Official Book Club Selection (16 page)

It was a Monday when I learned what had happened. Steve Peterman, the creator of Suddenly Susan, called me in to Brooke’s dressing room, where she was crying. Even then I thought, Maybe David’s in the hospital again, because he had spent time in a psych ward once. That’s when they told me he had taken his life. I don’t remember physically what happened next. I couldn’t tell you if I was sitting on a couch or what, but I remember instantly wanting to know everything about how it happened. I thought if I knew how he did it, it would give me insight into his state of mind. They told me he’d hung himself. That hit me like a ton of bricks. It was such a message, such a visual picture, the suicide method that has the most despair. It broke my heart more than if he’d chosen another more passive way. As if he were saying, “I’m so sad, I’m so despondent that I’m going to pick the most premeditative method possible so you know how much I really wanted to do it.”

Since then I’ve talked to a lot of people who have known relatives or loved ones who’ve committed suicide, and they always talk about getting angry at the person. I’ve never been able to get angry with David. I understand those feelings, because it leaves people without parents, without children. But more than anything I’m just incredibly sad about it all. I saw him try. I saw him go to AA meetings. I saw him with his sponsors. I don’t think he was cavalier about it. He showed up for work, knew his lines, was funny and smart. I can only think about how tragic it is that he was so sad that he felt like this was his only option. I’ll always want to know more about that night, and to this day I have friends who think it’s despicable that I even talk to Andy Dick, who was with David in Vegas his last night partying together before David went to a motel and took his life. But I’ll never stop asking Andy about that night. Maybe I’ll get one more piece of information about what happened. David’s mother once said to me, “Even if he had left a note, it wouldn’t have answered anything.” It’s true, of course. What could he put in a note that would justify it?

Back at work, David’s suicide was a very divisive issue for the cast. I completely understand now why married couples get divorced after losing a kid. I used to think, Wouldn’t that make a couple closer? But how you grieve is a really touchy thing. Barbara Barrie was like a second mom to me, but she was angry with David, almost flippant about his death, and for some reason I couldn’t handle that, and it irreparably fractured my friendship with her. When Brooke did interviews about his suicide, there were those in the cast who resented her. She, on the other hand, saw it as a chance to communicate with people about this issue. I make no judgment calls, but I can say it’s a weird thing to reconcile the way others grieve. We shot a good-bye–David episode, which at the time I didn’t like at all and thought was tacky—we were going back to work too soon, I believed—but recently I caught a rerun of it late at night and it’s actually a well-done, tasteful episode. I was sobbing. Although I remember the producers wanted to end the show with five minutes of David clips, and somehow via the network or studio it got negotiated down to a lot less. All I could think was, That’s fucking cold.

I was with David nearly every day for four years. I really loved that guy. Although I’ve got a big enough family that I’ve had various older relatives pass away, I consider David my first loss. I still keep a picture of him in my room, and I miss him every single day.

From my June 2009 Letterman appearance, and what’s in my head is “Don’t curse, don’t curse, don’t curse …” (Photo: John Paul Filo/CBS. © 2009 CBS Broadcasting Inc. All Rights Reserved.)

Among the many perks Suddenly Susan provided, getting to be on talk shows was a big one. Let’s face it, if I could be a professional talk show guest, I’d do it. By entering that world, I was allowed a chance to meet people I never dreamed I’d get to, and then during the commercial break, hear all the crazy things celebrities sitting in your vicinity would say. I would soon learn who was cool, who wasn’t, who got me, who didn’t, and—of course—how easy it was to get on someone’s shit list.

When I started going on talk shows, it was a dream of mine to eventually be sitting next to somebody I’d idolized. But sometimes your heroes turn out to be something completely different when you meet them. I found this out the hard way, and with hundreds of thousands of viewers watching.

Back in the late ’90s, Martin Short had a late night-talk show, and I got to be a guest on the second night it aired. Marty wasn’t the problem, though. I love him, and think he’s hysterical. The honor of being the biggest asshole would go to lead guest Steve Martin. I’d heard he was kind of cold, and not someone who was naturally, off-the-cuff funny. But I was still excited to meet the best host Saturday Night Live has ever had, and a guy whose longevity in comedy—from albums to TV to movies—I always admired. I mean, come on, this guy is a legend in the comedy world.

Well, let me tell you, he was a douche bag. He was such a douche bag it was like he was a caricature of a douche bag.

It always rubs me the wrong way when comedians are serious all the time. It just seems disingenuous to me. I understand that not everybody wants to be “on” all the time, but when you’re suddenly an art expert, or writing plays like that piece of shit Picasso at the Lapin Agile, it seems you’re making a conscious choice to be anything other than what made you a success. Martin Short, on the other hand, is so brilliant and quick and funny. I’m a big fan, and he’s obviously completely comfortable as an entertainer.

It started with Steve Martin doing his bit, and all the while Marty talked to him like he was a head of state, taking every opportunity to defer to him. Then I came out. Steve wouldn’t look at me or talk to me directly. Marty would say, “How’s it going?” I’d say, “Oh, this funny thing happened the other day …” and then I’d just be chatting with him. But then Marty would lean over my lap and say to Steve, “Kathy is a stand-up comedian.” Steve in his fucking Armani suit and crossed legs would nod, and add an “Ah” in an achingly bored tone.

I’d continue talking to Marty, and then Marty would lean over again, and say, “She does this really great thing where she doesn’t really tell jokes, she kind of just gets up there and is free form. You feel like you’re just having conversation.”

Steve: “Ah.”

I thought, You’re shitting me.

I even turned to The Right Honorable Steve Martin and, doing my best not to gush, told him I was a fan and thought he was great. But he literally did not say a word to me or look at me, and the whole thing was just uncomfortable. For me, for Marty, and for everyone watching the show. Every time Marty did the lean-over to say something quietly to Steve, I wanted to say, “Why are you translating for him like he doesn’t speak English?” The whole exchange felt like Marty was essentially saying, “What this horrible wild animal really means, Steve, is that she went onstage last night at eight-thirty.” He was working overtime to placate Steve. I know they’re old friends, but Steve’s “do I really have to be here?” act was just weird. I should have said, “I’m sorry you’re not in your gallery wondering where Picasso went next, asshole.” He is simply not pleasant. You would be hard-pressed to find five people who’d say, “He is a PISTOL at a party! Fun, warm, sweet, and just HILARIOUS!” I’m telling you, it can be tough to meet your idols.

The Reverend Al Sharpton, on the other hand, whom I met while taping Bill Maher’s Politically Incorrect television show, was just the opposite. I’d heard a lot of rumors about what a publicity seeker he was, and I’ll admit I only knew him from the pink sponge curlers and the Tawana Brawley scandal, but when I sat next to him on PI, he was so friendly. Out of the blue, he said, “Where do you do stand-up?”

“When I’m in New York I usually do Caroline’s.”

“I’d really like to come see you sometime,” he said. I thought that was pretty cool. It seemed really open-minded of him to acknowledge what I do and offer to check out my act sometime. He’s somebody I admire because, like Ted Kennedy, he’s spent his time working his way back from a negative image to try to turn himself into somebody respectable and influential. I wouldn’t see him again until several years later when he graciously agreed to be a guest on season five of My Life on the D-List. When I decided to do a stand-up set at the legendary Apollo Theater in Harlem, Reverend Al said he’d introduce me onstage. I spent the day with him, went to one of his speaking engagements at Medgar Evers College, and was a guest on his radio show. That night at the Apollo he rocked my introduction, warning the audience that I sometimes went too far, but that I was funny. It was the ultimate stamp of approval for me, and I think he is a man among men. I’ve been keeping an eye on you, Reverend Al. I take extra special notice of people who make controversial statements and take a stand. (And, of course, get called out for publicity garnering.)

As for the host of that show, I’m pretty sure Bill Maher is of that boys’ club mentality that doesn’t think chicks are funny, aside from maybe Sarah Silverman, but he’s been supportive of me to a degree. He’s kind of a prick—if I run into Bill at a party, even though I’ve known him all these years, it’s no guarantee he’ll stop and chat with me—but I like him, and I love his shows, Politically Incorrect being one of my favorite experiences. I was on half a dozen times at least. One time rock singer and ex–Van Halen frontman Sammy Hagar was on with me, and during the commercial break, he started to talk to Bill about how aliens had downloaded material into his head. Oh yes. Watching Bill try to have a semiserious conversation about this—“Oh really? What was that like?”—was priceless. I don’t think that kind of shit happens in conference rooms in corporate America.

Bill Maher and me backstage at the Larry King anniversary special.

Bill’s show was solid training ground for how to act with celebrities I’m nervous around. My m.o. was, I’ll try to get things rolling by making a ballsy joke, because instead of small talk, I think these celebrity situations demand an icebreaker, and Hollywood has a pretty thick sheet of ice. Like Bill O’Reilly, America, I’m always looking out for you. Besides, I usually want information from that celebrity: it could go into the act, right? Of course, 90 percent of the time saying something ballsy doesn’t go my way. But I’m sticking to my plan! When I was on PI with Michael Bolton, for instance, I turned to him and blurted out, “Bolton, you’ve got to lose that ridiculous hair, seriously. What are you thinking with that hair?”

Every time I say something like that, the pause afterward can seem excruciating, even if it’s only a nanosecond: Are they going to laugh? Flee? Threaten me? Or ban me from their own future talk show? Well, thankfully, Bolton laughed. I ran with it. “I can get a clipper here in ten seconds. Do you want to make a commitment to me right now? You’re talented and wealthy, but you can’t pay someone to cut that?”

Really, in a situation like that, that’s all I can do. God love him for laughing, but was I going to have a serious conversation with Michael Bolton? What the fuck am I going to talk with that guy about? Time, love, and tenderness? So I try to make the celebrities I encounter laugh. That time it went my way.

Then there are the times laughter can mislead. When HBO gave me an hour-long special during my time on Suddenly Susan, I got to promote it on David Letterman’s show. That was a major get for me. In the world of comedians, Letterman’s show is worshipped because he’s had the ultimate career, from his stand-up days to his great Tonight Show guest-hosting, to his brief, ill-fated, but brilliant morning talk show and obviously his groundbreaking late-night show on NBC. But even though appearing on his show was a major get, it’s not like I had anyone telling me how to do it. No makeup or hair people. No stylist. No publicist. Just me in New York the day before going to a mall store and buying an outfit thinking, This will look good on Letterman! It was the most preposterous outfit you’ve ever seen: black midriff top, and black matching pants, made out of stretch polyester, with flares. It was awful. I’m thirty-six and sporting a midriff top like Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island. Someone should have had me arrested.

In terms of the actual appearance, there were a lot of rules. The segment producers said, “Whatever you do, don’t talk to Dave during the commercial break, and don’t hug him when you make your entrance because he’s tall and has a bad back so he can’t bend over to hug you. And whatever you do, don’t go off the cards.” The cards are what the host has that include all the things you said in the preinterview, so all the host has to do to facilitate a good story on air is reference the card in front of him. Well, my main story was about meeting Jerry Springer, and as I’m telling it on camera with Dave I swore. I said “shit” and got a rim shot from the drummer. Dave turned his attention from me to the audience. Uh-oh. I turned to him trying to act all innocent and said, “What did I say?”

He said, “Well, I thought you were gonna say ‘damn’ or ‘hell’ and what you said is really a whole other category.”

“I said ‘shit’?” The audience laughed.

He said, “Yes.” More daggers.

“Well, you know, Dave, you can’t shit a shitter.” More audience laughter.

When it was all over, I went back to my hotel, and then the next day I got flowers from the show, with a card from the segment producer that said, “You were so funny, it was so effortless. Consider yourself a friend of the show!”

I have never been asked to be on again. I mean, I thought I nailed it! I thought I’d made it so easy on Dave, me being a potty mouth and him just sitting there and mugging at the camera. Looking back now, that swearing episode probably led to my downfall. Dave doesn’t like swearing, which means I’m obviously not his cup of tea. It was my first banning. Of course, you don’t know that kind of thing initially. For the longest time they just kept telling my publicist, “Oh, we’re just booked, we don’t have the slot.” But after ten years? Two Emmys? Finally executive producer Rob Burnett denied/confirmed it to Entertainment Weekly when the magazine did a story trying to fact-check my claims of banishment. He told EW, “She is not banned. We simply don’t feel she warrants a booking at this time.”