Almost Interesting (13 page)

The next show was very memorable for two reasons. The first is that the show instigated a sketch idea that I later ran with, and the second reason is that it included one of my favorite, and one of the most memorable,
SNL
sketches of all time—the Chippendales. Patrick Swayze was the host that week. He was a supercool dude, and nice to everyone. He was another guy, like Baldwin, who was up for anything. On Tuesday night when we wrote sketches, the host came in between 5 and 6
P
.
M
., said hello, heard a few pitches, and then went to dinner at Orso. Usually, Lorne would choose a few cast members to go along for the meal to fill the table, and to make sure the host had a good time. I got asked to attend this dinner often, and I usually went. It was that tough position to be in—I wanted to be around Lorne and the host and possibly be amusing at dinner, but by going it meant that I was pushing back my writing session even later. I never drank at those dinners because I knew I had to write afterward. (I can’t picture not drinking at them now.)

On this particular night at around nine thirty or ten, Patrick came back with us and did a little face time with each writer, heard their ideas, and gave his feedback off the top of his head. This kind of quick meeting can be very valuable, because this is when you find out whether or not your host can do a German accent, if he’d be up to play a hillbilly, or any other bit of useful information that will help your sketch . . . or sometimes kill it on the spot. I’ve seen sketches be 90 percent done only to get killed when the host casually says, “Oh, I don’t want to do anything political.” Then your sketch is dead on arrival. It’s heartbreaking. On this night, I asked where Patrick Swayze was because I had been out of my office when he came by. I heard he was in the writers’ room, so I headed over. I peeked in and was surprised to see Patrick sitting alone and just reading, without being smothered by writers or cast members star-fucking him. Now I had
my
chance to star-fuck him! Plus, I had some wispy ideas that I wanted to run past him. So I started to walk in and out of nowhere this publicist stepped in front of me and blocked the doorway so I couldn’t get in. I looked at her arm, in front of my face, and then turned to her with sort of a quizzical “What the fuck is going on?” look. She said, “Hi, can I help you?” And I said, “Oh, hi, just wanted to chat with Patrick for a second.” And then she said those three magical words that I’ll never forget: “Annnnddd youuuu arrrre?” I was a little taken aback. I had never run into any resistance walking up to a host, especially in the writers’ room. “Oh, sorry, I’m David Spade.” “Right, and this is regardinggggggggggggggg . . . ?” I go, “I’m a writer, and I wanted to talk to Patrick about a sketch.” In my head I was wondering why I was talking to this stranger who didn’t care to tell me who the hell
she
was. As you might have guessed, her response was “Yeah . . . um . . . he’s . . . swamped right now. Can you come back later? It’s just nuts right now.” I peered over her arm. “Isn’t that him sitting there reading
People
magazine?” And of course she fired back, “Yeah, it’s a really bad time.” I just gave up. I walked away confused but laughing at how ridiculous that attitude was. That convo stuck in my head for a full year until I tweaked it and it became one of my best-known sketches . . . “The Receptionist.”

Jim Downey wrote the famous Chippendales sketch that made Chris into a breakout star. It was only the fourth show of the season, but after that, there was no turning back. It was that kind of dream part that everybody wishes they could get—it used all of Chris’s strengths, including his physical comedy, his surprising dancing ability, and his sweet and vulnerable acting. The real unsung hero of this sketch was Patrick Swayze. He played his role so perfectly, and it made Farley even funnier. Swayze had an impressive dancing background, and he was this perfect male specimen with the ripped abs and long hair. And then there was Chris the polar opposite, a sloppy, out-of-work, chubby everyman. To put both of them side by side, auditioning for a spot as a Chippendales dancer, was just comedy gold. But this was one of those sketches that had almost no margin of error. It was funny from the concept to read-through to dress rehearsal to air, and it never faltered.

A lot of sketches are hilarious in read-through and when you put them on their feet and act them out, they lose something and it doesn’t quite work. Sometimes no one can put their finger on why; it was just “better at read-through.” Some sketches barely squeak through at read-through and gain momentum during the week with better jokes and then great performances blow it through the roof on Saturday night. This one everyone had high hopes for from the start, and it came through big-time. I still quote this sketch when Kevin Nealon announces his decision and addresses both of them saying, “Adrian . . . Barney . . .” Adrian was a perfect name for Patrick’s character and Barney was spot-on for Chris. In fact, he should have been named that in real life. I also loved the moment after Farley realizes he isn’t getting the job and starts making sexy faces at Nealon to try to change his mind. Kevin says, “Barney, Barney . . . it’s over, Barney.” It still makes me crack up. I think many people of our generation would say it’s one of their favorite
Saturday Night Live
sketches ever
.
It was an instant classic.

So now Chris was off and running, and every writer started putting him in every sketch because he would score for sure. The pressure on him was instant.

Around this time, maybe late fall, one of my other buddies got hired: Adam Sandler. Adam was a comic from New Hampshire who also lived near me in the Valley. We had met at a comedy club a few years earlier and hung out here and there. Adam was and is such an easy guy to chill with. We would get together and drink, do sets at the clubs, or play tennis. Rob was usually around, and so was Judd Apatow, who lived with Sandler at this time. Judd was another cool dude with a funny act. Allen Covert also lived there, as well as Jack Giarraputo, who has been Sandler’s producing partner for years in Happy Madison films. But at that point, we were just a bunch of young and struggling idiots in the Valley trying to get drunk, get laid, and get some stage time. Dennis Miller, Rob, Fred Wolf, and I had all tried to push Sandler on Lorne and the talent scouts whenever we could . . . not that we had such great job security ourselves, but he was a pal. Well, he came in and was a workhorse, a great addition to the show right away. He knew Chris Rock some, so he shared an office with him. I shared an office with Farley. Mind you, these offices were like ten by ten feet. Not only were they tiny, but you also had to walk through our office to get to theirs, which was frustrating 1 percent of the time, but superfun the other 99 percent.

Adam was always very good about doing his homework. He would get to his office and work on an Update piece or a sketch all night long. Robert Smigel, who was one of the best writers we had, would write with him a lot. I was a bit envious (of course) because I never had anyone strong on my team. Adam was such a good writer himself that the combination of him and Smigel was lethal. They would be in there laughing like crazy and I would be at my desk staring at my yellow legal pad (no laptops back then, kiddos) trying to conjure up some shitty bit and usually failing. Adam was perfect for the show because he had an arsenal of characters. When we were bored, he would crank-call people and act like he was a woman, or do a Bernie Brillstein accent or whatever. We would all just laugh our asses off. He was very quick on the phone, which is actually a good indication of whether someone is really funny. I always picture myself back then just sitting at my boring, wooden, basic desk with my yellow legal pad, with nothing on the pages, trying to come up with something. I didn’t have a ton of characters or really even a ton of ideas. I thought I did when I started but as the shows peel away it’s like déjà vu on Monday when they give you another host and you have to think of another fucking sketch for him that no one’s done in the last twenty-five years. It starts to get hard. I think Conan O’Brien explained to me once my weekend update bits needed a “concept” and explained it can’t be just jokes. I swear this was news to me and changed the way I wrote. I just wasn’t aware. One disadvantage I had was I wasn’t worldly enough. Or even stately (not a real term). I was so naïve about East Coast shit. The accents in New York are different than New Hampshire, etc. Also, I didn’t come from a religious background so knew nothing of Jewish or Irish Catholic cultures. It was all foreign to me so I couldn’t mine it for jokes like they did. That frustrated me.

Farlz didn’t write much, or read for that matter, so he was usually very bored sitting at his desk. He would get antsy like a kindergartner. I remember him saying, “David, turn around.” I wouldn’t answer, so he’d start again. “David, turn around, it’s funny.” I’d say, “I promise it’s not going to be worth it.” And he would say, “No, I’ve got a bit I’m going to try out on you; it’s a good one.” I’d answer, “If this is Fat Guy in a Little Coat again, I’m not into it. I think that peaked on the charts about a year ago.” And he’d go, “No, it’s not. It’s a whole new thing I’m doing!” So I’d slowly stop writing, put my pen down, turn around in my chair, and he’d have my little Levi jacket on and say, “Fat Guy in a Little Coat . . . DAVID, DON’T YOU GIVE UP ON IT!” And we’d laugh cuz he would really sell it the ninety-eighth time he did it. Then I’d say, “Let’s take a break. You want to go eat?” The answer was always yes, and so we’d grab Rock and Sandler and head down to Wally’s & Joseph’s . . . the mobsterish Italian and steak place within a mile of 30 Rock. Some of my best memories of this gig are from walking down to that restaurant there. Tim Meadows came with us once in a while, and sometimes Schneider. It was always just a band of dipshits walking down the street laughing, blowing off steam, and de-stressing in the middle of New York City.

Chris would always try to make us laugh, usually by stopping girls and asking them if they had any ID, or by doing push-ups on the street and telling them he was a personal trainer. I remember once we saw a pretty girl walking in front of us and Adam said to Farley, “Chris, you should talk to her.” Right then, she hailed a cab. Chris ran up behind her and climbed in the cab with her, saying something like, “Hey, heading uptown?” and started to laugh. The girl immediately started kicking and screaming at Farley. “Get the fuck out of here!” It was pretty funny because if you didn’t know he was famous, he was just an obnoxious dude possibly trying to attack you.

Tom Hanks hosted on the eighth show of that season. This was super-exciting for all of us. Hanks is a massive star and stays at that level no matter what he does. I naturally was out of ideas, and some mere whisper of an idea was definitely not good enough for a star of his caliber. So I decided to just go with the flow of the Monday meeting, bullshitting my way through it.

A lot of people, including myself, gave fake ideas when we couldn’t think of anything fast enough after the last show. Rob would come in and say something like “You’re a caveman afraid of caves, or a pilot afraid of flying . . .” those types of lame pitches that always made me laugh because they actually sort of sound like real ideas, even though we all knew they weren’t. And every Monday they would get used and never written. Farley usually went at the end of the Monday meeting and would fuss and struggle and act all OCD nuts waiting to say his idea. Which was always shitty. Which was half the fun. Watching him twist and turn in the wind while it would get closer and closer to his turn, watching him grabbing at the carpet and holding his sweaty, crumpled legal pad.

Finally, his turn in the Hanks meeting came. Lorne pointed at him, “Chris. Anything for Tom?”

Chris snapped his head up and pulled his hair . . . and finally spat out, “Um, hey Tom Hanks.” (Saying his full name, like a total psycho.) “Um uh, I was thinking, you know that movie
Marty
, with Ernest Borgnine? Um, maybe doing something on that . . .”

Silence. Everyone stared. Then Lorne shredded him with, “Well, this is the week. Everyone will be looking for our
Marty
sketch.” Cue to the whole room laughing because
Marty
is a movie from 1954 that no one gives a fuck about and the pitch makes absolutely no sense, which is what made it all so hilar.

When we left the meeting to go eat, I got into Chris’s head immediately.

“Chris, seriously, what the fuck?
Marty
? Are you retarded?”

“Shut up, David. It was my bluff.”

“Bluff? Why didn’t you say a cowboy afraid of cows. Or literally any idea from the last thirty years?”

“Fuck off. All your ideas were shitty too.”

“Tom Hanks was so mad.”

It was priceless.

Luckily though, that meeting wasn’t a total disaster for me. It turned out, Tommy Hanks had a few ideas of his own. This happens sometimes. Maybe the host has met with some writer friends before they came to New York, or if they were on a sitcom, perhaps those writers have given them ideas. Sometimes certain hosts are just comedically inclined, and they offer up some sketch ideas or impressions they can do. These little nuggets are very valuable to a writer, but since most of the writers were caught up in their own great sketches, ideas from hosts fell on deaf ears. Well . . . not for Spade. I had no ideas so my ears were
wiiiiide
open. I knew that writing a sketch with the host always tipped the scales in your favor. The idea that Hanks tossed out that I jumped on was called Subway Surfing. Everyone else sort of checked out during his pitch, but I sat there soaking it all in. The concept was that Hanks and all the cast would ride the subway around the boroughs of New York “surfing” along inside and singing a song about it. Once he told me that there was a song involved, I knew I was in over my head. I could barely manage to write a sketch from beginning to middle to end . . . and I had absolutely no business trying to write a song. But Hanks was happy that one of the writers liked his idea, so he had a lot of enthusiasm. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the only reason I went for it was that it had surfing in the title—still clinging to my Arizona, OP-shorts-wearing, skateboard-riding roots.