Comedy Sex God by Pete Holmes

Author:Pete Holmes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-04-06T00:00:00+00:00

consies o’breezies

WHEN MY WIFE FIRST LEFT ME, I ASKED JOHN MULANEY what being single was like. Without hesitation, he said, “You get a lot of work done.”

Turns out, that’s true. I was on the writing staff of my second TV show, the short-lived Fox sitcom I Hate My Teenage Daughter, and with no girlfriend to indulge my codependence and help me fill my every free moment with dinners and movies and sex and snuggling and rewatching movies we had already seen, I was for the first time in my life free to work.

I got better at stand-up and did more shows; I recorded the podcast; I started exercising and eating plants instead of double orders of lo mein. I stopped drinking nine goblets of freezer vodka every night and bought a juicer and sheets of fresh, green wheatgrass, which I kept on top of my fridge the way a gardener might keep sample squares of sod.

All of this led to doing stand-up on Conan for a second time. My first set had been good, but my second one felt different. I walked out onto the shiny floor feeling like I belonged there, no longer like a kid who had sneaked into Disney after hours. I felt like a real guest, someone with the goods. My cheeks flush with the color nine gallons of kale juice every morning will give you, I waved to Conan at his desk like a pro—a tip Mike Birbiglia had given me—nodded to the band, and hit my mark without looking down.

Afterward, Conan came backstage and chatted with me. We talked for five minutes or so, talking about Boston, our families, and being incredibly tall—if you include his hair, Conan and I are almost exactly the same height. I didn’t think much of it, but the booker, JP Buck, told me afterward that he rarely does that, as he usually is understandably in a rush to get home to his family. A few weeks later, Conan invited me to meet him at his office. We hung out for about fifteen minutes, and it was like two old friends chatting. Before I left, he looked at me as if he was trying to figure me out.

“I don’t know,” Conan said. “Something about you. When I’m around you, my funny tuning fork vibrates.”

I pretended this wasn’t a huge deal, but inside my chest lit up like the Fourth of July. I went home and drew a tuning fork on the back of my parking pass with a Sharpie and hung it over my desk. (It’s still there.)

A week after that, another meeting—this time with Conan and his producers—but this time big news.

“We’re going to go to TBS,” Conan said, “and we’re going to tell them we’ve been looking for someone to host a late-night show after mine, and that we’ve found the guy.” This was the first I had heard of it. So much so, in fact, I didn’t know who he meant by “the guy.” But I

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