Growing Up Laughing: My Story and the Story of Funny (15 page)
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Authors: Marlo Thomas
Conan O’Brien is a genuine double-whammy. A lot of comedians write their own material; but rare is the comic who cuts his teeth writing for other hit comedy shows (
Saturday Night Live
and
The Simpsons
) before becoming a star performer himself. Since 1993, Conan has been television’s favorite goofy cut-up, and his unique blend of Harvard-boy charm and unapologetic nerdiness has earned him his own niche in the late-night TV galaxy. It also makes him terrific to talk to. I enjoyed spending time with both Conans—the clown and the intellectual.
—M.T.
On
. . . the kitchen table
Conan:
There’s definitely a genetic component to comedy, and there’s also a huge cultural part. My family is Irish-Catholic, and I’m one of six kids, the third boy from the top. My brothers were funny and my sisters were funny, and both of my parents had a really good sense of humor. So whenever anybody asks me how I got started in all of this, I tell them that I learned ninety-five percent of what I know at the kitchen table. We’d sit around that table and see who could make my dad laugh—and he had good taste. He wouldn’t laugh at everything, so if he did laugh, you knew you had said something really funny.
Even at an early age, I remember thinking that all my brothers were good at things, but I didn’t know what I was good at. Then I figured it out—this is what I do. I can really make people laugh.
On
. . . that magic moment
I want to do what that guy is doing
. That’s what I was thinking when my father took me to see Sid Caesar’s
Your Show of Shows
in a movie theatre. I was ten years old and I distinctly remember watching that famous “This Is Your Life” sketch, when Carl Reiner goes into the audience to get Sid Caesar and bring him on stage. But Caesar runs away—and then everyone chases after him. That was a seminal moment for me. I literally remember thinking,
This is what I want to do.
On
. . . those 10,000 hours
A lot has been written about how you need ten thousand hours of practice to get good at something, and comedy is no different. You have to put in a lot of time. Like the Beatles—before anybody knew who they were, they went to Germany and played clubs where their sets went on for ten or twelve hours, seven nights a week. So by the time they started recording, they’d already done their ten thousand hours. They really knew their stuff. I believe I got my thousands of hours, too.
On
. . . the class clown
I was never the class clown. To me, the class clown is the kid who jumps up on the desk and sets the clock ahead an hour, the one who plays all the pranks. That kid usually doesn’t end up too well. He winds up in some sort of motel shooting. I was the kid who did my work and kept to myself. And then, when I made close friends, they would say, “Hey, wait a minute—this guy’s really funny . . .”
That’s sort of been the way my careers have unfolded. When I was a writer, I would always show up in the writers’ room and be quiet for a few days. But by the end, I was Morey Amsterdam—the one who was up on the table making everybody laugh. I need to get comfortable with people. When I first showed up on TV, people were like “Who
is
this guy?” They didn’t get it right away. They had to get acquainted with me—and I had to get acquainted with them.
On
. . . repression, sex and comedy
Growing up in a Catholic house, you learn that there’s a lot you can’t talk about. Like sex—no one talks about sex. But I think repression gets a bad rap in our society. Think about the way an engine works—you’ve got a confined space, you build up all this pressure, and it makes the car go ninety miles an hour. Same thing with growing up in a Catholic house. Our mother wanted us to behave. Manners were very important to her; no elbows on the table, get good grades in school, that sort of thing. And then you have all this stuff that you’re taught through the Catholic Church about what you can’t do and what you can’t say.
So what happens is, comedy comes out of it. It’s like a teakettle, where there’s just this tiny little spout that steam can shoot out of. Comedy becomes the way that you can talk about things, and it’s okay because you’re being funny. It’s like an escape from never having had the permission to really go for it.
I still feel that way when I do my show. The show is my hour where I’m allowed to do whatever I want to do—things I’d never do at a party or at a friend’s house. I’m chronically polite and nonconfrontational, the kind of person who, if someone punches me in the face, I’ll say, “Excuse me. I shouldn’t have put my face there.” But on my show, I have permission to be somebody else. And that’s where a lot of really good comedy comes from. It’s like a slingshot: You get pulled way back, then snap forward in the other direction.
On
. . . the pluck of the Irish
I was at some event once, and looked around, and there were Rosie O’Donnell and Regis Philbin and me—and I remember thinking:
All Irish.
Oppressed cultures do well with comedy because it’s all we had. You have no power over your life, you don’t have a gun, you don’t have a tank. So, instead, you mutter jokes under your breath, and make fun of everyone. It’s been that way throughout history. The Irish were oppressed by the English. African-Americans were oppressed by the West. The Jews were oppressed by everybody. And now these are the really funny people.
On
. . . being ridiculous
I’ve always, always been self-deprecating. And it’s funny because it all comes out of something real.
When I was a kid, I wasn’t good at sports. I also looked funny. I fell in the driveway when I was about two years old, and for a long time had two dead teeth in the front of my mouth. I had orange hair and freckles, and I was really skinny. So I felt like I had a lot to overcome.
So I would make fun of me. I’d find myself ridiculous because I couldn’t go the other way—I couldn’t really say, “Look at me, I’m the greatest!” Your core personality develops pretty early on, then you hone it, hone it, hone it. So this is the style I adopted as a kid. What’s interesting is that some people now say to me, “You’re six-four, not a bad-looking guy, have a beautiful wife and kids, and this big, successful career. Why do you still make fun of yourself?” And I think it’s because that ship has already sailed. I’m still that kid who finds himself ridiculous. I could be made dictator of the world tomorrow, and I would still make fun of myself. My personality is my personality.
On
. . . surrendering dignity
I love—absolutely love—silly stuff. To this day, I can be in a foul mood, but watching a
Pink Panther
movie with Peter Sellers still does it for me. He’s so outrageously committed to his comedy. And I still laugh at W. C. Fields in that famous clip of him playing ping-pong at a fancy party. I love it when people completely surrender their dignity. It all appeals to me on some sort of anarchic level.
And the Three Stooges! I’ll never forget this one short they were in. They were all in the woods, hitting and yelling at each other, and then this bear steals their car and drives away. There’s this long shot of the bear driving down the road, and at the last second you see the bear put his paw out the window to signal for a left turn. I’ll be ninety years old and still think that’s hilarious.
On
. . . playing the room (
any
room)
I went to jury duty not long ago, and what happens is, when famous people show up, they’re put in a separate room and told, “Look, you’re not going to get on a jury because everyone knows who you are. But we’d like you to get up and speak to the bailiffs and court officers and the different people who work in the courthouse.” So that’s what they did with me, and I did really well. I remember turning to someone and saying, “I’m killing with these court officers.” I’m sort of shameless that way.
But it doesn’t matter where you are—you could be at a wedding, you could be waiting for a subway, you could be with a bunch of three-year-olds at a birthday party. You’re always aware when you’ve got a good audience.
I got married in the Catholic Church, and my wife and I were up on the altar. It was a pretty formal ceremony, so we had to kneel. The priest, who was a friend of mine, was giving the sermon at the wedding Mass, and he started to joke around a little with the audience. All of my friends were laughing—and it was
hell
for me. I was kneeling up there thinking,
This is a great room and I’m forced to kneel here and not say a word.
It was like some kind of punishment in the afterlife.
On
. . . comedy snobs
My least favorite thing about comedy is the occasional snobbery. People often say they want their comedy to be meaningful and intelligent. But I say: Comedy is hard. And if you’re really making people laugh, you’re probably doing something good, so don’t think about it too much.
When I first got my show and nobody knew me, people made assumptions about me. They’d look up my past and say, “Oh, he went to Harvard, so he’s going to be a very erudite, serious, Dick Cavett kind of guy. He’s going to do
intelligent
comedy.” But why put labels on comedy? I like giant ostriches. I like absolute silliness. I love that almost cartoon childish sensibility. That stuff can be funny and still be smart.
My dad is the perfect example of this. When he was a resident in medical school, he always stayed up late. So he’d watch Steve Allen’s
Tonight
show. Or Jack Paar. And he loved Johnny Carson. And what’s funny is, my dad is this really brilliant guy—a highly intelligent scientist—but he’s always just loved to laugh. And so I learned early on that being funny doesn’t necessarily mean being stupid.
On
. . . coming home
My parents still live in the same house I grew up in, and they still have that same kitchen table we all used to sit around. Whenever I go home—and here I have a national television show, I’ve been around the block a few times—I’ll sit at that table with my sisters and brothers and my parents and find myself trying to score again. It’s like going home to that little court that you used to play on. You’d think I wouldn’t need that anymore, but I do.
DID YA HEAR THE ONE ABOUT . . .
An old Irishman, Paddy, is about to go to his eternal reward.
He looks at his grieving friend, Mike, and says,
“I have one last request, Mike.”
“Anything, Paddy,” Mike says. “What is it?”
“In me kitchen pantry you’ll find a 100-year-old bottle of
whiskey. When they put me in the ground will you
pour it over me grave?”
“I will, Paddy,” Mike says. “But would you mind
if I passed it through me kidneys first?”
L
ike many nightclub performers, my father would acknowledge the presence of a star in his audience. “Stand up and take a bow,” he would say to the celebrity. I’d seen this ritual countless times since I was a child. In 1966, after I had become
That Girl,
I was in my father’s audience at the Sands Hotel, when I heard him call out from the stage, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special star in our audience tonight. Miss Marlo Thomas, please stand up and take a bow.”
For the little girl who had watched her Daddy hone his act so many years before—and for the father who had hoped to spare his big girl the heartache of show business—it was a powerful moment for both of us.
Of all the comedians I grew up with, there isn’t one who reminds me of Stephen Colbert. He’s from another planet of comedy. Maybe that’s why he had his DNA shot into space.
In 2005, Colbert launched his late-night talk show,
The Colbert Report,
after a winning run on
The Daily Show,
starring his friend Jon Stewart. Within three years, Colbert’s character—an audacious, politically incorrect loudmouth—had run for president (in a campaign sponsored by Doritos), visited troops in Iraq (shaving his head on the air) and coined a word—“truthiness”—which serious journalists began using in their columns. He also began wearing a consciousness-raising bracelet in honor of his wrist, which he broke while cavorting around the stage.
Not since Archie Bunker has there been a character that we so strongly disagree with—but laugh at anyway. And when he’s out of character? The guy is wickedly smart . . .
—M.T.
Q1
You are so edgy-funny. And really fearless. Where did that come from?
I think it came from my mother. She would always say things like “In the light of eternity, none of this really matters.” If anything bothered you or embarrassed you, if you suffered in any way, she’d say, “It’s another jewel in your crown. Offer it up.”
Q2
Oh, that is so funny. So Catholic. Are you surprised that you’ve become such a serious force?
I do not accept this “serious force” stuff . . .
Q3
Journalists constantly credit you with being a driving force in our popular and political culture. I’d call that serious.
Look, Marlo, I just wanted to make it to Christmas. We went on the air in October 2005, and got a 32-show buy. I told my producers, “Don’t buy any nice furniture. Don’t get me a desk—I’ll just use that steel thing in the corner. Because we’re not going to be here at Christmastime.” And you know what? I’m still working on that idea—that by Christmas, we’re all going to be looking for work.
Q4
When I first saw
The Colbert Report,
I thought, Wow, this is hilarious—but it’s a three-week show. He’ll never be able to sustain this character.
That’s what my wife said! The thing about my character is, he is never wrong. What is factually accurate does not matter to him. What matters is how things
feel
. So in that way, my character is a little bit Zeitgeisty. He’s all about what is valued and devalued in the country. Americans don’t really value intellectualism. They value feeling over thinking. They’d rather feel things are the way they want them to be than examine the way they
should
be. And that aggressive, self-preservative ignorance is what my character is based upon. I have described him as—and the order of this is fairly important—a well-intentioned, poorly informed, high-status idiot.
Q5
What cracks you up personally?
I’m pretty omnivorous when it comes to that. I like all kinds of different things. When I was a kid, I loved Phil Silvers. And I really loved Steve Martin. I never did stand-up, so I don’t necessarily have performance joke structure in my head. What I like is
behavior
. I learned to do comedy through character behavior in Second City. And that’s what really appeals to me. I also like relationship humor, and I think my show has that—my relationship is with the audience. And with my guests.
Q6
I read that you once did a television show where the sponsors pulled out after one episode. True?
Yes, it was a sketch show starring Dana Carvey. I’d done television before that, but this was my big break. It was back in 1996, and at the time, the number one shows on TV were
Home Improvement,
with Tim Allen, and
Seinfeld
. They’d trade off week-to-week in the number one slot. We came on right after
Home Improvement
and had a 13-show guarantee.
In the very first show, Dana Carvey does an impression of Bill Clinton, talking about how he’s going to get rid of Hillary because she’s such a burden, and he’ll be both father and mother to the nation because he can do anything. Then he opens his shirt and has these animal teats going down his chest, which had been rigged by a guy who worked for Henson MuppetWorks—so they actually lactated. And then he breast-fed puppies and kittens. Remember, this is right after
Home Improvement,
which is as gentle as comedy can get.
Q7
So what happened?
According to the minute-by-minute tracking, at 9:30, we had something like 25 million viewers. At 9:32, we had 12 million viewers. We had lost, like, 13 million viewers in 30 seconds. And we never got them back. Our sponsors were six different Pepsi subsidiaries, and four of them pulled out. So after that we were sponsored by Diet Mug Root Beer or something like that. We were done.
Dana came into my office afterwards—Steve Carell and I were office mates—and said to us, “I’m sorry. I’ve ruined your careers.” We said, “No, we’re having fun!” He said, “No, guys, you don’t realize—it’s over.”
Q8
You’re the youngest of eleven children. Most people develop their sense of humor around the dinner table. How did you ever get a word in edgewise?
In my family, it was a
humorocracy
. The funny person in the room was king. So I learned to retell my brothers’ and sisters’ stories, emulate their styles. Like, my brother Jimmy has a rapier wit. He could cut you right down. And my brother Billy actually taught me jokes—like guy-walks-into-a-bar jokes. And Eddie was known as a storyteller. Other members of the family were more physical. Everyone had their specialty, and there was never a moment in which we didn’t try to make each other laugh. We were constantly at it. One of my clearest memories was watching them and thinking,
I wish I had made that person laugh
. Or,
I wish I had made that joke right there
. Or,
I wish I could be like them
.
Q9
That’s like growing up in a school for comedy. Were your mom and dad funny?
Yeah, they were. I don’t remember much about my father—he died when I was young. But I’ve been told he was known for his sense of humor. Very funny, very dry. And my mother has a good sense of humor. She just loves to laugh. She’s a big hugger, too. And for no reason. That was a rule—you never had to ask for a hug.
Q10
It’s been said that your ancestry is both French and Irish. Which one is it?
We always thought we were French because we grew up hearing that Jean Baptist Colbert had been finance minister for Louise XIV, and was the Marquis de Seignelay. My father’s family was too dirt-poor and uneducated to have made that stuff up. They wouldn’t have known about that—they were, like, horse thieves from Illinois.
Q11&12
Didn’t you have your DNA sequenced on your show?
Yes, and they told me that my DNA almost perfectly matches four people in the world—and all of them live in Ireland. They also said, “Your family evidently are very specific racists: They will only marry other Irish people.”
Did you?
I have a mixed marriage. I married a Scots-Irish.
Q13
Tell me about your wife. Is she funny?
Yes, my wife’s funny. But I had to teach her
silly
. I brought the silly to the marriage. She’ll say to me, “Why did you just do that?” And I’ll say, “Because it’s ridiculous.” So now there’s a complete balance of humor in the family, but it took a little while.
Q14
What about when you were single? Did you date funny girls?
The thing about comedians is, they don’t get groupies. That always bugged me when I was young and single. How come rock stars get groupies and comedians don’t? When I was with Second City, we’d do two hours of sketch comedy, and afterwards, it would be like, “I just killed, man!”—but never, ever did anybody want to talk to us. I kissed a girl maybe once during the entire time. And, I mean, it was like a peck-on-the-check, let’s-go-to-the-ice-cream-social kind of kiss, not like Sodom and Gomorrah.
Q15
You took on President Bush pretty fiercely when you hosted the 2006 Correspondents’ Dinner. It was like a Friars Roast. Were you there to make him laugh, or were you there to skewer him? I mean, what were you thinking?
It was a little bit of both, I think. I actually thought he’d laugh more than he did. But I can’t tell you how much he laughed because I’ve never watched the tape. On a certain level, I’m not interested in that evening. I just went and did exactly what I wanted to do. I figured I’d get some laughs, and maybe there would be a slight hint of brimstone in the air, but no more than on my show. They’d invited me to come, and I just did my material.
Q16
What about the next generation of Colberts? Do your children have your family’s sense of humor?
My daughter is very funny. When she was three, I heard her create her very first joke. We were walking down the street; she was on my shoulders and my son was in the old papoose on the wife’s belly. And I said to my daughter, “What does the dog say?” And she said, “Ruff-ruff.” And I said, “Right! Now what does the cow say?” And she said, “Ruff-ruff.” And I said, “No, no—the cow doesn’t say ruff-ruff!” And she said, “Yes, he does. He has a dog in his mouth!” And she knew it was a joke! I thought,
That’s fantastic!
I had to tell Jon Stewart that story—proud papa, and all. And he says, “She’s three, and she’s writing
New Yorker
cartoons?”
Q17
Speaking of Stewart, is there anything you could teach him about the art of comedy? And, by the way, I’m going to ask him the same thing about you.
No, and I’ll tell you why: I think I have a pretty good idea of what I’m doing, yet I’ve never had a discussion with Jon Stewart about an idea I wanted to go after, or the structure of a joke, or even the presentation of a joke, that I was not . . . “impressed” doesn’t begin to capture how I feel about the clarity that he brings to it all. It’s frightening.
Q18
Have you and Jon ever disagreed on how to make something funny?
I only went to the mat with Jon maybe four or five times in the entire time we worked together, and I was never right—and I don’t like saying that because I have as big an ego as the next guy.
Q19
You lost your father and two of your brothers in a plane crash when you were ten. How difficult that must have been for you.
Yes, after they died, I became quiet, distant. A little bit of an outcast. In school, I didn’t necessarily talk to other people from, like, fifth grade until my junior year. For six years I wasn’t particularly a funny person. And then I started making people laugh. I started making the
popular
people laugh, if you know what I mean. I don’t know what it was, but people started laughing at everything I did, and that sort of reintroduced me to the society of my school, you know? A year later I was voted wittiest in the school.
Q20
But what about at home? How did you all ever find laughter again?
We just did. I remember coming back from the funeral in the limo, and one of my sisters made another of my sisters laugh so hard that her drink came out of her nose. And the first sister actually got up in the back of the limo and started dancing for victory—celebrating that she’d been able to do that to the other sibling. It was as if we were sitting around the dinner table. And it was wonderful.
And I remember thinking,
I want that. I want to be able to do that.
Because we all felt wonderful—or at least relieved. At that moment, the coin of the realm for our family was making each other laugh.
