"Never let me forget that my total effort is to cheer people, make them happy, and forget momentarily, all the unpleasantness in their lives."
– The Clown’s Prayer
I recently returned to my job writing on MasterChef. It's my fourth season with the show, making this by far my most consistent job since leaving my job as a door guy at the Comedy Store close to five years ago. I love it. Writing for reality TV has been an unexpected joy; fulfilling in ways I couldn't predict and continue to be surprised by now. The days are never dull, with some new insane story point or improbable bit of behavior showing itself every hour on the hour. The work is creatively stimulating, rarely overwhelming, and requires me to write jokes that I would never use in my act. Wins all around.
MasterChef is a well-oiled machine in its 13th season; the kind of network TV staple that I have learned is the exception on my resume, rather than the rule. Becoming a go-to guy for reality TV writing has led to a lot of strange jobs on first-season shows in the "shiny floor competition" vein, so dubbed because of the ubiquitous glossy floor that the majority of them possess. First-season shows don't tend to arrive fully-formed. Creative choices shift and evolve throughout production. Moments that seem crucial to the narrative on the day might wind up in the editor's digital trash can. Production snafus can pop up out of nowhere, like realizing there aren't enough cameras to cover the action, or that there's not enough time baked into the schedule for the art department to finish their set decoration. Even shows that run like clockwork can't escape the occasional unforced error. I'll never forget, in my first season on MasterChef, the episode we had to revise on-the-fly because the Alaskan king crabs meant to be live in a water tank to begin the episode are dead hours after arriving. We brainstorm an alternate intro while watching crustacean carcasses drift around the bottom of the tank, jostled by bubble jets. We never find out whose fuckup led to CrabGate, but we all have a good laugh about it.
At first, I'm self-conscious about being a comic in the world of production. I know that I came to these jobs in a very roundabout way. There's a lot of lingo and etiquette I have to pick up on. Working with a combative line producer early in my TV career – a tall, long-haired man who looked like a sketchier Stellan Skarsgård and yelled at me for everything from not turning off power strips at the end of the night to walking down hallways on the wrong side – makes me more skittish. Thankfully, my bosses are always kind, supportive, and let me skip off early for shows when I'm booked. They know the difference between trade and craft, and don't question my dedication to either. "We'd love to come see a show sometime," they say.
Having worked in comedy clubs since my earliest days in Los Angeles, it feels strange to be around people excited to watch comedy. Ever since I spent all my “friend credit” with my college pals who made the leap to LA in my first few years here, then wound up working with people who saw me perform every night anyway, I have felt weird about inviting people to shows. This weirdness is borne out of self-consciousness. Back then, I was the open miker with a dream and occasional booked spots, still partying with my college buddies, still available for house parties and day-drinking that didn’t feel all that different from my senior year. Now, as a denizen of reality TV land, I feel like an old dog learning new tricks, even if my colleagues see me as another friendly face around the office with the gift of gab. I imagine this must be how it feels to be the funny guy at the water cooler at any “normal” job. To be the witty insurance adjuster who gets told "you should try stand-up!" at least once a month. To be the affable accountant who enters one of the "Funniest Person With A Day Job" contests that seem to happen at every comedy club in the flyover states.
I experience this firsthand in May. We're halfway through a hellish production, and the episode we shoot in Tucson, Arizona, is the low point. Poor planning and apathy from the suits have made everyone’s jobs tough all season. The punishing desert heat is salt in the wound. But it’s Friday, we’re almost wrapped, and I'm feeling okay. I have a show that night. A little black box theater called the Tucson Improv Movement is letting me headline their Friday night showcase. I tell a few crew members, who promise they’ll come by later.
Later, at the show, I make small talk in the green room with the local comics, telling them horror stories from this nightmare production. My anticipation builds as I hear the audience – they sound good, and the comics seem pleasantly surprised. It's only by the time I get on stage to close it out that I realize that the audience is 100% crew members from the show. A sold-out show of folks who I know need a laugh. Looks like word about my show spread. "This is my dream, and my nightmare," I quip. They're about to know so much more about me than I ever thought I'd let them in on.
One night at the Comedy Store, when I am new to recovery, a fellow sober comic tells me they have begun to view performing as an act of service. I tuck that moment away in some filing cabinet in my brain, returning to it often. It comes back to me as I begin headlining, seeing rooms populated with people who have been waiting all week to see some entertainment. I’m their reprieve, their break from a harsh reality, the breath of fresh air. They bring the tension, I cut it. After a decade spent mostly around other comics, it’s easy to forget that we’re a novelty.
After the Tucson show, and many pats on the back from my colleagues in the crew, I go out with the story producers. One of them went to college at University of Arizona, so she knows the bars. We wind up at one with a bustling outdoor dance floor, and get moving. The guys who worked on dancing shows have retained some very impressive moves. They've seen me cut loose, now it's their turn.
Later, I drive this minivan full of drunk producers back to our hotel. While we sing along to the radio, I reflect on how much we all needed this night. Tomorrow, we have a morning meeting, one that everyone know will be contentious. Exhausted people will be told they have to power through their exhaustion and make the show. Tempers will flare. Voices will be raised. Hollow solutions will be offered. Then we’ll all get on planes back to LA and muster the energy to make five more episodes. This is the one nice thing we'll get this week.