clothes to a bunch of strangers and leave them!
I hustled down there at the appointed time. There was the wardrobe gal and an assistant. They had taken over a function room off of the lobby. In the corner was a makeshift modesty screen– those things that chanteuses dress behind while they talk to the males who visit their dressing rooms.
My clothes were inspected and evaluated for TV-worthiness. I was instructed to change into the suit I would wear during the taping. When I did, I was photographed with a Polaroid camera. At one point, I found myself changing back there with Mike DeStefano. So much for modesty. My clothes, my outfits, checked out and I left them in the care of the wardrobe people. By the time I left, Guy Torry and other comedians had entered and commenced the process I had just gone through. The mood was upbeat.
There was a lot of downtime. A lot of waiting around. The contestants did lot of strolling– to the grocery store, to the liquor store, to the restaurants– and the weather was, for the most part, mild and pleasant. Nobody walks in L.A., goes the song. But, if you billet forty comics at the Glendale Hilton, you end up with the rather odd spectacle of the virtually empty, pedestrian-free Glendale streets populated by three dozen comics wandering in a haze at midday, in clumps of twos and threes, rather like some sort of science fiction film. One morning, I headed north into the Verdugo Mountains and ran the hills (something I did quite frequently when we lived in Burbank).
At any given moment, there might be one or two or maybe six or seven comics reclining in the Hilton lobby. There were forty or so staying there, so it was like some sort of a cross between a festival, a VFW reunion and comedy camp. Again, the mood was upbeat. But there was the odd reality that 37 per cent of us would be finished by Tuesday night at 11 PM. And another three-eighths would be disappointed 24 hours after that. But folks were, for the most part thrilled, I believe, to have reached this point.
It was requested that we block out Monday evening for a party on the hotel’s 19th floor, the top floor. Most, if not all, complied. (Who passes up free booze and tiny quiches and chunks of sweaty cheese? Not us!) It was somewhat disappointing that the liquor was doled out using a ticket system– What!? No open bar?!– but upon reflection (and upon realizing that all the partygoers had easy access to the Hilton’s roof), we concluded that perhaps unfettered access to beer and whiskey might be a bad idea. Ah, but what a view!
By this time, we had all learned what night we were to do battle. (“Are you a Wednesday or a Tuesday?” became a common question.) So we engaged in a mental exercise that was equal parts television casting, chess, mathematics, amateur demographics and pure speculation. Size up the field, see where you might fit in, gauge who the competition might be, ascertain which night he/she is going up and calculate the odds.
* * * * * *
My schedule had me down in the lobby at 9 on Tuesday morning. I was to travel, with Mike Vecchione, via shuttle, accompanied by a “chaperone” to Glendale Studios, where a camera crew would shoot each one of us individually in a darkened and soundproof mini-soundstage. The interview would last 25 minutes, we were told and we’d be reunited with one of our outfits.
The process got a little backed up. So I spent some time chatting with the wardrobe gal and Tom Shillue. We talked about mystery novels and British golfers and BanLon shirts and how to care for and pack clothing when traveling. Tom was done with his interview, he need only wait a bit and he’d be shuttled back to the Hilton.
I was eventually escorted to makeup. I have even skin tone. Or so I was told by the makeup lady. She was ecstatic. My makeup took only a minute or two. And for hours afterward, I was insufferable– “You know, I have very even skin tone!”– it isn’t every day that one learns that one has even skin tone. (I bet she says that to all the comics.)
While waiting– and chatting– with the makeup lady, I learned that she had been swept up into the comedy world. A while back, she did makeup for a comedian’s special and, before she knew it, she was making up a lot of comics. Odd how things like that happen. She would be very shortly flying to New York to work on the no doubt evenly toned skin of… Lewis Black, I believe it was.
Soon a producer entered and began to prep me for the interview. Not sure what good that does… and not sure if it doesn’t do harm. She basically went over the questions with me… or some of them. I am of the opinion that spontaneity is a good thing. Apparently, spontaneity is viewed by television producers as the work of the devil. In situations like this one, it is thought that going over the questions again and again– practicing the answers, if you will– will produce a superior outcome. I am not convinced.
I’m escorted down the hall and led into the soundstage where a fancy LCS logo dominates one corner of the room and, in the center of the background stands the Shure 55 microphone that has become the visual signature of the show. I’m miked (after three attempts) and I take a seat in high director’s chair. In front of me is the crew and a large camera on a dolly. And I am reminded of the snippets of conversation from the previous night’s party. (“It’s weird– the camera moves back and forth and you gotta speak to it as it moves.”) The camera, it is explained to me, is on a dolly track and will slowly move from my right to my left, dragged by a key grip… or a best boy… or a cameraman’s assistant. My interrogator (the producer) will be seated to the far right, just behind the lights and the track. I am to speak to the camera, not to my interviewer. Sure enough, the interview begins and the camera is slowly and carefully dragged, back and forth on a track. The track is maybe seven feet long. I occasionally slip and direct my answer to the producer. We re-take those and try to reconstruct the answer, capture the moment, fake the spontaneity.
Occasionally I violate one of the cardinal rules: Please re-state the question when framing your answer… the better to excise the answer and use it out of context. We won’t be hearing the question, so it is better to start the answer by reusing much of what was contained in the question. This is not a natural way to speak… at least not for me. So it takes some getting used to.
Also: Please refer to the taping as “The Semifinals.” Try to mention “Last Comic Standing,” rather than refer to it as “the show,” or “it.”
I had put a lot of thought into what I would say and how I would say it. Would I play it light? Would I go for pathos? Would I talk about business (standup comedy, entertainment) matters? Would I personalize this experience? Just how much of this will make it to air? Should I keep it short? Go long?
At one point, I decided to play the death card. In response to a question (not sure which one), I decided to go on about how, for a lengthy period, it seemed that an alarming number of people in my family were… dying. And at regular intervals. And that this had the effect of stunting my progress as a comic, of dampening my enthusiasm for standup, of trapping me in a haze that was neither pleasant or productive… and that I was– only relatively recently– emerging from this funk and that I was here because of a renewed enthusiasm for performing and for the business. I had no sooner finished my touching soliloquy when, from out of the darkness, to my right, came the voice of the producer– “Could you say that again, but this time, could you make it shorter?”
They ended up using about seven seconds out of a 25-minute interview.
The rest of the day was free. The first of the two tapings was scheduled for later in the evening. The “Wednesdays” weren’t allowed to attend the taping.
* * * * * *
We had a rental car, so we spent a good chunk of Tuesday driving around the valley, visiting our old friend Burbank and relaxing. It was a classic April day in SoCal. The kind of day that, 22 years earlier, had convinced us to move across the continent and make our home in the San Fernando Valley. The old neighborhood has changed radically since we left it in 1993. It’s always fun to visit it and note the changes. We vow to return to Burbank some day!
* * * * * *
Wednesday’s schedule requested that all the “Wednesdays” congregate in the lobby for the purpose of taping some fun interstitial footage– contestants walking through the lobby as if arriving for the first time, contestants maybe even doing some “schtick” or concocting a short, funny script to be shot in the bar or in the hotel restaurant or at poolside. Ostensibly, all this would be edited and used to add interest to a future broadcast, to break up the performance and interview footage with some lighthearted hijinks. It was rather definitely stated that the segment producers would want to come to our rooms to shoot us. As I had sequestered my lovely wife in my room… and since it was earlier implied that my lovely wife was not really permitted to bunk with me… I wasn’t keen on producers knocking on my door. Amid the chaos in the lobby, I was summoned by a producer who sought to schedule a time when they might come up to the room… and I said, somewhat firmly, that I didn’t want a crew to come up to my room. This, apparently, is not done. The producer’s expression betrayed a a combination of rattled, perplexed and maybe a bit peeved. I was stressed out about the whole affair.
I discussed, with Taylor Williamson, the wisdom of freezing out the producers. He advised me to change course and play ball with them. No, he told me I was wrong. I snapped that was not about to be bullied by Taylor Williamson. (You know you’re stressed out when you snap at Taylor Williamson. Traci made me apologize to him in the lobby as we waited for our shuttles to the Alex.)
Hours later, after dispatching The Female Half to the pool with a book, I relented and called a producer. By this time, however, it was too late… union-mandated breaks, you know. Eventually, there wasn’t enough time in the day. It was a moot point.
* * * * * *
Game time approaches.
I panic. Where is my suit? I eventually tire of waiting for it to be delivered. I go down to wardrobe and recover it myself.
I dress. My wife rejoins me. She remarks that my mood is a strange combination of nervous and disheartened. The night before, we had learned the identities of the five finalists. One of the five was Jonathan Thymius. We reasoned that there was no room for two middle-aged, bespectacled, quirky males. So I was already assuming that I was out of the running. I held out hope, but I was… disheartened. I stated that, if I was chosen to go on first, that I was most definitely not advancing. Her advice: Just make it look bad that they didn’t put you through. In other words: Go out there and kick mighty ass.
It was decided that my lovely wife would be accompanied to the taping by comedian John DiCrosta. Also with them, as our guests in the “VIP section,” would be comedian Dave Smith and erstwhile SHECKYmagazine columnist Adam Gropman. (Semifinalists were allotted four tix.)
As the contestants trickled into the lobby at about six or so, Traci and John left for the Alex. With the sun still nowhere near setting, we were instructed to file out of the lobby and pack into the waiting shuttles and “DON’T LOOK AT THE CAMERAS.” We executed our instructions… flawlessly.
Our motorcade headed down Brand Boulevard and parked on the street at the rear of the theater. “OKAY… exit the van and head up to where the camera crew is, then walk left into the parking lot… and DON’T LOOK AT THE CAMERA… then, there’ll be a big blue tent on your right… there’ll be a camera crew inside… enter the tent and DON’T LOOK AT THE CAMERA.”
Got it.
We exit, we walk. Giant mobile production vans and a trailer dominate our section of the lot. Giant coaxial cables snake under foot. We step over them… we continue walking, we enter the tent. I, of course, look at the camera.
At one end, a large plasma screen. At the other end, a table with food and three giant urns– coffee, decaf and hot water. We enter and begin milling about. We bunch up near the food. And, although I suspect we aren’t all that capable of eating at this point, we nibble. I decide to try choking down some decaf. I fill my cup halfway, turn and– SPLASH– Nick Cobb, who stands about three inches taller than I, has accidentally bumped into me with his… arm? The result: A nice streak of brown decaf coffee down the front of my shirt and on the lapel of my suit jacket. Cobb is horrified and he apologizes profusely. I assure him that I bear him no ill will. These things happen.
I poke my head out of the tent and grab the first person I see who is toting a clipboard– a sure sign of a production assistant. I say, “We have a crisis.” The PA says, “What is it?” I point to my shirt. The PA gets on a the headset and asks someone what to do. I am eventually whisked away– down metal stairs and into a small room that serves as the command center for wardrobe.
Their mission is to find a suitable sub for my cream-colored Liz Claiborne shirt. “I’m a 16-1/2 neck,” I mutter, halfheartedly as I remove my stained shirt. The racks of clothes are scanned and there’s only one garment anywhere near to my shirt in appearance. It turns out to be a cream-colored Liz Claiborne shirt… with an 18-inch neck… and great, flopping French cuffs.
This is no problem for the wardrobe pros. They immediately set about pinning the back of the shirt and shortening the cuffs and securing them with smaller pins. As this is going on, PA Comic Coordinator Jennifer arrives (with clipboard in hand, of course) and states, “Guys, I want to get everyone into makeup in order… so I’m going to need him now.” I process this information and ask, “In order? Does this mean I’m going on first?”
“Yes,” is the answer.
“Are you fucking kidding me? First?” I mutter to no one in particular. “I am fucked,” I sigh, again, to no one in particular.
A half-hour or so later, makeup again gracing my evenly toned skin, I am “placed” in the wings, stage left, standing on thick trunks of wires, amid blinking panels and surrounded by bearded men who talk to invisible people via their headsets. I can see the stage to my right, through a break in the curtains. Directly in front of me, crouching in a small space, is a camera man and a sound man. They ask me more questions… some of which have been asked of me one or more times in the past 48 hours or so… and I answer them. None of this is eventually used in the package, save for five or six seconds of video only. I ask the floor producer if I’ll be able to hear my intro. He assures me that I will and that an assistant will pull back the curtain when it’s time. And there’ll be a steady cam tracking me as I emerge. They’ll be crab-walking backward as I make my way to the mike at center stage.
I hear the thunder of the crowd, as Craig Robinson gets them riled with goofy patter.
The house goes eerily quiet. Then the thunder erupts again. Then I hear my name.
I pull the mike out, place the stand behind me, plant my feet and bark out my set.
85 days later, I get to see how it looked.
* * * * * *
In a way, it’s a good thing to go on first. It’s over. Just like that.
I return to the tent. The other occupants of the tent applaud. Upon entering, I am set upon by another crew. They do the debriefing– “How did you think it went?” “How was the crowd?” And then they follow that up with more of the “How do you think this will affect your career?” questions.
Some of the comics tell me that the set “looked like it went well.” The sound on the plasma screen was turned down. So they could only watch. Eventually the comics turn up the sound. The sound goes up and down all night.
I am summoned to the exterior of the theater, front. For yet another interview. You can guess what they ask. While waiting for the crew to set up for me, I encounter Matt Kirshen (Season 5) strolling up to the theater doors. We chat. He wishes me well. He continues on to the theater.
My interview done, I return to the tent to wait. We applaud for each returning comedy gladiator.
It is a grueling night and it lasts more than five hours. I spend a lot of time just outside the tent. It’s a pleasant evening with a faint whiff of skunk in the air. (Not sure why… I suspect a skunk got hit by a car nearby.)
Eventually, the 21 contestants are herded back into the theater and the dramatic announcements are made, the finalists are revealed. The fortunate ones are segregated from the rest and, along with the previous evening’s finalists are herded back into theater for more shots while the rest of us… wait.
Eventually, I am summoned once again for what will be my final interview. A crew is outside the tent, near the production trailer. They snag a comic once in a while and ask the standard questions. I finally succumb and use their terminology– “OKAY! It’s a comeback! I regard my participation in Last Comic Standing and my appearance on the show as a comeback!” (It’s something that I was strenuously avoiding. But one wonders if maybe resisting the producers’ script works against one’s chances of being included in various packages or interstitial material. Is it wise to try to force one’s own script onto that which has been decreed? Is it worth the struggle? Is it best to merely roll over and go with the flow?)
Since our services are no longer required (and since I am anxious to reunite with my wife), I eventually agitate for a van to take us back to the Hilton. I rile up a sufficient number of like-minded comics and, before long, we are headed to a shuttle, headed north, to the hotel to commiserate and review the evening.
* * * * * *
The lobby is slowly populated with comedians and hangers-on. Not many at first. A half-dozen maybe, but then the pace picks up. The conversation is light and fast, the mood not as somber as one might expect.
We eventually realize that the hotel’s bars are closed. It’s early yet. Shillue announces that he is determined to find a local steakhouse and drown his sorrows in red meat. Others try to ascertain just how far a rumored neighborhood bar might be and if it’s within walking distance. We go upstairs and fetch one a bottle of Bulleit Bourbon and begin offering it to the comics in the immediate area. Many have never partaken of Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey, but are… curious. Some are familiar with Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey and accept our offer without hesitation. We locate plastic cups.
Did you know that you can get Bulleit Bourbon at Trader Joe’s on Sepulveda for only twenty dollars a bottle? Not only that, but you can buy three if you want. Which is precisely what we did before checking out of the Crowne Plaza LAX. Was there ever a more appropriate time to go fetch those other two bottles of Bulleit Bourbon?
We took them over to the closed down bar just off the lobby and commenced to have a Last Comic Standing (Unsanctioned, Unoffical) After-Taping Soiree. Look here– there’s a bunch of glasses just perfect for bourbon behind the bar!
The rest is hazy. Other comedians showed up– Keith Robinson (Philly boy!), Kirshen, Spencer King– some Tuesdays arrive, a lot of Wednesdays are present. Some estimates are that more than 40 people may have been in attendance at the peak. Some folks disappeared briefly and returned with 12-packs of beer. Many folks got the hang of the bourbon thing. There was a plastic bowling set pressed into use. Many photographs were taken. (Some real corkers were taken by Tommy Johnagin, who put them up on his Facebook page… then took them down. Expect them to be up soon, though.) A lot of steam was blown off. This was the culmination of three weeks (or more) of anticipation and anxiety.
Roy Wood, Jr. summed it up nicely in a comment on Johnagin’s photo album on Facebook:
I love how the guy came into the party at 2:50 to remind us that we had to stop drinking at 2. I love it when last call comes 50 minutes late.
Bless the Hilton for not jumping bad with us. It was a splendid few days in sunny California. And, even if it all means nothing, it was fun.
Cope, Johnagin, Mckim, Glendale Hilton, April 14, 2010
** Last television shot: VH-1’s “Fools For Love,” taped at the Comic Strip, 1993.