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show. Later in the bit, Billy crawled out from the side of the stage where it was revealed that I had him tied up. And once, while playing an usher, I interrupted Brenner’s monologue by crossing in front of him and seating a few people coming in late to the show.
    Performing on the show was thrilling. For the first time, I felt closest to what I was about in my showbiz career. I felt my persona was utilized the best in these quirky situations that I had created. One day, Mike Wilson came into my office and told me that his father had worked on Saturday Night Live with John Belushi, Steve Martin, and Bill Murray and said that I had that special something those actors had. I was psyched. When Wilson left my office, I remember popping in a tape of Peter Gabriel’s song “Big Time” and singing along, jazzed that I, too, was on the way to making it big time.
    The only problem was what was going on behind the scenes. I was about to learn the basic showbiz lesson that everyone’s first priority is rarely about making the best show possible, but rather advancing themselves.
    Working on the show was also the first job for this scared little twenty-four-year-old redheaded writer. He had made up this point system he was sure was used for determining if a writer would be kept or not. He said that a joke in the monologue was worth one point, a whole set bit was worth five, and if you came up with a bit that could be a recurring desk piece, that was worth twenty points. He also deducted points if jokes didn’t work. This demented point system he devised probably contributed to a mood disorder he might already have had. Some days he’d bust into my office with the bravado of a high school student who had just slept with a movie star, bragging about how many points he had scored. And some days, he’d be wailing in the halls, quivering about how he was going to be fired. And he’d always fight about who came up with what jokes and who should get the points for them.
    For me to pitch an idea, I had to go though the head writer, who was a burly, scruffy man who’d had a brief stint doing stand-up comedy in the San Francisco Bay area some years before. After my first few pieces with Brenner had gone over, whenever I told him I had an idea he’d harshly ask, “For who!? Who’s it for? For you again? We need topical jokes. All your bits you pitch are for you.” It made no sense. Even when I tried going directly to Tischler to pitch an idea, he too said, “Who’s the idea for? For you?”
    I was relegated to my office with stacks of newspapers, where I tried to be a team player and write topical jokes, but those jokes got trounced in the point system while the head writer green-lit a few bits he wrote that he got to perform. Very quickly, the show was in shambles. The ratings were horrible. There were rumors that Motown Productions (which produced it) wasn’t happy with Brenner and were looking to replace him.
    By then, my thirteen-week contract was up, and I was let go. Shortly after, the redheaded kid was let go, and soon the plug was pulled on the whole show.
    But I did manage to use the status of being on Brenner’s show to be one of several New Yorkers who signed that year with the venerable William Morris Agency. Someone I knew set up a meeting with an agent, who had seen my act at several of the comedy clubs. He said he might be able to get the other higher-level agents to approve me because I was on staff on Brenner’s show. I didn’t tell him that I had just been let go a few days earlier. One of their West Coast agents asked if I would be out there for pilot season because they’d be able to set me up on many auditions. Finally, I felt it was my time. After ten years in New York, I had the “in” I was looking for in Hollywood. I was ready for my big break. Perhaps soon some vendor would be handing out free preview tickets to one of my pilots.

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    WELCOME TO L.A.
    S oon after I first moved to L.A., I found myself