You're Lucky You're Funny: How Life Becomes a Sitcom by Phil Rosenthal

Author:Phil Rosenthal [Rosenthal, Phil]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B0022Q8CT6
Publisher: Plume
Published: 2007-09-25T07:00:00+00:00

8

This Is How We Do It

Sorry, still not about sex. We’re going to talk about the process, at the end of which, if done correctly, you will not yell, “True, but dull!”

But first, what about my deal? I still didn’t have one, but sometimes things work out. I had given Disney their money back, which they graciously accepted, but six months later a giant conglomerate, Viacom (which owns CBS), bought Paramount Studios, and now I could make a development deal with Paramount while remaining on Raymond because both companies were now owned by the same wonderful giant conglomerate. And that’s what I did. I now had nothing to complain about, but I was sure I’d find something.

You know what I hate? Having to explain a joke. This chapter isn’t that, I promise, but it may come close, because it’s about The Writers’ Room. You see, The Room is mainly an inside joke. What happens in there is probably only funny to the people in there, because the people in there are very close—it’s as if someone comes up to you and says, “If you come to my office for the day, you’ll be able to make a sitcom out of it!” My answer to this is usually: I find that highly unlikely. Yes, it’s funny to you, nice friend of my parents, because you’re there every day, you know all the characters, the dynamics, the situations, and yet the hilarity at the south end of the third floor at the accounting firm of Liebman and Strunk may not translate to everyone. “Yes, but my office really is a sitcom!” they insist. And then I say, “I can’t go to weddings anymore.”

Let’s get to know our situation in The Writers’ Room a little better. We’re in a room with a big rectangular table in it that seats about ten. We’re all in those nice Aeron chairs with the adjustable lumbar support because we’re very old. I’m not at the head of the table, I’m on the side near a smaller table on which sits the Mighty Wurlitzer, the computer, and I can see what our writers’ assistant is typing into it at any given moment. And I’m reading aloud to the rest of the congregation, who are usually playing with Silly Putty, reading Variety, sleeping, or humping the thermostat.

We don’t start out that way . . . we usually come in about ten A.M., get our coffee, bagels, and cereal (with milk!), and sit and talk. And talk and talk and talk, usually in an effort to avoid working. What we’re talking about is everything you talk about when you’re supposed to be working: home, sports, politics, gossip, and how if anyone opens the door to this room our careers are in the toilet. We talk mostly about home, until all of a sudden, every time—“Wait a minute. We can use that.” Always, comes a story. Always. “Put it on the board,” we say. There are dry-erase boards all around us on the walls.

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