TALES FROM THE SCRIPT: THE BEHIND-THE-CAMERA ADVENTURES OF A TV COMEDY WRITER (2 page)

Everything i have accomplished and enjoyed in comedy writing
is due to the support and the encouragement of my co-workers and
management at GE’s Switchgear Plant in Philadelphia.

The folks appreciated and looked forward to our shenanigans at
those parties. The guest of honor generally asked for a copy of the
script as a keepsake. it was through word of mouth from GE colleagues that i landed my first writing contracts with Slappy White and
then with Phyllis Diller. Slappy was a well-known black comedian
who, like many of his colleagues at that time, was making the transition into the white clubs. Both Slappy and Phyllis heard about my
material from people who worked at General Electric.

1)
The audience was appreciative and very receptive.
They came to know me and my comedy style and
they liked it. However, they were also demanding.
They expected quality. They liked to laugh and they
wanted good gags to laugh at. Consequently, they
were a good comedy barometer.

2)
i did so many of those affairs that i began to learn
which style of gag would work and which would not.
it’s something that many professional writers spend
years learning.

3)
i began to appreciate the importance of characterizations. i learned that each performer has a personality,
a style, a character. Bob Hope can’t do a Bill Cosby
joke, and Bill can’t do a Hope joke (i was reminded
of this years later when i worked for both of them.).
i began to take on a persona as the emcee at these
banquets. Bob Hope was the overriding influence on
my comedy writing and delivery. One time, though,
i tried to change my technique. i did a banquet in a
Jackie Leonard fashion. Leonard was a very funny
insult comedian, similar in style to Don Rickles. i
stood at the microphone and insulted the audience.
As soon as i began, i knew it was wrong. People
weren’t so much offended, because they knew i was
kidding, but they were confused. i could almost see
the question on their faces: Where are your regular
jokes? People told me afterwards that the stuff was
funny, but it wasn’t me
.
That was a very important
lesson for a young comedy writer to learn.

4)
Those shows taught me that one has to work at comedy. it should look easy and inspired, but it can only
look that way if you spend hours writing the material
and rehearsing it. Again, those people began to expect
quality. They wanted the phrasing of the gags to be just
right and they wanted them to roll off the tongue. At the
same time, they had to appear as if i was just thinking
that stuff up on the spot. That takes effort. Again, not a
bad habit for an aspiring comedy writer to acquire.

5)
Those banquets taught me respect for the performer.
Many writers felt their words are sacrosanct, untouchable. i was both the writer and the performer at
those affairs. i knew that the performer wanted to get
laughs regardless of the writer’s feelings. That helped
me tremendously when i began writing professionally for others. i’d listen to their input rather than
insisting, “My stuff ’s funny—just do it as written.”
When i work today with young writers, i always recommend that they try delivering their own material.
Even if they don’t want to be standup comedians, i
suggest they give it a try. Whether they’re a smash or
a flop, they will learn something from the experience.

6)
Another insight i gained from those shows was the
emotional pitfalls of being an entertainer. i appreciated better the problems they might have despite
their wealth and fame. i was something of a celebrity at those small affairs. People wanted to hear my
monologues and they laughed and applauded for
me. it was exhilarating. Then after the shows were
over, i’d go back to just being one of their co-workers
again. Folks had a drink with their close friends and
i was no longer the center of attention. Sometimes,
that was demoralizing and it helped me later to understand why certain well-known performers could
sometimes be moody.

i also came to appreciate the power of humor. Aside from the fact
that people wanted me to entertain at every party, luncheon, or dinner that was connected with the people who worked there, other good
things happened for me. For instance, when promotions were available, my name was often mentioned because people knew me; they
knew my name. i didn’t always get the job, but i was in the running.

When i finally did get a supervisory job, i saw again the power
of humor. The plant was experiencing some labor problems. Management and the Union were negotiating, but it wasn’t going well. A
strike seemed imminent and the materials published by both sides
were acutely accusatory.

i was at the lowest rung of the management team, yet the brass invited me into the strategy sessions. i asked our top manager why. He
said, “We can tell from your humor that you know what the people
are thinking. That’s why we want your input.”

Unfortunately, i also learned during that time the danger of humor. Both management and the work force attended those parties.
There was no discrimination because we all attended not as bosses or
employees; we went there as friends of the guest of honor. Much of
my material dealt with work-related topical matters, events that were
happening in the offices and the factories where we worked.

One time, i kidded about a large blueprint machine on the third
floor that was troublesome. i said, “it serves a good purpose in engineering. it eats harmful drawings.” it was funny stuff and it went over
well because everyone knew that the machine needed work.

After the dinner, one of the supervisors came over to me and said,
“You just ruined my career.”
i said, “What?”
He said, “i’m responsible for that machine. it’s my job to keep
it operating. Thanks for embarrassing me in front of my managers.”
i don’t think his fears were justified. The management team was
too smart to take my comments that seriously, but his disappointment in me was justified.
i learned then, and i hope i still remember today, that comedy has
a cutting edge to it. it can be harmful if not used properly and wisely.
From then on, whenever i wrote material about a guest of honor,
i always checked it over with a few of his or her close friends. if they
felt it might be misconstrued or offensive, i replaced the gag. My philosophy remained: if in doubt, cut it out.
Those were all lessons i learned as part of my unofficial comedy
writing apprenticeship at General Electric, but i learned other things
there that had nothing to do with comedy. Strangely, though, they
were beneficial as my career progressed.
One day, a group of us in the office was playing around with a
test that was printed in the Sunday paper magazine supplement. it
was a complicated challenge, but interesting. it consisted of a series
of about seventy-two words printed in different colored inks. The
words were all colors. So, the word “blue” might be printed in red
ink; the word “green” might be in blue ink, and so on. The object of
the test was to name the colors of the inks as quickly as you could.
The challenge, of course, was that you were looking at two colors at
the same time—the written word and the color of the ink. it took
concentration to keep focused on only one of them as you read the
list. Someone would time you and then the article would tell you
how you scored and what it proved.
i read the test in a certain amount of time and the test stated that
i was careless. i disputed that. My friends said, “Well, when you go
that fast, you obviously make several mistakes.”
i said, “i didn’t make any mistakes.” (Have i mentioned that i was
also a cocky son of a gun?)
One gentleman said, “Do it again and i’ll check your results as
you go.”
So, i started reading off the colors. He stopped me and said, “You
made three mistakes on that line alone.” He pointed to the line he was
referring to.
i said, “i’m not on that line. i’m on the next one.”
He said, “Well, i was watching and i had you on this line.”
i wanted to know how he could check the accuracy of my answers
when i could read the colors faster than he did.
To help settle the dispute, a co-worker suggested that someone
write out the correct answers on a sheet of paper and use that to check
my reading. They did and i made no errors and still maintained the
original speed.
That was just a simple parlor game in a Sunday magazine supplement. it proved nothing, really. However, it did teach me a lesson—that no one could effectively judge my work except me. it was
tremendously valuable for an aspiring writer to realize because much
writing was rejected. Often, it was rejected by people who didn’t have
nearly the same amount of talent. A writer can’t just accept any person’s opinion. They have to know the critic’s background and experience, and they have to maintain confidence in their own judgment
and ability.
That works the other way, too. A novel may not become a best
seller just because our Aunt Matilda thinks it’s better than
Gone with
the Wind.
Aunt Matilda may not know as much about the publishing
business as the folks who sent your manuscript back to you with a
polite rejection letter.
My work experience at GE served me well as a writer, also. One
of my assignments was to take the plant’s engineering logic and condense it into a package that could be put into the computer. i had
to analyze every aspect of our engineering logic. Much of comedy
writing is analytical. The writer has to ask many questions about the
topic. What’s connected with it? What does it affect? How do people
respond? What’s funny about the topic? Learning to pull subjects
apart, as i did as part of my job description, proved beneficial when i
turned to professional comedy writing.
People don’t always say what they mean. in fact, people don’t
always know what they mean. When i did have to analyze the engineering logic, i didn’t know what the engineering logic was. i had to
interview the engineers. Of course, they all told me that i couldn’t
take that knowledge and put it into a computer because it was too
extensive; it was a people process and not a computer process.
i told them i realized that, but it was my job. i said, “if you had
the job of putting that logic into a computer, how would you go about
it?” They told me exactly how to do it. Even though they insisted it
couldn’t be done, they told me how to do it. Realizing that people
don’t know what they mean or don’t say what they mean can be helpful in dealing with producers and studio executives.
At General Electric, i learned to be patient and to trust that things
would happen when they were ready to happen. Young writers are
impatient. We all want to sell an Academy Award-winning screenplay
before we learn how to structure a story.
i had that problem as a young electrical apprentice. Our superiors told us that we were the ones who would be the supervisors of
tomorrow. i was skeptical of the rosy future they were painting for us.
i thought to myself, “Yeah, sure.” i was certain they were telling that
to us just so we’d apply ourselves and work extra hard for some pie-inthe-sky, never-to-be-delivered promise.
A few short years later, several of our apprentices were supervisors, including me.
Then, i realized what a dummy i was for being so mistrusting.
I
shouldn’t be so cynical about the writing profession,
i thought.
Be patient.
Let the skills mature. Think positively about the future. Good things will
happen when they happen.
Robert Benchley once admitted, “i took me fifteen years to discover that i had no talent for writing, but i couldn’t give it up because
by that time i was too famous.”
So, as a young apprentice at General Electric, i began to learn
the craft and business of comedy writing. it was more my fault than
the company’s, but after thirteen years at the plant, i still didn’t know
much about electricity.

To paraphrase Charles Dickens, being a wannabe writer was the best of
times and the worst of times. it was the best of times because i had no demanding deadlines to meet since no one had hired me to write anything.
i was never behind because i had nothing to do. it was a pleasant time because no one was looking over my shoulder second guessing everything
i did. no one was demanding rewrites that insulted my sensitivities. in
fact, no one gave a damn what i wrote. it was a glorious time because i
could declare myself the greatest gag-writer in the world and no one contradicted me. They didn’t say my material wasn’t the greatest because they
never saw any of my material. no one had seen it—except me.

it was the worst of times because i seemed to be going nowhere.
no one wanted to buy my stuff; no one wanted to see my stuff. “Why
should i bother to look at your stuff?” they said.

i said, “Because i’m a great comedy writer.”
They said, “if you were any good, i would’ve heard of you by now.”
That came from comedians that i had never heard of.
One rebuke literally came from a comedian that no one had ever

heard of. i used to scan the local papers and search out comics who were
playing the clubs in the area, and then i’d call them, tell them i wrote
great material, and see if i could arrange a meeting to discuss a contract.

i called one club and asked to speak to the comedian whose name
i’ve forgotten. When he got on the telephone, i said, “i’m a comedy
writer and i think i have some material that could help your act.”

He said, “Who’s this?”
i said, “Gene Perret.”
He said, “i never heard of you.”
i said, “But i have some great material that i think can help your act.”
He said, “Have you seen my act?”
i said, “no, but some of my friends saw you work before and they