I got word the other day that the weekly Richmond arts & entertainment (read: free) paper that has printed the editied version of most of these interviews, Punchline, was calling it a day. Fin. Fini. Finito. Over! They had a five and a half year run, which is especially impressive in Richmond, but after awhile, it's hard to keep it going when A) the lame competition (who I have also written for) has been around for twenty years and is backed financially by a corporate behemoth, and B) no one working there had any business sense, especially when it comes to making sure the check going to the printing press doesn't bounce.
So farewell, Punchline ... this is The End .... beeee-uuu-ti-ful friend, The End ....
But the bitch is, I had done a whole bunch of interviews over the last few months that were going to be compiled together into one big, smashing special comedy issue ... and now they're just sitting on my hard drive. I may try to fan them out somewhere by freelancing, but more people will probably read (and enjoy) them here. Hell, that was the beauty of Punchline: they were into running a 2,500 word article about Marc Maron, and fuck it if people didn't know who he was.
So let's continue with another very funny fellow who a lot of people may not know, Greg Behrendt.
Enjoy.
(Mul)Doomstone
GB: Hello?
Greg?
GB: Ryan?
Hey, how’s it going?
GB: Good, man. I can barely hear you.
Oh, really?
GB: Yeah. Call me back.
Okay, I’ll try you again.
GB: Try me again.
All right.
GB: All right.
(A FEW MOMENTS LATER)
GB: Ryan?
Can you hear me better now?
GB: Oddly enough, it is a little bit better now. A little.
It may be because I’m calling from a fax machine.
GB: Look at you living large, with a fax machine.
Yeah, I’m calling from my mother in law’s fax machine.
GB: That’s dedication.
Yep.
GB: How long have you been married?
It’ll be three years in January.
GB: Nice.
Yeah, and I’m here with my five week old son.
GB: Awesome! I’ve got a seven month old here.
Wild, isn’t it?
GB: Oh man, it’s like every cliché in the book, you know?
Exactly.
GB: You know? You don’t want to become that dude that’s like, “Man, I’ve got to tell all of these stories about my baby,” but then all of a sudden you’re that dude, and you can’t believe it.
I know, you actually have to go around saying, “I gotta tell ya’, man, it changed my life.”
GB: It’s so retarded.
Isn’t it?
GB: And that’s it, though, because it has totally changed your life. And then when people look at it from the other side of the fence … it’s retarded.
It’s like now, I don’t even have respect for people that don’t have kids. I don’t actually mean it like that …
GB: No, but it’s so true. And then I also have to go back and think about all of the bad thoughts I had about parenting and families, and how pathetic I thought people were when I saw them drive by with their car seat. I’d just be like, “What a loser.” Now I’m all about the car seat. It’s really funny, because that’s been the theme of my stand-up lately, this thing where I’m a year away from being forty, and I’m losing touch with being a young, vital person, but also trying to be that squared away dad, and trying to find that balance.
Do you think you’re finding that balance, or no?
GB: I think so. I mean, I know when I go down on Melrose, I’m the oldest fucking dude there, and nobody what’s to see me walking around with a sweat band and a cinched t-shirt, but … on the hand, I’m probably the coolest guy at the Home Depot.
I feel like now, when I’m walking around, I’m wondering, “Do I look like a guy who has kids, a guy who doesn’t have kids, or a guy that has kids and is trying to look like he doesn’t have kids?”
GB: That’s the guy I worry about. I mean, there are certain things I have that are permanent, like tattoos, and that’s just stuff I’ll have to live with.
I go into a record store now, and I’m like, “Am I fooling anyone?”
GB: No, no, I know! And record stores are like some of my favorite places to be in the world.
Same here.
GB: But there’s some of them that I go into now, and I’m just like, “I don’t want to buy this in front of this dude.”
Right.
GB: You know? And then there’s also the thing where you lose a certain amount of irony when you get to a certain age, you know? If I go into a store, and there’s a twenty year old kid wearing a Phil Collins t-shirt, he’s having a laugh. But if I put on a Phil Collins t-shirt for the same reason, I’m an asshole. Like, suddenly I’m that dude. But if I put on a Yo La Tengo shirt, it’s like, “Hmmm. Okay, trying too hard there, pops.”
Now, I usually go to the one really cool record store, but if I want to buy something really lame, I go to the Tower at the mall.
GB: Yeah, there’s definitely a type of music that I like, like I’m old enough to have liked Def Leppard when they were good. So if I want to buy the Saliva record, I’m not going to Aaron’s or Amoeba. I’m going right to Virgin and buy the Saliva, and pretend that it’s for a nephew, and let it go. And I think one thing is, if you’re famous, you can buy whatever you want, because you’re famous and eclectic or whatever. But I’m not famous. I like to think every now and then, like, “Yeah, they probably recognize me from my appearances on ‘Lie Like A Dog,’” but that’s not the case, you know?
Well, I’m going to start in on my actual list of questions now.
GB: Yeah, sure.
When did you first start doing stand-up?
GB: I’ve been doing it for fifteen years now. I was in an improv group in San Francisco with a bunch of kids, among them Margaret Cho, and one of the dudes came up to Margaret and I, and we were both sure he was going to throw us out of the group, and he said, “You two need to start doing stand-up.” And so we did, there in San Francisco.
How long did you do improv?
GB: I probably did improv for about a year. I did improv and all kinds of weird shit. I was playing in a band, and I was also at a Renaissance Fair.
Oh yeah?
GB: Yeah. I don’t like to say that out loud a lot, but … My training was originally in classical theater at the University of Oregon. I played rugby and was in the theater department, as well as playing in bands. That’s a theme that runs throughout: many, many, many unsuccessful bands have had the good fortune of having me in their group. And maybe that ensured their lack of success. But anyway, yeah, I started in San Francisco, and I guess that puts me at about, ummmm … 1986, is that right?
’86 or ’87, yeah.
GB: It was, it was February 29th, 1986 when I started. And at that time, it was sort of the tail end of the comedy boom, but everyone had passed through San Francisco. There was Jake Johannson, Dana Carvey, Ellen DeGenerous, Paula Poundstone, Dana Gould, everyone had come out of there. And then, like, Patton Oswalt had moved there, and Blaine Capatch. And all the kids would just come hang out, and we all just met out there, like Garofalo and Cross. So it was a pretty great, pretty buoyant time, a really fun time to start doing stand-up.
Had you even considered doing stand-up at all before hand?
GB: No. My mom was the one to say, “You’re funny. You’re not a very good athelete, but you’re funny.” And I’d be saying, “No, you don’t understand! I’m going to be a professional football player!” I had the wrong goals as it turns out. I did not end up in the NFL, and I did not tour the world with my band. But yeah, so my mom was the one to say, “You’re funny, you should do this.”
What was the biggest obstacle to overcome for you when you first started?
GB: I think the biggest obstacle, and I think this is true for most people, was just finding my own voice. When I first got on stage, I was just a combination of things that I liked. I was a big Jake Johannson fan, but I also liked Goldthwait, so I was this screaming, stuttering, stammering dude in shorts. I was like the screaming, Jake Johannson-slash-Bob Goldthwait-slash Paul Westerberg of stand-up (laughs). I don’t know what I was trying to do. That was basically it, though, trying to find an original voice on stage. Some people get right up there and come with an original voice. They have a harder time in the beginning, but do better in the end. For instance, David Cross, not only one of my good friends, but also one of my heroes, David was always David from day one on stage. And when David started out, people just didn’t know what to think of him. But he never tried to compromise, he never tried to appease the crowd, he stuck to his guns out there, and obviously it’s served him.
Did you feel that you were trying to compromise? Not in an incredibly overt sense, but like, “If I’m going to do stand-up, it’s got to be this way …”
GB: Yeah, I did. I felt like I needed to make people laugh as opposed to being funny, and those are two different things. There’s one thing to go up there and be funny, and be truthful with your stories and trust that you’re funny enough, and there’s another thing to make people laugh. And I wanted to work. I didn’t want to be a waiter or sell clothes anymore, which is what I did, I worked in a clothing store. I wanted to work in comedy, so I sort of looked for the shortest distance to that goal. But it wasn’t that I was a hack, because I wasn’t even funny enough to be a hack. I did my own thing, but my stage persona was really huge. But my stuff was weird, and a lot of times lacked punchlines, which people enjoy so much (laughs). In their comedy, they like a joke, as opposed to being shouted at. My things were like … I can’t even remember … I had some jokes about wrestling my grandmother (laughs). But the thing was, most of my jokes were not based on the truth. They were just a bunch of things that I thought were funny. And things didn’t really start to get funny for me until I started telling stories from my real life that were true. You know when you sit down at the dinner table with friends and you’re telling stories and you’re being funny? That’s what I always wanted to bring to the stage. And you don’t sit down with friends and make up stories. You tell the truth.
Did you have any grand realization that this is what you had to do, or did it just come over time?
GB: Again, it was my mom. My mom was there to say, “If you could be as funny on stage as you were last Saturday night when we were having dinner, you’d have the world in the palm of your hand.” And I was there to say, “Yeah, I don’t think you know what you’re talking about, Mom. Just back off (laughs).” My mom has always sort of been there to speak the truth and I’ve always sort of been there to say, “Uh, excuse me? Yeah, I don’t think so (laughs).”
GB: What was the biggest misconception you had about stand-up before you started?
GB: Well, here’s the thing: the first six years that I did stand-up, I played in bands, and I didn’t think stand-up was cool at all, and I didn’t tell a lot of people that I did stand-up. My friends knew I did it, but I didn’t tell other people in the world about it. When I would meet people – actually, when I would meet girls – I would tell them that I was in a band. Because I thought stand-up wasn’t cool. Not that my bands were that cool. But I think the biggest misconception I had about it was that I could make a living at it, that I could live off of doing stand-up. And I think for a time that was true, but not anymore. Now I think you have to have a little bit more going on. I mean, a few guys have done it, like Hedberg, who’s great. I mean, guys do it, but it’s hard.
Was there a time when it became clear that you wouldn’t make a living doing it, or was it just by talking to other comedians?
GB: Uh, a little bit of both. I mean, we were right there at the end of the comedy boom, and we saw that people just wouldn’t be able to work like that. And then seeing people like David and Jeneane, I mean, Jeneane got into film and all that stuff, so it was like, “Oh, this is how you fill up a theater.” Whereas the generation or two before us, like Seinfeld or Drew Carey, worked for ten, fifteen years apiece just doing stand-up, and being big headlining stand-ups. And pure stand-ups. And then it became a thing where the guys who could go on the road were not always very good, because they were taking their act and whittling it down into something they could take into any town and have it work, and I think when you do that you end up compromising any unique vision, because you’re just sort of telling people what they want to hear.
Did you try to work on the road?
GB: A little bit. I had periods where I tried, but I never worked a whole lot on the road, because I always thought there were better audiences in the city.
Why do you think that is?
GB: I just think there’s a more comedy savvy crowd, you know? I mean, we all – me, David [Cross], Janeane [Garofalo], Bob Odenkirk, Kathy Griffin, whoever – we all became part of this alternative comedy scene when comedy clubs starting closing down, and there really was very limited space where you could get up and perform. And what happened was, a lot of us just started performing in alternative rooms, which is really how the whole thing got started. I mean, we couldn’t work at The Imporv, because there wasn’t any room for us at The Improv, so we starting going to coffee houses and the like, and then places like The UnCabaret and Largo starting opening up, but we really where just doing these rooms because we couldn’t get on any other place. And there was a whole bunch of us that all hung out together and worked with each other and went to each other’s show’s, and that’s what sort of became the alternative comedy … thing.
My thought about what alternative comedy is or was has always been just an a natural evolution, like moving from “The Twist” to “White Rabbit.” In the end, it’s still something you’re going to listen to and dig. It might be louder or weirder, but it’s still comedy.
GB: Absolutely. The end result has always been to get laughs. That’s a big misconception. I mean, I’ve never not wanted people to laugh. It just so happened that I found this acceptance closer to home. Like last month, I went to Florida and played Uncle Funny’s, and had a great time and had great shows, people liked it. So I will go anywhere that there is a microphone and an opportunity to make people laugh. But I just found that I got more reward if I went and did these other rooms with these other cats. And I say the word “cats” because I am one hundred and fifty years old (laughs).
Are you aware of the disdain the phrase “alternative comedy” has for some, probably more hacky comedians?
GB: Sure, and it’s because they have a misconception of what it means. And for a short period of time it was the thing that was getting attention, and anytime something gets some attention, people are going to put it down. And that’s just the nature of show business and especially the nature of comedy. But, like with any group, there were people who said they did alternative comedy that just weren’t funny. A lot of alternative comedy is based on personal experience, but one the downfalls, especially because so many people working the rooms didn’t really leave the city, especially here in Los Angeles, a lot of the comedy became focused on industry. You would have a lot of comics talk about how shitty movies are, about how shitty their audition was, and that kind of stuff. And I know a lot of people took umbrage with that, so … I don’t know.
What was the best advice you ever received when you were starting out in comedy?
GB: The best advice I ever received? The best thing I ever heard was something I actually read from Paula Poundstone, and it was about taking comedy classes and how ridiculous that is. And she said if you’re funny, you’re funny, and what you should do is go out and do your set and after your set, instead of spending money on a comedy class, you should buy yourself a cranberry juice, and sit there and think about your set. And I always thought that was good advice. I mean, people always ask, “How did you know you wanted to do this?” And you just know. You know. You know you want to do it, and you know this is where you want to be. I mean, I’m not going to call it a calling, but it’s something like that. You just end up in front of a microphone. And even when you eat it, there’s a voice inside your head that says, “Yeah, I know we ate it, but we have something to say, so let’s hang in there.”
Lewis Black said it’s like a calling, but there’s nothing biblical about it.
GB: That’s right, yeah. And it’s a weird thing because it’s an incredibly bold thing, even more bold than being in a band, to stand up in front of people and say, “Ok, I am hilarious, and I have things to tell you (laughs).” Because that’s a pretty big wager. But you just know that you want to do it. And there’s really nothing like it. And it keeps getting better. I’m sober now for six years, which kind of coincided with the break-up of this band I was in. Actually, the true story is that we broke up, and they reformed two days later without me (laughs). And I realized then that stand-up would be a really cool thing to do. And it would be a lot better if I was really good at it, and I put a lot of time into it. And it’s just my favorite thing in the world to do, except for spending time with my family. I’ve done some acting here and there, and I would love to do more, but it doesn’t even compare to doing stand-up.
It seems different than playing in a band, because even when a crowd is ignoring a band, they’ll usually applaud after a song. It doesn’t seem as brutal.
GB: Yeah, yes and no. I mean, it does bother you after awhile, especially if the five of you or the four of you or whatever think you’re really doing something great. But at least you have the other people around you to share it with. You go down as a team. And I’ve always thought it’s harder for an audience member to watch a comic bomb on stage. I mean, I’ve certainly eaten it, and it’s bad, but it’s much harder for the person watching. Much harder.
Why do you think that?
GB: Empathy. I think people are generally good, and don’t like to see someone doing badly. And they’re seeing someone live through one of their greatest fears, being the fear of public speaking and the fear of blowing it in front of a room full of people. They always say that public speaking is one of people’s biggest fears. And especially when you’re trying to be funny. It’s one thing to get up there and bore people, but it’s another thing to get up there and attempt to be funny, and not be. I get embarrassed sometimes when I go see a band, and they’re trying to be funny in between the songs, you know? It’s just like, “Dude, no no no no …you’re not funny.” Bands are often trying to be funny, and it’s just so weird, because you’ll be like, “Dude, you’re just a great songwriter, and your jokes suck (laughs).”
There’s that old saying about rock stars wanting to be comedians and comedians wanting to be rock stars.
GB: Yeah, I think that’s true. I mean, I definitely want to. Ever since I bought that first Aerosmith record, I was like, “That the path I’m on.” I just can’t … sing (laughs).
“If only I could play well …”
GB: Yeah. I still have dreams of putting together a surf band, but I just found that this is what I want to do, and I really can connect with people this way. But the big thing to me would be to mean as much to someone doing this, to have as big as an impact as so many people have had on me musically. Just to have people say, “Yeah, we went to see Greg Behrendt and we had the best fucking time.” That’s what strikes me about seeing a band I really like or even a comic I really like, it makes me feel good, and makes me feel better about my life.
By contrast, what was the worst advice anyone ever gave you?
GB: The worst advice? Uh … wear a jacket (laughs). “Seriously, just dress it up, man. You can’t be going on stage wearing shorts and shit (laughs).”
Did you ever take that to heart?
GB: You know what? When I did Letterman, I was told I had to wear a suit, because it was a special week, and I regret that. It’s just not what I do. I mean, I don’t have a problem wearing a suit when it’s appropriate, but it just wasn’t the vibe I was bringing or whatever. But I was just like, “I don’t wanna wear a suit.” I came in there was my jeans and a gray V-neck sweater, I thought that would be nice for Dave. And then the next thing I know I had to go out and buy a suit. Now, don’t get me wrong, I kicked it in a beautiful Hugo Boss, all black (laughs). But that’s just not the vibe I’m trying to bring when I do stand-up. It’s a weird thing. It’s like suggesting to a band, “Listen, fellas: we’re gonna need outfits (laughs)” Unless it’s The Hives, because they’ll be more than happy to wear an outfit.
You know, I’ve seen plenty of comedy, and seen plenty of people get upset about comedy, but I have never seen anyone complain about what the comedian was wearing.
GB: I know, and it should just be about what makes the performer comfortable. I mean, whenever you see a band, they’re not just bringing their songs, they’re almost also bringing a lifestyle, a whole thing where you say, “I like them, I like their songs, I like the lyrics, I like the way they look, I like where they’re coming from, blah blah blah blah blah.” And the cool thing was when I did “The Tonight Show,” I was like, “Hey, I’m going to wear this jacket and these jeans,” and they were like, “Yeah, sure, wear whatever you want.” So what I’m trying to say is that I enjoyed my clothes much better on “The Tonight Show (laughs).”
You’ve talked about what you like about doing comedy, but what are some things you don’t like?
GB: About comics or doing comedy?
Either or.
GB: I mean, I have some really super-special comic friends, but comedians in general are a really sour lot. They’re competitive and mean.
Why do you think that is?
GB: Ummm … I don’t know. Maybe everybody feels that way about whatever field they’re in. I think a lot of comedy is about being bitter and being cynical, so you kind of nurture that. But I don’t know. Comics always feel like they’ve been screwed by life, and they kind of deserve something for their hard work. Like whenever someone gets something in comedy, people bitch about it all the time. “Well, fuck that guy, why’d he get that? He’s not funny.” They can be an incredibly unsupportive lot of people. And I also think that comedy has never been given a very dignified place among show business. I think we’re basically one level above street performers. It’s never promoted in a cool way. And working in comedy clubs, the comedian is just one of the elements, and not necessarily the most important. Working in comedy clubs, you’re on par with the fucking hot wings (laughs). Unless you’re like a super-duper star. I mean, there are definitely exceptions. Cobb’s Comedy Club, The Largo, there are definitely clubs where that is not the case. But that’s definitely something I don’t like about comedy. Like, they would ask comedians to work in a doorway if they could (laughs). They don’t always recognize what we do. They’ll be like, “Why don’t you just be funny?” They don’t think of it, and I hate to use the word art form, but they don’t think of it as an art form a lot of times.
Why do you think comedy has such a lack of respect? I mean, I’m thinking, if you were to name the biggest stars of the last twenty years, I think both Jerry Seinfeld and Eddie Murphy would be on the list, both coming from stand-up. It produced these enormously popular people, but as a thing to do, it’s just not cool.
GB: Yeah. There was a time, like when my parents were younger and living in San Francisco, one night they went to The Purple Onion to see Bob Newhart, and then they cruised up to The Fairmont to see Bill Cosby, all in one night.
Wow.
GB: It was a very cool thing to do, a very hipster thing to do, sort of like jazz. And then during the comedy boom, people starting building these clubs, and names like Uncle Funny’s get thrown around, and all of the sudden you’re one step away from being a clown. And I don’t know why. And I think one thing the alternative scene was trying to do, at least a little bit, was to say, “Hey, this doesn’t have to be completely jerked off and pandering.” It can be refined story telling. People like [Marc] Maron and myself are saying, “Hey, I want to tell some stories about myself, and I want to share an experience, and I’m not just going to pummel you over the head with punchlines, I’m just going to try and tell some relatable stories,” you know?
I think every comedian has a story about the worst gig they ever had, but what’s the worst gig you ever had that happened after you should have had a gig that bad? Like, not when you had to take anything offered to you, but after that.
GB: Right. It was probably two months ago. I did a place in San Diego called Fourth & B, and I did it because, well, the money wasn’t great, but the room was like 1,000 people, and I do love to work, and it was a room full of people and I had heard it was really good. And I got onstage and just a few minutes into my act, these two dudes up front just started going, “You suck, dude. You suck, you suck,” and just going on and on and on. And I tried to ignore them as long as I could, because the rest of the place couldn’t even hear them. And then eventually I had it out with these guys, and I wasn’t even very funny about it (laughs). And I just thought, “You know what? I’m far enough along in my career where I really don’t need to do this.” And I just really started to have it out with these guys. I was just like, “You guys want to step outside? Because I am ready to do that. I am ready to fuck you up.” And I put the mic back in the stand and I storm off stage, and I can’t find the door (laughs). And I had to come back onstage to leave. It was pathetic, dude, just pathetic. And I just went right past the dudes and got in my car and went home. But to put the thing in context, once someone starts going, “You suck, you suck, you suck,” you’re kind of done. Especially when you’re then not being funny, it’s hard to convince people, “Well, no, actually I am hilarious (laughs).” You can start throwing your credits around, but nobody really gives a shit. “Well, you should have seen me on ‘The Tonight Show.’ I was very funny! (laughs).”
I saw George Carlin once just go apeshit on an usher using a laser light to show people their seats. I mean, he just snapped. And to me, it was hilarious because it was Carlin and all, but even for him, the show never really got back on track.
GB: No, it’s a weird thing. Because there are some people that just want to participate. I mean, I was just down in Florida, and the crowds were very cool, and Uncle Funny’s was very cool, and I can’t believe that sentence just came out of my mouth (laughs). Uncle Funny’s was very cool. Wow. But they were cool, the staff was cool and all that. But these Navy guys came in, and they just wanted to talk through the whole thing, and afterwards, they were like, “You should use us in your show!” and I’m just like, “Don’t you get what I’m doing?” I mean, a lot of people don’t even know what comedy is. They don’t understand what they’ve come out to see, and they don’t have the time or patience to figure it out. To a lot of people, comedy is just one big rip-on-you fest, and I don’t like that at all. I really don’t like comedy that is just insulting at all. I mean, to me, it’s like the difference between Tom Green and “Jackass.” Tom Green I don’t really like because someone else is a lot of times the victim of his stuff. “Jackass” I like, because they are always the victims of their own bullshit, you know? I think it’s really easy to just be mean to people, and I just don’t dig it.
I’m in Virginia Beach right now, which is right next to Norfolk, where the biggest Naval base on the planet is. So the Navy guys come out to the comedy club here all the time, and it’s just a party for them. And they’re going to involve themselves in the show one way or the other.
GB: Yeah, I know.
So stay away.
GB: (laughs) Yeah, that’s right. It’s funny. I had just sort of assumed because of the military training or whatever, they would just sit quiet.
No way.
GB: And the other thing I was thinking was, “You guys don’t have that many days off. What are you doing in a comedy club? (laughs) Go chase some skirt or whatever.”
How have you seen comedy change since you started?
GB: How have I seen it change? [Pause] I don’t know. I mean, I think there are a lot more good comics working these days, and not being successful at it. There are people I see now and think, “How come you are not on television everywhere?” I mean, there are just so many great comics. But I don’t really know, but it’s a good question.
Why do you think it is that there seem to be so many brilliant comedians that never seem to get a break?
GB: I think part of what it is, is that anytime anybody does something in television, they’re doing it to make money. I mean, when I did my HBO special, it was very nice to have that special, but they also had me in a development deal for a TV show. So they do things with the intention of making some more television. They don’t do things for the love of comedy. I mean, you have to give Comedy Central some credit for giving out those specials, because they run them all the time, and they’re doing like six or eight of them every six months. And that’s pretty cool, and that’s what they should be doing. That to me is the most important thing going on in comedy right now. And I don’t always agree with all of their choices, but at least they’re giving people the opportunity to get on stage and be funny.
They seem to mix it up at least a little bit, with their choices.
GB: No, they do mix it up. They mix it, they try and make good choices, you know what I mean? There are two people doing specials right now, Robert Hawkins and Jackie Kashen, who are two really, really funny people. Robert Hawkins is just a scream. I mean, that dude, I saw him at The Improv like three months ago and I was like, “God, I need to write.” You know? Some comics you see and you just go, “Man, I gotta work. That guy is so good, I really gotta go and work.”
Tell me about this consulting gig on “Sex and The City.” How did that come about?
GB: Yeah, that’s pretty fun. Michael Patrick King, the executive producer, directed my HBO special. And two years ago, when they had all of the guys on the show, like Aidan and all of that, they wanted to have a straight guy on the staff, because at the time, the staff was seven women and two gay guys. And Michael Patrick King told me, “We need someone to come over here and tell us what pussy tastes like (laughs).” So I was like, “Yeah, dude. I’m in.” So then I would go there once or twice a week, and consult. I wouldn’t even have to bring a pen. I would just go there and sit around and talk about everything, about sexual experiences, whatever, and see what would be applicable for the show. And I’m sitting in this room with seven women talking about sex and I was newly married, and just like, “This is weird.” Like, would my wife even want me to be talking about this? I felt dirty, like I had to go take a shower or something. So we would talk about whatever, and see what would be viable for the show. It’s great. I’ve done it for two years, and it’s just awesome. Last year I did it while I wrote and executive produced, and acting in a pilot for Comedy Central called “The Lemur.”
I was going to ask you about that. I saw this article in The New York Times in early September about a thing they were doing at Largo, screening pilots that didn’t get picked up, and there was a picture of you in there.
GB: It was a morning radio show thing, a parody of morning radio shows. We did it with Troy Miller and the people from Dakota Films …
The people who did “Mr. Show.”
GB: Yeah, those guys were great. And it was a blast. And it didn’t test well. I think some things I do have a tendency to come off as too inside, you know? In the best of possible world, it would have come across as a cross between “The Larry Sanders Show” and “Fernwood 2 Night.” You know, this fictitious world where these people have this little radio show that they think is a big deal, and then they interviewed real guests. Like, American Hi-Fi was a guest, and then Brian Posehn played a character, and then Jimmy Pardo, who’s a hilarious comic, he played the manager of the station. It was a blast. In fact, give me your address when we’re done, and I’ll send you a copy.
That’d be awesome.
GB: And it was good, though. I mean, to a certain extent, I didn’t totally disagree with it not being on television. I mean, maybe it was just too inside of a joke or whatever. But to executive produce, and write on it was great. Having worked with “Sex and The City,” and being in the room of a successful show, and then have the opportunity to run my own room, it was fun.
I asked Patton Oswalt about this, because of that thing he did with Jimmy Kimmel on “Crank Yankers,” where they played this goofy morning show team, “The Boomer and The Nudge” …
GB: Right, right.
So, what is it about radio that is just so bad, so worth parodying?
GB: I think what it is … I think, ok, if we’re funny, then radio lives near but is not funny. It’s a weird way of coming at comedy. It’s usually dudes who have learned how to speak but haven’t learned to be funny, so their gift is saying [in perfect overblown radio voice], “Ten thousand dollars in party cash!” They have that thing, and they do things that just sound like they’re funny, and they laugh at themselves. And comedians have to do a lot of radio, because when you do clubs, they usually want you to go on the local radio show beforehand. But for me, I’m a real music fan and also a real radio fan. So in my way, it was kind of like a tribute. Because as much as I don’t like a lot of that and think it’s dumb, it’s also fun to listen to. It can be reassuring sometimes, you know, a voice on the radio coming at you live. Especially when you’re driving around or whatever, sometimes I’ll listen to those shows, because I just like to hear people talk.
I agree. It’s frustrating to me because I think that radio is the most underutilized of all mediums. I mean it could be so great, and it rarely is.
GB: No, you’re right. There’s a real stranglehold on it, with Clear Channel and whoever, and they all program the same thing wherever you go. You’re right, it’s totally underutilized. I mean, I like NPR, but I do think that, aside from coming with its own agenda, it’s filled with people who don’t like broadcasting. It’s like, “Get near the mic, dude.” They trying so hard to not be other radio that it’s a disadvantage. So sometimes those morning radio shows seem more honest than those guys. I mean, they’re goons, but they believe in what they’re doing. But what I want to find is that happy medium, sort of like a loud NPR. I’ve tried to get on NPR, because I love radio. My dream is to just retire someday and just have a radio show. I’d love to have a sports talk radio show, except about music. I would love that. But I totally agree with you. It’s a great medium and having to do a lot of driving, I listen to a ton of it.
It just seems like the potential is right there.
GB: Yeah, totally. But it’s just super-conservative, and super locked into whatever it has become, and it’s really difficult to break that. I did internet radio for about a year, but …
Yeah, I was out of work that summer, and used to listen to and watch that show, like, everyday.
GB: The ComedyWorld show?
Yeah.
GB: Yeah. It was really cool for awhile, and then the direction started to change. They wanted everyone to be like Stern or whatever, and have strippers on or whatever, and that’s just not what I do. So by the end I was pretty miserable there. But it was a cool experience and I was hoping it might lead to some real, actual radio gigs.
No, it was a really cool show. It sounded like radio, but it was funny and interesting.
GB: Cool, thanks.
Well, I think that’s all I have for you, Greg.
GB: Cool.
I appreciate you taking the time to do this.
GB: Oh, no problem. I enjoyed it. I just read your Mitch Hedberg interview and thought it was real good, some funny stuff.
Thanks.
GB: Hey, give me your address. I'll send you a copy of "The Lemur."
You got a pen?
GB: Yep.