June, 1998
This is a story about Dead Russell. Dead Russell was a failed stand-up comic turned shitty comedy writer. We did not, of course, call him Dead Russell at the time; we just called him Russell. This is my way of subtly suggesting that you may not want to get too emotionally attached to Dead Russell.
So. After two seasons on Love & Trust, Tom and I respectfully declined the studio's offer to have us back for a third. Our reasoning was that we had worked on fifty episodes, ten of which we had written ourselves, and we felt that everything we had set out to prove, we'd proven. Also, we had learned that the new show runner was going to make the next season about prostate cancer and we didn't think that was necessarily fodder for comedy.
CHARLIE: Dad, there's a fly in my soup.
FRANKLIN: Yeah, well, there's blood in my semen.
(LAUGHTER)
Instead, after a bidding war — well, that's perhaps overstating it; it was more of a bidding skirmish — we were hired on a new series called Ditz. At the time it was, believe it or not, presumed to be the next breakout comedy. It starred an outrageous personality from MTV who became nationally famous for being naked in a magazine and is now known for dispensing medical advice that gets children killed.
Ditz was a nightmare. The show runners were indecisive and duplicitous, the working hours were horrendous (even by sitcom standards) and the final product... well, I assume it was terrible. I couldn't bring myself to watch it. And as this Trail of Tears of a season ground mirthlessly on, I felt like I owed prostate cancer an apology.
Even now, I count the day production on that show was shut down as one of the happiest of my life, ranking just below the birth of my first child and just above the birth of my second. (Sorry, Jana. You know that I adore you, but honestly your arrival was a little bit been there, done that.)
Tom and I were immediately snapped up by Cool, Man! an edgy buddy comedy about the adventures of a hapless nerd and his impossibly suave mentor. The show runner was Sharon, a flamboyantly dressed Texan who was never without a cigarette or a nicotine patch or, if she was having a particularly stressful day, both. She was known industry-wide as a brilliant, crazy hardass. "We'll do it my fucking way!" was her infamous catch phrase.
Eventually, I'd discover that while she was indeed brilliant and crazy, the hardass part was mostly a put on. At that point in time, show running was almost entirely a boys club and in order to be taken seriously she had made the strategic choice to rule by fear. It worked so well that by the time Tom and I showed up, she rarely felt the need to scream and threaten. The power of her reputation was enough.
It was in The Room of Cool, Man! that we met Dead Russell. He was wearing a faded Mötley Crüe concert T-shirt and brand new Michael Jordan high tops, unlaced for some reason. He was roughly my height and his head was completely shaved, a preemptive strike against his receding hairline.
You can't quit! You're fired!
Dead Russell presented himself as an experienced, self-assured, battle-hardened comedy professional. It was, it turned out, a facade and I have never in my life seen one crumble faster.
Let's time it. Ready? Click.
Dead Russell: I am always the funniest man in the room.
Me: In an AIDS ward, maybe.
Dead Russell: Yeah, well... AIDS, shmaids.
Click. What was that? Nine seconds, maybe?
YOU ARE READING
Pronoun Problems: A Novel About Friendship, Transgender and (eventually) Ninjas
Ficción GeneralTom and I were childhood best friends. And were convinced that we were funny. So convinced that, when we grew up, we drove across the country to make our mark writing comedy in Los Angeles. And against all odds, we did. Until one day, Tom told me so...
