Writing is a lot of work, and as it happens, I am not a fan of work. One of the reasons I became an improviser was so that my workload would be light. I don't have to learn lines or go for wardrobe fittings. I don't have to travel with equipment or an entourage (mainly because no one wants to do things for me). I just need a stage, and someone to work with, and off I go. Simple. Easy. No heavy lifting. The best thing about writing is that I am sitting down while I do it. The worst thing, and I cannot stress this enough, is that it is work.

If you were to transcribe any of the scenes we did on
Whose Line is it Anyway?
, they would rarely, if ever, make sense. Each scene was a mixture of suggestions from the audience, our own creativity, and sometimes, liquor. Improvisation is an art form of the moment, and each moment can lead to a multitude of tangents that for that brief time make absolute sense. Writing a book, though, means making sense
forever
. That's work. And don't get me started on punctuation and spellingâ¦(Those three little dots that lead to nowhere? It's called an ellipsis. Who knew? Who needs to know?)

I never wanted to write a book. (Period.)

Don't get me wrong. I love books. From the very first classic I readâ
The Cat in the Hat
âI was hooked. Books made up the bulk of my birthday and Christmas presents. Then I discovered the public library. Having been blessed with the ability to read quickly, and early, I'd take out seven books every week, finish them, then head back for more. Every genre intrigued me. Louis L'Amour westerns, Isaac Asimov's
Foundation Trilogy
, Dashiell Hammett's crime novels,
Peanuts
and
Doonesbury
comic-strip collections. Books taught me everything from how to stickhandle a puck and build models to how to cook dinner, mix a cocktail, and find a cheap hotel in Paris. Books were invaluable to me during the raging hormones of puberty. Finding a quiet corner in the library and perusing
The Happy Hooker, Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex but Were Afraid to Ask
, and
The Sensuous Man
readied me for the onset of manhood that I was sure was just around the corner. It wasn't, but that's another story.

Then I discovered used-book storesâthe best places to get discounted second-hand comics. (Those were the days when a giant
Superman
went for a quarter and vendors didn't know how valuable the vintage titles were.) Soon I was scanning the shelves for hidden treasures: a dog-eared copy of David Niven's exceptional memoir
The Moon's a Balloon
; Agatha Christie's last Poirot book,
Curtain
, missing its cover, but thankfully none of its pages; Stephen King's
Salem's Lot,
filled with what I hope were coffee stains. (By the way, Steve, how can you write a thousand-page book every year? Come on. It's insane!) I can still smell that strange book smell that made me feel I had been transported back in time. There is no aroma that takes me back to a time of my life more vividly than the scent of a musty tome. Yeah, you read that right. Musty tome. Not only my rap name, but also an example of the only kind of writing I thought I was capable of before
Not Quite the Classics
.

Write a book? Me? (Question mark.)

It all started with my manager, Jeff Andrews, saying, “Col, why don't you write a book?” Jeff is constantly trying to get me to work. In the twenty years that he has represented me, he's never steered me wrong (except for that time he got me involved in a three-day New York dance recital where I had to play one of Cinderella's stepsisters in drag). It's one of the reasons I love him. Another reason is that he's the only person in the world I can say no to. So naturally when he brought up this idea, I said no. What would I write about? My life? I have been very fortunate and have had a wonderful life, but to be honest, it's really not that interesting. It would go something like this:

I was born. Grew up in the normal way. Got married to a beautiful woman, had a wonderful kid. Got a British TV show called
Whose Line is it Anyway?
, which became successful and moved to the U.S. All the cast members were good friends, so no Hollywood gossip there. It led to other work. The marriage is still happy, the boy is now a lovely young man, and â¦ here we are.

See? At most I could stretch it into a pamphlet. Undeterred, Jeff got me a literary agent, who secured a book deal.

I had to write a book. Damn. (Expletive.)

I knew for sure that this “book” would not be a novel. I wanted to incorporate my improv skills into this terrifying adventure, and as a practitioner of short scenes, short stories seemed the way to go. Then I was hit with a stroke of, if not genius, at the very least, high-functioning smarty-pantedness.

There is an improv game called First Line, Last Line, in which the beginning and the ending are supplied by the audience and the improvisers make up the rest. I could do
that
in a book. Take the first and last line of famous novels, make up the middle, and voila! So I found twelve classics with first and last lines that inspired me. That was tougher than it sounds. Many great novels have a terrific first line, but the last line can be a killer. Take, for example, Jane Austen's
Sense and Sensibility
.

First line: “The family of Dashwood had been long settled in Sussex.”

Nice. Vague enough to go anywhere, but still has characters and a location.

Last line: “Between Barton and Delaford there was that constant communication which strong family affection would naturally dictate; and among the merits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked as the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.”

That's pretty specific. It's also lengthy and dull.

So I went back to my first favorite: Dr. Seuss's
The Cat in the Hat
. My zombie version flowed out of me like one of those rare, perfectly improvised scenes. Other stories lurched and buckled. No flow. They were the dreaded
work
. Some surprised me, like the Sherlock Holmes tale, which needed the least amount of editing and was the most fun to write. Through it all, I learned something: I despised writing. Not the conjuring of the story, but the actual typing. My fingers could never keep up with my mind. (I believe this is what one would call a First World problem.) Still, I got through it, and with the end of every story came a feeling of accomplishment.

I couldn't have done it alone. Thanks to my wife, Debra McGrath, whose support and undying love definitely colored some of the women found in this book. Thanks to my son, Luke, without question my best work, who thinks I'm funny even when I'm not. To Jeff Andrews, for pushing me into this. To Carly Watters, my ever-supportive literary agent, whose notes and advice on my first three test stories were invaluable. To Adrienne Kerr, my editor, whose enthusiasm and gentle critique took me further than I thought I could go. To every author, published and unpublished, just for doing the work. Kudos!

And finally, to the writers whose lines I appropriated, thanks. I may not have read all your books, but I have seen all the movies.

So there you go. All the groaning and moaning, all the rewriting and editing, all the deadlines, missed and otherwise, are done.

I wrote a book! (Exclamation point.)

A Study in Ha Ha

INSPIRED BY ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE'S

A STUDY IN SCARLET

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table.
His back was to me, but I could ascertain from his posture and almost preternatural stillness that he was working through some problem with that incredibly nimble mind of his. Mindful of how interruptions during this process would annoy the great consulting detective, I strove to show no sign of occupying the room.

“Watson, do sit down!” Holmes barked, in a tone equal parts irritation and patronizing dismissiveness. “You are one of the few people I know who can actually be more disruptive being stealthy. You're louder than a bagpiper at a Scottish wedding.”

“I do apologize, Holmes, for disturbing you. But to be fair, I too am a tenant here and should be allowed space to breathe. Would you not agree?”

“It was not your breathing that alerted me to your presence,” Holmes said dryly.

“What was it, then? Please do tell, so that I can endeavor to eradicate this predilection from my repertoire.”

“Your sarcasm is duly noted. Those Oxfords you're wearing emitted a C-sharp identical to a note that was misplayed during a performance by the Lower Slaughter String Quartet at a charity ball I was unfortunate enough to attend a fortnight ago.”

I stood still for a moment processing the information. “Oh, you mean my shoes squeaked! Dear Lord in heaven, Holmes! It is a fortunate thing that our life expectancy is not shortened with each word we use, otherwise you would not have made it out of the nursery.”

Holmes, quite surprisingly, smiled. “That was amusing, Watson.”

“Oh. Ah â¦ thank you.”

“Yes, quite amusing. The premise that life expectancy is inversely proportionate to loquaciousness, paired with the obviously silly supposition that I was a verbose toddlerâyes. Quite amusingâ¦” Holmes trailed off, making some notes.

“Is there tea?” I inquired.

“Yes,” Holmes muttered. “Here.” He gestured to a side table.

I poured myself a cup and sat across from him. “Since I have interrupted you anyway, I suppose no harm could come of my asking you what is it that concerns you so. A new case, perhaps? Is Moriarty up to his old tricks? Or could it be some family crisis with Mycroft?”

“Watson,” Holmes said, impatiently tapping his pipe in the ashtray, “would you like me to answer, or do you wish to make endless suppositions based on not one fact in your possession?”

My sheepish silence was answer enough.

“Fine, then, let me illuminate you.” With that, he bounded out of his chair and, grabbing me by the arm, led me to the lamp on the far wall. Then he leaned back, crossed his arms, and laughed.

“Holmes, have you taken leave of your senses? What are you doing?”

“Why, Watson, I am
illuminating
you!”

I sneered. “Oh, I see. A pun, is it? I suppose you think that hilarious?”

“No. Though I was hoping for a more favorable reaction from you. What with the pun being the basest of all humor, I was sure that you would be affected in a highly positive way.”

“Now look here, Holmesâ¦” Before I could continue my protestation, he rushed back to his breakfast table and proceeded to scribble feverishly on some foolscap. I must confess that his behavior was becoming increasingly irritating. I thought I had become quite inured to the eccentricities of my friend, but these ramblings, followed by bursts of physical exertion, were beyond the pale. “Holmes! I must insist that you inform me as to what the blazes is going on!”

Holmes looked up at me and, for the briefest of moments, smiled. He jumped from the chair and made his way to the fireplace, then whipped around to face me. Quite often, Holmes became very dramatic in the lead-up to one of his pronouncements. In this instance, he reminded me of Sarah Bernhardt about to launch into the “To be or not to be” soliloquy.

Holmes seemed to make a mental note of that, then spoke. “Watson, as you know, I get bored quite easily. Since there has been a paucity of truly challenging cases lately, I have been dabbling in various experiments to keep my mind limber.”

My eyes involuntarily darted to the spot where I had hidden his needles.

“I am not speaking of the
remedies
I employ to keep my spirits up.”

I glanced at the liquor cabinet.

“Nor have I overindulged in any other vice, Watson. I think you shall be surprised when I tell you what has ignited my interest.”

My eyes strayed to the spot where I had secreted some reading material that, though in my possession purely for scientific reasons, may be considered inappropriate even for gentlemen of the medical sciences.

“Watson, are you hiding anything else in our rooms? Your eyes are bulging and darting about like that of a stroke victim. It is very off-putting.”

“Holmes, what is it? What is this new fascination?”

“Humor!”

“Humor?”

“Humor!”

“I'm afraid you've lost me.”

“Last night, after supper, I became quite restless.” His eyes fixed upon me with his customary intensity. “I tell you, Watson, you will never grasp what torture it is when I have nothing to occupy my mind. I cannot rest. I must always have something percolating. As I'm sure you are aware, I am often trying to perfect my ability to blend in at any event, in any location.”

“Ah yes, your penchant for disguises.”

“Correct. I had perfected a camouflage that would allow me to go anywhere in the city and fit right in. I made my way toâ”

“What was the disguise?” I asked.

“It makes no difference to what I'm about to tell you. I made my way to the Lambkin and Puffin, a boisterous pub inâ”

“I'm sure it wasn't a beggar.”

“What?”

“Your disguise. Not a beggar. You said it could get you anywhere. Being done up like a beggar would make you stand out in most quarters. A postman! Noâ¦not at night, surely.”

“As I said before, the disguise matters not. May I get on with my story, Watson?”

“A dog? A dog could be most places. Were you camouflaged as a dog?”

“Think, man! How could I pass as a dog?”

“Well, you'd have to remove your pipe.”

“Madeline!”

“Excuse me?”

“Madeline was my disguise. A lady! Watson, I was dressed as a lady whom I have named Madeline. In this guise I could be anything from a lowly streetwalker to the wife of a well-to-do banker. Depending on station or location, of course.”

At the thought of Holmes dressed as a woman, I became slightly ill. “Depending more on the amount of light, I should think.”

“I'll have you know the disguise was a resounding success! I had many an admiring glance tossed my way â¦
Are you all right, old boy? You look a trifle green.”

“No, no, I'm fine. Please finish your story.”

“To test my disguise, I walked around joining various groups of revelers in escalating stages of drunkennessâthe revelers, not Iâand was drawn to one group in particular whose members were enthralled, listening to a large, portly fellow telling stories.” Holmes paused, and his eyes seemed to burrow right through me. “
Funny
stories. Watson, I don't know if the stories were true, but they seemed so. They illumined our social mores, our intimate relationships with others, and all with a comical twist that quite accentuated our human foibles. Even I chortled at least twice and outright guffawed three times.” Holmes fell silent.

I felt that I should add to the conversation. “Oh.” It wasn't much, but it seemed to urge Holmes on.

“Then the most amazing thing happened! Amazing and infuriating. I said something in reply to one of the monologues, and the crowd, as if they were a single organism, laughed. A loud laugh. Watson, I have never experienced such a feeling. Every nerve ending seemed on fire, and I was flushed with some emotion that I still can't put a name to. It was as if some euphoric drug had just entered my bloodstream. It was â¦”

It was the first time I could recall Holmes ever being speechless. It was most disturbing.

“Holmes, you said it was amazing
and
infuriating. Why infuriating?”

Holmes looked at me with almost haunted eyes. “I can't remember what I said. Not one part of it.” He paused. “But this experience has spurred me on to a new endeavor. One that might actually bring me happiness. I call itâ¦stand-up comedy!”

“Stand-up comedy?”

“Yes. On the first Saturday of every month, the Lambkin and Puffin stages a talent show made up of the locals performing whatever party tricks they can devise. I will write ten to twenty minutes of highly humorous material and I will perform three weeks hence. I will write comedy and I will stand up as I interpret it. Stand-up comedy!”

A look of skepticism must have traveled my countenance, for Holmes fixed his gaze upon me.

“Yes, Watson? You have something to say?”

“Well, Holmes, I think thatâWhat I mean to say is thatâAnd this is coming from a place of friendship and nothing else. I certainly don't want toâ”

“Spit it out, man!”

“You're not funny.”

Holmes looked as though he had found a centipede in his cock-a-leekie. “Not. Funny?”

“Well, not in a humorous way, certainly. Your sarcasm can be amusing sometimes, if one is not the target of its venomous bite. But I certainly don't think of you as one of the great wits in my social sphere.”

“You laughed at something I said only a few days ago at the grocers,” Holmes said indignantly.

“Um. No. No, it was not what you said. It was when you banged your knee against the coconuts. It made a funny sound.”

“Coconuts?”

“Yes, coconuts.”

Holmes inspected his shoes for a few moments. “I must confess, Watson, you have hurt me in a manner I did not think possible.”

“I do apologize â¦”

“No. No need. It just spurs me on to prove you wrong. I believe I am up to the challenge.” He ran to the calendar on the wall and circled a date. “On this day, a mere three weeks from now, I shall prove to you that I am, in fact, quite humorous. I shall expect you to be in the audience when I take to the stage.”

“Certainly, Holmes, certainly.”

“Then as the cannibal toymaker said to his friend, âThe game's a foot!'” Holmes stood there awaiting a reaction.

I could not give him the one he desired. “Perhaps you should stay away from puns.” I smiled weakly.

Holmes glared and then made his way to his study, leaving me with a burgeoning sense of foreboding.

In the following days, Holmes kept to his study, writing furiously, collecting or discarding premises, joke structures, and other mysterious fancies. After one three-hour period hunkered down in his room, he bounded out with such vigor that I expected him to shout “Eureka!” and explain Archimedes' principle to me.

“It's mathematical, Watson! All
mathematical
!”

“I'm sure I would agree, Holmes, if in fact I knew what you were talking about.”

“Comedy! It follows the same mathematical principles as music. It's all about rhythm and emphasis. Dah dah dah dah dahâ¦dah dah
dah
dah.” He laughed.

“It might be funnier with actual words.”

Before Holmes could dispatch a withering riposte, Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door.

“Mr. Holmes, a package has just come forâ”

Before the poor woman could finish, Holmes had leapt towards her, grabbed the package, and begun ripping it open.

“Well, I never,” she gasped.

“Now, Mrs. Hudson, I'm almost positive that that isn't true,” Holmes retorted.

I'm not sure why, but I burst into laughter and was at once mortified. “Please excuse us, Mrs. Hudson, but we are in the middle of a case that is quiteâ”

“I don't want to know about it,” she said. “I should have rented to accountants. They know how to treat a landlady, I'm sure.” She left in a huff.

“Watson, it's come!” Holmes held aloft a leather-bound book, quite thick and possessing that intoxicatingly musty odor exuded by only the most ancient of tomes.

“What is it, Holmes?”

“This, my dear Watson, is the oldest joke book in existence.
Philogelos: The Laugh Addict
. Attributed to a pair of Greeks named Hierocles and Philagrius.”

“Surely you can't be thinking of using these jokes! They were written centuries ago! How could any of this be relatable today? This certainly will not help your erected comedy.”

“Stand-up comedy, Watson, stand-up. And you may be surprised to know that many of these jokes are still relatable to modern times. For exampleâ¦” He quickly leafed through the book.

“Ha! No, noâ¦ That would only work if one knew that the ancients believed lettuce to be an aphrodisiac.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “You didn't happen to know that, did you?”

“No, Holmes, I didn't. Is there any reason I should?”

“No, no, of course not. Oh, here we go. âA misogynist is attending to the burial of his wife, who has just died, when someone asks: “Who is it who rests in peace here?” He answers: “Me, of course, now that I'm rid of her!”'”

I allowed myself a chuckle. “Yes, I see, Holmes. I suppose drolleries about matrimonial life remain relevant regardless of the age.”

Holmes continued to leaf through the book. “Not only matrimony but family relations, stupidityâ¦” He stopped at a page. “Even flatulence. Things still relevant today.”

A notion struck me. “I have to say, thoughâharkening back to your mathematical theory of joke tellingâthat particular quip you just relayed seemed to have too many beats. It seems to have thrown off the rhythm.”

BOOK: Not QUITE the Classics

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