Read Gasping for Airtime for Free Online Page A
Authors: Jay Mohr
to talk about, anyway? It’s Charles Barkley kicking the shit out of Barney in basketball. The most baffling change was that I had Barkley first charging into Barney, then elbowing the dinosaur in the face, and finally kicking him in the balls. I asked Franken what happened to the progression of basketball violence leading to the knee in the groin. “A knee in the groin isn’t funny,” Franken told me.
Weeks later, when Emma Thompson hosted the show and Smashing Pumpkins was the musical guest, Al and I had another dustup. Emma Thompson had just broken through in American film, and though I knew who she was, I made the mistake of wandering through the writers’ room, a blank on ideas that was causing me to blank on everything, and bothering Franken about it. He was sitting at the writers’ table chewing on a pencil. He would go through about three pencils a night with his mouth. I asked Al, “Who is Emma Thompson?” He went ballistic. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He threw his chewed pencil across the room. “She was nominated for a fucking Academy Award!”
I thought he was remarkably angry for such an innocuous question. Most of the writers were seated at the table with Al and had seen and heard the entire exchange. I was being screamed at like I was a child in front of my coworkers. I looked around to see if anyone was going to tell Al to calm down, but they didn’t. I was on my own. I looked at Franken and asked, “Hey, Al, who are Smashing Pumpkins?” Franken turned red and then bluish red. Getting up from the table and storming out of the room, he yelled over his shoulder: “I don’t know. But they didn’t get nominated for a fucking Academy Award!” Uh, touché, I guess.
Charles Barkley arrived shortly after seven. He was much smaller in person than I had anticipated. He was about six feet five with his high-tops on. I couldn’t help thinking that Nirvana’s bassist, Krist Novoselic, is taller than Charles Barkley. Al pulled Sir Charles aside and explained to him how the sketch would go. He didn’t introduce me, so I introduced myself. I told Charles that I had written the sketch and was new on the show. Charles was a real cool guy. He was very personable and friendly. It was seven in the morning, so in hindsight, I guess he was a peach.
Someone from the school brought out several basketballs and Al, Charles, and I all instinctively started shooting baskets. Now it was officially a great day. I was pulling down rebounds for Charles Barkley and he was getting them for me. I really stink at basketball, but, damn it, I was gonna fake it. I bounced a couple shots off the iron and then moved in for some layups. Charles called for the ball and I dished it to him with a beautiful bounce pass. He threw up a brick. He retrieved the ball, shot, and missed again. And again. And again.
I began counting. Shot after shot, from wherever he was on the floor, he couldn’t buy a basket. It made me uncomfortable. Should I be witnessing this? After shot number eight clanged off the back of the rim, Charles explained himself. “I haven’t picked up a basketball since the horn sounded in the finals,” he said.
Ten shots and still nothing. Eleven went in and out. Twelve was an air ball. Thirteen bounced off the side of the rim. Finally he nailed his fourteenth shot from about twenty feet straight in front of the basket. “Let’s go,” he said. And with that, Charles didn’t miss more than five out of a hundred the rest of the day.
There was a stunt coordinator on the set to make sure the guy in the Barney suit wasn’t injured, which was a good thing. I had written the sketch so that Charles beat the snot out of Barney. The action began with Barney guarding Charles one-on-one and Charles cracking the cuddly, lard-ass dinosaur in the face with an elbow. In take after take, Barkley was murdering this poor guy. The stunt coordinator assured Charles that there was a professional stuntman in full
Weeks later, when Emma Thompson hosted the show and Smashing Pumpkins was the musical guest, Al and I had another dustup. Emma Thompson had just broken through in American film, and though I knew who she was, I made the mistake of wandering through the writers’ room, a blank on ideas that was causing me to blank on everything, and bothering Franken about it. He was sitting at the writers’ table chewing on a pencil. He would go through about three pencils a night with his mouth. I asked Al, “Who is Emma Thompson?” He went ballistic. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He threw his chewed pencil across the room. “She was nominated for a fucking Academy Award!”
I thought he was remarkably angry for such an innocuous question. Most of the writers were seated at the table with Al and had seen and heard the entire exchange. I was being screamed at like I was a child in front of my coworkers. I looked around to see if anyone was going to tell Al to calm down, but they didn’t. I was on my own. I looked at Franken and asked, “Hey, Al, who are Smashing Pumpkins?” Franken turned red and then bluish red. Getting up from the table and storming out of the room, he yelled over his shoulder: “I don’t know. But they didn’t get nominated for a fucking Academy Award!” Uh, touché, I guess.
Charles Barkley arrived shortly after seven. He was much smaller in person than I had anticipated. He was about six feet five with his high-tops on. I couldn’t help thinking that Nirvana’s bassist, Krist Novoselic, is taller than Charles Barkley. Al pulled Sir Charles aside and explained to him how the sketch would go. He didn’t introduce me, so I introduced myself. I told Charles that I had written the sketch and was new on the show. Charles was a real cool guy. He was very personable and friendly. It was seven in the morning, so in hindsight, I guess he was a peach.
Someone from the school brought out several basketballs and Al, Charles, and I all instinctively started shooting baskets. Now it was officially a great day. I was pulling down rebounds for Charles Barkley and he was getting them for me. I really stink at basketball, but, damn it, I was gonna fake it. I bounced a couple shots off the iron and then moved in for some layups. Charles called for the ball and I dished it to him with a beautiful bounce pass. He threw up a brick. He retrieved the ball, shot, and missed again. And again. And again.
I began counting. Shot after shot, from wherever he was on the floor, he couldn’t buy a basket. It made me uncomfortable. Should I be witnessing this? After shot number eight clanged off the back of the rim, Charles explained himself. “I haven’t picked up a basketball since the horn sounded in the finals,” he said.
Ten shots and still nothing. Eleven went in and out. Twelve was an air ball. Thirteen bounced off the side of the rim. Finally he nailed his fourteenth shot from about twenty feet straight in front of the basket. “Let’s go,” he said. And with that, Charles didn’t miss more than five out of a hundred the rest of the day.
There was a stunt coordinator on the set to make sure the guy in the Barney suit wasn’t injured, which was a good thing. I had written the sketch so that Charles beat the snot out of Barney. The action began with Barney guarding Charles one-on-one and Charles cracking the cuddly, lard-ass dinosaur in the face with an elbow. In take after take, Barkley was murdering this poor guy. The stunt coordinator assured Charles that there was a professional stuntman in full