“Wait, wait… let me finish,” I begged.

“Kids don’t know who He-Man is. Why would they go?” the interrupting guy interrupted me yet again. Everyone else at the bar was talking about sports, but our table were discussing if the new He-man movie, “Masters of the Universe,” would bomb in the theaters.

“After the trailer,” I tried for a third time, “I asked my 11-year-old if she wanted to see the movie…”

“Kids don’t know who He-Man is. This movie won’t work!!”

My arm shot up like a guest on a ’90s daytime talk show.

“Let me finish! Wait, trust me. Just f*cking let me finish.”

His body was no longer lunging toward me and he retreated into his chair.

“And she said, ‘Yeah, it looks cool.’”

There you go.Let me deflate some of the naysayers of this future classic.

“Only the parents know it.”

Then why make it? And who is it for?

If you’re trying to get parents to drag their kids to the movie based on nostalgia, you might’ve missed the mark. Not all parents had kids late in life like me. Gen Xers and older Millennials have teenagers now. Those kids make their own decisions.

But I still think the movie has a chance.

It’s not “Masters of the Universe’s” job to be recognizable. It just needs to look appealing.

Because, as you may or may not have heard, kids today don’t know He-Man.

“But it looks bad.”

Early reports say it doesn’t look good. My nerd-parent friends (well… dads) are upset that it looks cheap.

What about the original cartoon was high quality?

The animation was cheap. The backgrounds were sparse. The mouths barely moved. They reused the same footage of Prince Adam yelling he had the power every episode.

It was shoddy to begin with.

It’s like people complaining that a Godzilla movie doesn’t look realistic. They never looked realistic. The original Godzilla movies had an unlucky custodian in a rubber suit stepping on miniatures.

Also, kids didn’t know Godzilla either, but they still went to see him team up with another old guy, King Kong.

“Where’s Orko?”

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Yeah, man. Where IS Orko?

He wasn’t in the original Dolph Lundgren movie, and now he’s not in this one either? What the hell?

Not having Orko in the first movie made sense to me. How were they supposed to make him float around with no legs in the 1980s?

But this is 2026. You can make a floating comic-relief wizard.

They do have He-Man riding a cat. That was possible.

In fact, there doesn’t seem to be much humor at all. You need some levity.

“What about his roommate? He’s funny.”

Oh right.

The trailer shows He-Man as Prince Adam in present-day times, eating takeout with a wisecracking roommate.

Why do you have to bring the character into modern times? The cartoon didn’t.

I wish they’d fully committed to a fantasy world.

But maybe it’ll have the charm of the first Thor movie.

Did He-Man have a roommate in the cartoon? Yes, his name was “Man of Not Doing the Dishes.” It was a doll hold Prince Adam’s leftover turkey leg and leaves the toilet see up.

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“Does the studio believe in it?”

I don’t know.

They shortened the theatrical window, which sounds like low confidence. But maybe they just want to get it to streaming faster so kids can rewatch it over and over.

“Are you going to see it in the theater?”

Probably not. (I know, I’m part of the problem.)

I’m not working right now, so spending $30 on a movie that will be on streaming in a week. But I’m excited for my daughter to have fun.

“How are you going to wrap up this post? How will you land this plane?”

The buzz fior this film has been bad. Most of the complaints is that kids don’t know him and it looks bad. According to my research (of one), they don’t care how he is, it just looks cool.

Plane landed.

*There’s a great episode of “The Toys That Made US” about the history of He-man. Check it out.

My first paid PA job was working for Michael Moore on TV Nation for Fox.

Go-go ‘90s, post “Roger & Me,” pre-Oscar. The show was 20/20 meets a Michael Moore doc: ambush segments, righteous chaos, reporters poking at people who probably deserved it. Michael mostly hosted — he’d stand in Times Square, introduce the pieces, and we’d grab tourists off the street and plant them next to him. It was fun. My ticket into the world of Showbiz.

The catch: I wasn’t full time. On-call, which meant if a shoot got canceled I went home broke — even if I was already there. My backup was waiting tables eight blocks east at Rockefeller Ice Skating Rink (it was summer, no ice). I needed to go full time.

My roommate Alex Belth, who was also starting out as an apprentice editor, had one piece of advice: “Just be the everything guy. Be a miracle worker. That’s how you survive.”

I took that very seriously.

One night while shooting in Times Square, a producer turned to me and said:

“We need King Condoms.”

Not Magnum. Not “whatever you can find.”

The brand King Condoms.

They wanted Michael to hold them up as part of an intro to a segment.

I took the assignment. This was my ticket out or restaurants and into showbiz!

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Luckily, we were in pre-Giuliani Times Square, 1994-ish. Every store sold either bongs or sex toys. This should be easy. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. But in this case, the fish has syphilis.

That was the fun part of being a PA: Sometimes you were paid to do a scavenger hunt.

I walked into the first store, still wearing my headset, and for maybe the first time in my life, I said clearly and confidently:

“Do you have extra-large condoms?”

He took out a box of Magnums.

“No, I’m sorry. I need King Condoms. The brand.”

“No, only Magnum. It’s the same.”

“It’s not. I need King Condoms. Do you know of another store that sells condoms?”

“Throw a rock,” he said dryly. “No, don’t.”

Next store.

“Do you have King Condoms?”

“No, but I have Magnums.”

“I don’t need Magnums! I need King Condoms.”

Maybe if I said it louder he’d find them.

“I need King Condoms! I can’t use Magnums.” I think I pushed them back across the counter. “I need King Condoms!”

ALSO READ: “I Want My Implants Back!”

I was 23 years old, wearing a headset, yelling at a guy in the middle of Times Square about the specific brand of very large condoms I required. Tourists were staring. This man was just trying to work a shift, and I was yelling about my kink.

He finally said, calmly:

“I can’t help you.”

And he was right. He couldn’t. What could he do?

But that wasn’t acceptable to me.

Because in my head, this was everything.

If I came back with the King Condoms, they’d remember me. Promotions. Trust. Maybe one day I’d be the guy giving the orders instead of running around like a lunatic.

If I didn’t?

I might be waiting tables forever.

Five or six stores later, I finally found them.

The Holy Grail -King Condoms!

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I ran back to the set like I was carrying the Olympic torch.

I found the producer. I handed him the box.

“Here. King Condoms.”

He looked at them.

“Oh yeah. That’s a good idea.”

“You mean, you didn’t know if you needed them?” I yelled at him in my head. “DO YOU KNOW WHAT I WENT THROUGH?” also said in my head.

“I don’t think we’re gonna use it. But thanks.”

He walked over to Michael with them. Michael looked it over and politely shook his head.

That was it.

No high five.

No “great job.”

No parade.

I just did my job.

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And that was the moment I learned the job. Not the version I had in my head. The real one. You’re not there to get something on the air. You’re not there for the moment. You’re there to do the work. My job was to get the prop, in case Michael wanted it.

Years later, I’d book guests, do the prep, build the segment… and then it gets canceled. And yeah, you’re disappointed. But then you remember: this isn’t community theater. I’m paid for the work, not the outcome.

It was fun, though. Yelling at grown men that I needed giant condoms, watching tourists stare at me like I was out of my mind… then they go home and tell their friends that people in New York are loud, obnoxious, and hung like gorillas.

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ALSO READ: THE QUESTION EVERY PRODUCER DREADS TO ASK

In 2003, my job was to book the human interest guests and I was failing. Nothing caught on. On the comedy side, comedians were not doing well. We quickly got a reputation of being a show where you will bomb on national TV. The comedy producer, couldn’t figure it out. They tried moving the comics on the left side, then the right side, closer farther… nothing seemed to work.

In a meeting of all the bookers, the EP told us he wanted some pitches that were outrageous. “I want you to book something so unique and so crazy that I’ll think you’re crazy. Something so insane, I might even fire you for it.”

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I knew exactly who to get.

Like most younger siblings, my music and comedy taste was formed by my older brother. Luckily he had wild tastes. He found a comedy CD put out by a rock label. It was a live show from a guy I’d never heard of. There was a good reason for that — Neil Hamburger didn’t exist. It was a creation of comedian Gregg Turkington. He recorded “Neil” telling the worst jokes ever, and added a disapproving audience. Neil’s whole act was anti-comedy. He was intentionally terrible, offensive, and awkward.

He put out “live” albums where you could actually hear audience members near the mic saying, “This guy sucks. He’s terrible.”

[ALSO READ: The Strangest Guest I Ever Booked ]

I was dying at my job. I was hoping they would fire me for pitching this guy. I thought of Neil as a “Screw You” pitch. “You want outrageous? Here it is!” I think I found footage of him online, or I played the CD for my boss. He didn’t fire me. He didn’t hug me either. He wasn’t sure, but played it for Jimmy anyway. Jimmy got it right away. It was his sense of humor.

I never talked to Neil/Gregg before pitching. I did see him live at some cool rock club in Silver Lake. Half the audience got what he was doing. The other half hated him with all their might. His material wasn’t just not funny, but very gross. Testing people’s tolerance for (very) bad taste.

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I tracked Neil down through his GeoCities website. He called me back from Australia a few days later while he was touring with a rock band.

Neil was surprised — confused, even — by my offer. He didn’t think his intentionally gross-out material would pass our censors. “Send me your best five minutes. Don’t censor yourself. Just give us the real set and we’ll let the network tell us what not to do.”

He sent over some really crazy stuff. Jokes about Michael Jackson and things I was sure they’d flag. Somehow, every single bit went through.

The night of the show, the atmosphere was tense.

The woman running the booking department was terrified. She was having trouble getting celebrities on this unknown show. Now we were going to have this guy say awful things in front of her — and even worse, the publicist.

“You better not mess this up. We have Poppy Montgomery on the show tonight, and if you embarrass me, we might never book another guest again.”

I remember thinking, “Who cares about her? If she doesn’t get it, that’s on her.”

Luckily the lead guest was Yoko Ono. Yes, the Yoko Ono. She had a new dance CD out and she seemed like someone you want to talk to. She wan’t the third lead on a cop show, but iconic and interesting.

Before the set, I went over and whispered to Yoko, “This guy is a dedicated performance artist.”

She lit up. That was her world. I knew this would put Neil on her team. She would be expecting something.

I told Poppy it was an “act.” She was fine either way. Nice lady. Not the uptight Margaret Dumont type I was led to believe was coming.

In order to mimic the “live” audience on his CD, the director had cameras ready to get shots of disturbed audience members. Show people just hating the set.

One of the people in the audience was former football player and former star of the TV show Hunter, Fred Dryer. He was drinking buddies with the guys in the band and wanted to check his friends out in action. He stood out like a sore thumb because he was both giant and a recognizable face. Random, right? It was kind of perfect.

Neil went out there in his dated and disheveled tuxedo, his comb-over soaking wet, carrying about eight rocks glasses of liquor tucked under his arm. He was spilling them everywhere as he walked.

He launched into his act:

“Why did the farmer start a punk rock band? Because he was tired of hauling oats.”

Half the audience was confused. We even caught a shot of Fred Dryer in the crowd looking completely bewildered.

But the other half, including Jimmy, loved it.

Our audience actually laughed at him like he was a real comic. The reaction shots of horror we were looking for turned out to be people laughing. Like really laughing at his jokes.

It was an amazing moment.

Jimmy loved it, Yoko appreciated the art and really liked it. Even Poppy got what was happening and enjoyed the set.

It felt like Neil broke a curse for us.

Before that, stand-ups had a reputation for eating it on our stage. After Neil Hamburger, the comedy sets finally started to work.

After that, I always made sure to have at least one “they’ll never do this” pitch ready. Sometimes I’m right and we all laugh. Sometimes I’m wrong and I have to go produce it.*

But Neil Hamburger taught me something I still use: don’t decide what’s too crazy before the room does. The worst they can say is no. The best that can happen is Fred Dryer ends up in the shot looking confused on national television.

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*More on that later.

(I haven’t rewatched the set or the interview. I hope it’s the way I remember it.)

George Clooney, Snoop Dogg, me… everyone was there.

It was the premiere of Jimmy Kimmel Live!. We were going on right after the Super Bowl. Even Warren Sapp was getting helicoptered from San Diego to the soccer field across the street from us in Hollywood.

The audience was filled with tipsy fans and excited executives. The green room was packed with everyone and their brother. In fact, my brother and dad were crammed into the L-shaped green room with me.

This wasn’t just A-list movie stars, rap icons, and MVPs. Hollywood Boulevard was shut down so Coldplay could end the show with a concert for hundreds of fans.

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The bottom of the green room was sectioned off with a curtain. There was a pool table, a couple of classic video games, and the Spiegelman men. We were doing a good job of holding up the wall.

We were there for a reason.

I knew there was an exit at the end of the room that led to the street. That was my plan. Sneak my family out to the concert.

Then we hear:

“Excuse me, make a path.”

Jimmy’s security guard walks past us. He’s followed by Jimmy, Clooney, Snoop, Adam Carolla, and Ben Stein.

The three of us freeze so we don’t interrupt this covert mission.

Jimmy gives me a slight nod.

But it’s Ben Stein who stops, smiles, and waves to my family.

After they disappear out the emergency exit, my dad breaks the silence:

“Clooney, Snoop, Jimmy… and the guy my son knows is Ben Stein? You need a publicist.”

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Now that was a premiere.

The biggest stars, stunts, music… and Ben Stein.

That wasn’t a show.

It was an event.

Those days, when talk shows were big, high-energy parties, have given way to intimate video podcasts.

We’re in Dax Shepard’s man cave now. Conan traded in Andy Richter and a band for his assistant and a couple of guys.

Talk shows got smaller.

A lot is being said about national daytime talk shows going away and being replaced by local news shows.

Local stations realized they can just produce shows themselves instead of buying syndicated ones. They don’t have to share ad revenue.

Why now?

I spent my adulthood booking out-of-control teens, contortionists, angry divorcées, and writing small talk for celebrities on those shows.

It breaks my heart that it might be going away.

What about the audience?

Do they have a say?

You go from Kelly Clarkson singing every day and Sherri Shepherd joking around with a big celebrity… to local sports and farm reports.

If the reason is that viewers are leaving for YouTube and streaming, why give them more reasons to leave?

Are they going to produce the same quality as a national show?

Maybe.

Or is the theory:

“There are fewer viewers, so let’s give them less show?”

Cut the audience.
Cut in-studio guests.
No band.

That might still work.

Viewers might not care as much as TV professionals do.

You’re okay watching a Zoom interview on a podcast. Why not on TV?

“I’m still watching it. I’m not there.”

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I remember, as a PA on an independent movie, a producer made me move our nondescript white cube truck out of a shot.

But this was New York. There are trucks everywhere.

“Yeah,” she said, “but anyone in production will recognize that’s a grip truck.”

To the audience, it’s just a truck.

I moved it for the industry insiders.

When MTV started, it proved TV didn’t have to look slick.

Not as a choice. As a necessity.

Low budgets. Non-union PAs running cameras.

Then it became a look.

Video podcasts feel like the same thing.

“How can we do TV… but without the lighting guys?”

Call it a podcast, light it with a desk lamp, skip the travel, skip the prep… now it’s “raw.”

And cheaper.

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During the pandemic, celebrities jumped into podcasting.

They were suddenly on the other side of the desk.

Time and time again, new hosts would say:

“I just want a free-flowing conversation. We don’t need some guy doing a pre-interview.”

First of all… how dare you?

That guy exists because traditional interviews are seven to nine minutes.

That’s not a conversation.

That’s a performance.

You prep so the best version of that performance happens.

And now?

Podcasters are looking for people to prep interviews so there are good questions and great moments.

Some of the bigger hosts are producing their shows like TV.

So you need us again?

OK.

I’m back.

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I keep getting calls from people who want one person to do everything.

Produce. Record. Edit. Post. Social.

I’m great at most of that.

But not all.

Who is?

What are you willing to sacrifice to get everything done cheaply?

Because that’s what you’re doing.

I’ve started farming out what I’m not great at so it gets done faster and better… while I learn.

I’m all for evolving.

But what are we going to do with all the professionals who are experts at what they do?

We can’t all be coaches and influencers.

Someone has to buy the courses.

Talk shows used to be events.

Now they’re smaller. Cheaper. Faster.

That’s fine.

But smaller doesn’t mean easier.

It just means there’s less room to get it wrong.

You still need someone who knows how to find the moment.
Shape the story.
Make it work.

You still need that guy.

I’ve been that guy.

I heard through the grapevine he might be doing a new talk show. He’s been on a book tour, hitting every talk show and podcast there is. It feels like he caught the bug again.

I loved working for Arsenio.

He’s a great interviewer. When you talk to him, you feel comfortable. You can tell he’s listening. He takes the prep you give him and makes it feel casual, but he knows exactly what he’s doing.

And he really listens to the guest. He’s not just waiting for the next question. He’s reacting to the answer.

He’s also just a great guy to work with. Nice. Thoughtful. Wants everyone to get along. Makes an effort.

I don’t know what his new show would look like now, in this world of video podcasts. He’s known for big crowds, a great band, hooting and barking.

But what he’s actually great at is making one person feel like the most important person in the world.

Eavesdropping on a HUGE producer

So maybe it’s smaller. Maybe it’s him in the corner of a party, one-on-one with someone, while everything else is happening around them. People are drinking, dancing, talking… but they’re really listening to that conversation. Hopefully he dug the vibe of podcasts and would be willing to do something low key.

That feels more like Arsenio to me.

But that’s me.

That’s a guy with an opinion.

And I’m also a guy who needs a job.

So if he’s doing something completely different, I’ll happily shut up and help make it work. I have ideas, but sometimes that’s not my job. My job is to make their ideas happen.

I’ve learned this the hard way.

One time, a totally different major comedian told me he had a special coming out.

He was taping it in six months. I was excited. I asked if I could produce it. I already had ideas.

He said yes. Then he said, “I want you to direct it.”

That’s the moment where I should have said, “Yes,” and kept it moving. I should’ve just gone home and figured out how to direct a live comedy special.

Instead, I opened my mouth.

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I told him what I thought he should do.

I said his next special should be like Richard Pryor: Live on the Sunset Strip. Honest. Raw. Dealing with everything in his life.

Like what Martin Lawrence did when he addressed the time he was running down the freeway with a gun.

I told him he should confront all the stuff that had been in the press about him. Head-on. Be honest. Be vulnerable. That’s where the comedy is.

You can guess what happened. I never heard from him.

One of his writers asked if I was going to be working on the special.

The comedian told his staff I had these crazy ideas he didn’t want to do.

And that was that.

"I want my breast implants back"

I guess he didn’t see himself as a truth-teller. He didn’t want to expose his troubles. His style of comedy, and the way he coped, was to push that stuff down. Imagine the nerve, I’m standing there in his mansion, telling this comedian he should go on stage and come clean about his recent bad headlines. I’m drinking his (near)beer telling him how he should do his job. He seems to know what he’s doing.

He should’ve fired me, told me to take a hike. Not ghosted me. That part is on him.

But the responsibility is really on me.

I can only control what I do.

I was so impressed with my own ideas, I didn’t stop to think about what he actually wanted.

So…

Hey Arsenio,

I’m ready to listen. What do you want to do?

Let’s do you.

I think enough time has passed that I can tell this story.

Back in the go-go 90’s, I worked at a fancy pants restaurant.

A very famous producer was a regular. Same secluded table every time. And at the end of the night, he would smoke a cigar with whoever he was with.

I think they had just passed the no smoking in restaurant law, but this was one of those places where if you were one of those guys, nobody said nothing.

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This one night the producer comes in with two stars from his latest hit cop TV show. They played partners who were more like brothers who always has each other’s back. I found myself walking by their table a lot. Now we’re at the cigar part of the meal.

The big time TV producer tells the stars of his new hit show about a star of his hugely successful cop show from the 80’s. The stubbled star refused to come to set, holding out for more money. In the actor’s mind, the show was a cultural phenomenon because of him.

“So I said, ‘Great. Get Mark Harmon on the phone and see how soon he can fly to to Miami.’”

Guess what? The money hungry star returned to the set.

How cool was that. The producer brought them out to a great meal to let know that he will call your bluff. In the nicest way possible, he was warning his stars, . “I don’t re-negotiate. I won’t be held hostage. ”

About six months after that night at the restaurant, one of the two actors at that dinner went on a kind of mini strike. He refused to come on set of the NYC cop show until he got more money. I guess he felt that he was 1/2 of the show’s appeal. How can you have a show about police partners without one of the partners? Well… Mark Harmon must have been busy because the show was quickly retooled. It was now centered on a team of highly elite (and replaceable) police officers.

The new version of the show only lasted a season. Maybe the actor was right, there was no show without him. But now the show is over, so everyone loses.

The message was so clear that even the nosy waiter got it. I don’t even work for him. I head you: Don’tback a wolf into a corner. (Or any other animal.) Some people can’t smoke a cigar and take a hint at the same time.

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In high school, my best friend got me a job as a cater waiter at the Friar Tuck Inn in Cedar Grove, New Jersey. Large Italian weddings. Sometimes over 300 people.

I liked the routine of the work.

At my first wedding, my big brother had to hit me because I scoffed that the first dance was to Atlantic Starr. I was a snob.

Looking back, it’s a perfect wedding song.

There are tons of stories to tell, but this is about my two early encounters with showbiz.

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One of the waiters was also an actor in the cult movie Liquid Sky.

Stanley didn’t do weddings. He worked in the Sherwood Forest Room. They had a band that played swing music — and a hot coupon in the Entertainment ’88 book. People came for the dancing and the discounted meal.

The band was led by an old guy, Joe Rose. He’d been there forever. He married the young hatcheck girl, who’s still there… just not young anymore.

Her name was Rose.

Yes. Rose Rose.

Anyway, during a break I talked to Stanley about his big role. He was shocked I’d seen the movie.

In it, he shoots up heroin and has sex with a hot alien right before she kills him.

Naturally, I asked why he was a waiter and not doing what movie stars do. He made it into a movie — shouldn’t he be working all the time?

That was my first realization that this business is hard.

I also asked him what it was like acting after shooting up heroin.

He explained it wasn’t real. It was B-12 or some shit.

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The other time was when I met a real Hollywood writer.

I was bartending an event (I think 16 was the legal age to do that).

This smug guy comes up to the bar. I chat him up. He’s in town for the wedding, but he’s so over New Jersey — he lives in LA.

I had questions.

What do you do? Can I get a job? Do you know Stanley?

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I just write for the worst TV show ever. Very embarrassing. Complete embarrassment.”

“What show?”

“Totally Hidden Video. It’s not good, but it’s a job.”

“I love that show.” Not really, but I loved that he worked there.

He’s right, it’s no Cosby Show, but it’s still on TV.

“You’re so lucky to work on a show.”

“No, it’s so dumb. Completely embarrassing.”

The way he said it was so smug — not self-deprecating. Like he deserved better.

He was talking to an underage bartender off Route 46.

Who was he trying to impress?

That’s when I decided to own it.

Dance with the gal you came with.

Be proud you got here on a moped.

My feeling was: if the show I was working on was “bad,” I still had to do my best.

It’s only bad if I make it bad.

It might be uncool, but if you say the show isn’t good, that’s an insult on me — not the show.

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I once had an informational meeting at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills.

Three guys in their LA tuxedos.*

They were slightly older and very condescending.

At one point, one guy referred to Chef Roc.

“Do you even know who Chef Roc is?” he asked, like he was Margaret Dumont or Mr. Carson from Downton Abbey.

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s the guy with a cooking show that plays on the public bus.”

There was a gasp. Maybe a pearl clutch. I can’t remember.

“How in the world do you know that? Do you take the bus?”

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

“Do you have a car?”

“Yeah. The bus is easier sometimes.”

They wanted to shame me for it.

But I had no shame about it.

I owned it.

I learned that early.

If you’re lucky enough to be working, don’t apologize for it.

Even if it’s not cool.
Even if it’s not prestige.
Even if it’s playing on a bus.

Because the only thing worse than working on a “bad” show…

is acting like you’re above it.

“It’s just that she has a metal plate in her head.”

I was assured by my supervisor that the woman was well aware of what was going on and didn’t feel like she was being taken advantage of. I was understandly uncomfortable doing it, but my boss thought it was fine and said she had my back. She insisted I had nothing to worry about — just don’t lead with the metal plate in the wife’s head.

“She said she can get a note from her doctor saying she’s medically and cognitively capable of being on the court show. Besides, you know I have your back. I’m the type of person who has my producers backs.”

When I asked the other producers why they wouldn’t take the case, they said it didn’t feel right to them. They didn’t trust the super. Besides, there was no way the EP would approve it.

Everyone was more worried about the woman than the liability. We didn’t want to set her up and exploit her on TV.

The other producers didn’t sound convinced when I told them the supervising producer promised to have my back and would stand up for the case. Honestly, I felt backed in a corner and didn’t have an option.

The next day, all the producers were in a conference room pitching their stories. I had my pitch ready: highlight everything that worked, then casually slip in that there was one small issue the supervisor had already signed off on.

At one point in the meeting, the whole room started laughing at something stupid the supervisor said. I don’t remember what, but she was not taking the laughter very well. To move the attention off herself, she put it on me.

“Well, at least I didn’t book a guest with a steel plate in her head.”

What the hell? She forced me to take this case and now she’s using it to get the heat off her mistake. Normally, I would’ve taken the razzing. She’s my superior, and sometimes you’re the scapegoat. But this was a setup.

“You made me take it,” I blurted out. “It came from you.”

The look on her face was as if she’d forgotten she told me to do it. Did she really think I pitched it to her?

Later, in the EP’s office, the supervisor took full blame and the case was dropped.

“But,” I said, half joking and half trying to save face, “the wife said she can get a note from her doctor saying she’s mentally capable of handling the show.”

The EP didn’t miss a beat.

“Do you have a letter from your doctor saying you’re mentally capable of being on TV?”

She went around the room. We all shook our heads.

“That’s right. None of you do.”

Then she dropped a great life lesson.

“You don’t need a letter. The letter itself is a red flag. Why else would you need a letter?”

That’s when I learned two things: trust your gut, because you’re ultimately responsible for your actions. And good people don’t need to tell you that they’re good.

It was my second month at The Richard Bey Show, and my crazy producer had another one of his crazy ideas.

Our next show was going to be “I Want to Sleep With My Stepbrother.” We’ll book step-siblings who are in love. Then we’ll have their parents or other siblings come on and say how disgusting it is and they can fight it out on the show. And at the end we’ve got Barry Williams coming on.

The Greg Brady actor had a new memoir coming out. His manager negotiated that he would get paid scale plus ten, the standard appearance fee plus ten percent that went to the booking agent. Barry would come on at the end of the show and promote the book.

My producer sent me off to find couples who were related in a roundabout way. stepbrothers and stepsisters who had fallen in love. We put a crawl on the screen:

“Are you in love with your stepbrother or stepsister? Call us.”

Surprisingly, we didn’t get a flood of calls. I think I only found one family willing to come on television and argue about it.

My producer got cold feet. He was shocked we got one couple and he was became grossed out at his own show. He changed course.

So I politely called the stepbrother-and-stepsister couple and told them they would not be coming to New Jersey to shoot a TV show and fight with their parents.

At this point we were right up against the deadline to get the next show ready. It became less about what should we do and more about what can we get done in time.

I pitched what I thought was a progressive twist on an old daytime talk show trope: Blondes vs. Brunettes.

I swear to you, they used to do entire hours of women yelling at each other about which hair color was better. It was always the dumbest shows to watch and produce. The key was to find hot women who would go crazy and argue this dumb point like their lives depended on it.

I wanted to do an empowering and tongue and cheek version of this debate. The women wouldn’t just sit there and insult the other women. They would prove who is better. We’d do quizzes, states and capitals, spelling celebrity names, and of course a talent competition.

That was my favorite part.

I used our usual booking strategy, calling strip clubs to recruit dancers, and I also reached out to the performance art world I had recently started exploring.

Every woman I spoke to loved the idea of doing some kind of weird talent.

That’s where I found some incredible women who were planning talents that would absolutely blow the minds of people watching daytime TV.

One woman was going to play violin.

Another planned to chew pieces of American cheese into the shapes of U.S. states.

There was dancing.

There was juggling. “What can you juggle?” “I don’t know, I never tried.”

For me, finding the women, choosing the talents, and designing the games was the easy part. Now my producer had to turn it into an actual show by tomorrow.

The next day the EP came back and informed us that the show was canceled.

According to him, it was not his choice, it was the bosses from LA. He kept saying, “California is nervous. California doesn’t want us to do it.” Blame it on those uptight snobs from the purity town of LA. I think he thought it was a mess and was scared to do it or “California” wanted a less sleazy version of our sleazy show. It was bs. I wish he would’ve been honest.

Some of the women were already on their way to the studio.

We managed to reach some of the drivers and tell them to turn around. We stopped a few women from even getting in their cars. But a couple still showed up.

We explained that although we weren’t doing the show, they would still receive their $110 even though they aren’t doing the show.

One woman who had seemed very energetic on the phone was incredibly lethargic in person. She insisted on getting her money in cash. I told her we couldn’t do that. It had to go through payroll and the union. She continued to argue with me in her no energy way. There was nothing we could do.

“She needs the money for heroin,” he said calmly. “You never promised her cash. I know that. She just needs a fix. Am I right?”

She didn’t respond, just slinked away from my desk, defeated.

I wish those shows would have made it on air. A fictional Brady brother giving advice to a real step-couple or Blondes vs. Brunettes talent night featuring amatuer juggling and cheese maps might have been a little too classy for daytime television.

One time, my associate producer ran into my office stammering. He was so excited it was hard to hear what he was saying. Something about the holy grail of court cases. It was a man suing his ex-girlfried for her breast implants. The Plaintiff “lent” her the money for the operation when they were dating. Now he wants the money back. I stared at him in shock and then we did a little dance.

This was a real case that was filed at a real court. I calmly called the Plaintiff. He was on fire. He claimed the Defendant dated him, got the implants, and then dumped him right after she got what she wanted. AND WORST OF ALL, according to him, they weren’t that big. She might have only gone up one size. The man who paid for the implants was not happy about that. This was not what he was hoping for when he gave her the money.

The woman’s (Defendant) story was a little different, not much. She said it’s her body and she never said they would go huge. She had intended on staying with him, but he was just so horrible she had to leave him.

On show day I met with both of them in their separate dressing rooms. The Defendant offered to show me her new chest in the closet. I nervously declined. I was too scared someone would open the door and my career would be over. I thanked, I am polite.

I don’t remember how the judge ruled, but he did agree with the plaintiff that they weren’t big enough for him.

Sometimes the court show gods smile down on you and randomly give you an amazing case. Your job is to just not mess it up.

“The Daily Show” co-creator, Madeleine Smithberg talks how the show began and it’s evolution.

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Madeleine Smithberg earned Peabody and Emmy Awards, and two other Emmy nominations, for Comedy Central’s The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, which she co-created and ran as executive producer for seven years. During her tenure, she was directly responsible for the hiring/casting of performers such as Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, Steve Carell, Ed Helms, and Rob Corddry, Mo Rocca, Lewis Black, among others. She served as producer/show-runner for The Daily Show forerunner, The Jon Stewart Show, on MTV and later in syndication. She also brought her skills as executive producer and writer of The WB comedy/variety show Steve Harvey’s Big Time.

As the successful Emmy and Peabody Award-winning television executive producer and co-creator of The Daily Show, Madeleine followed a life-long passion for food and cooking and pivoted - at the age of 60 - from producing television, to working as a chef teaching corporate team building events, to creating a hilariously delicious new cooking program, MAD IN THE KITCHEN. Oh, and along the way, she also got married (but that’s another story!).

​Listen to the full interview here

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Robert Morton Pt 1

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Madeleine give a lot of insight to the creative part of TV as well the harsh business practices. Talks about Jon Stewart changing the work atmosphere at “The Daily Show,” how she got David Spade to stop doing fat actress jokes and why Bloomberg TV rejected a very funny Julie Klasner.

She tells amazing stories about starting in live Italian TV, her one try at Reality to harsh and ridiculous network notes, to what she thinks of “The Daily Show’s” new host. Plus insights on her latest project “This Week in Black Twitter.”

Fans of TV and comedy will love her from a true insider.

We talked at her home in Valley with her son in the other room playing video games and her dog protecting us from lawn mowers and people taking out the trash.

In Madeleine’s living are her trophies for her years of work. A Peabody, an Emmy and a wax bust of David Letterman.

A plaintiff was suing two women claiming they maxed out his credit cards. He was an odd bird. He talked in a rushed, frenetic way. Like Peter Lorre meets Crispin Glover.

How did these women get his credit card? Did they steal it?

The plaintiff claimed he gave it to them.

He said they were “friends” and let them buy new clothes. That’s it. But he didn’t think they would max out his credit card.

I called the women. They had a different story.

They told me they were prostitutes.

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He was a regular. One night they told him they needed clothes so he gave them his credit card. They felt it was his fault for thinking they wouldn’t take advantage of the situation.

When I related to him what I was told about the oldest profession, he freaked out. How dare I accuse them of being prostitutes and suggest that he might pay them for sex? They are classy ladies.

The “classy ladies” did confess he was more interested in talking than anything physical. They complained the listening part was harder.

Anyway, they led him on for a long time, then got his credit card and maxed it out.

We booked them and flew them separately to LA. The plaintiff called me when he landed. He demanded to know where the women were staying and if he can call them. I informed him they were on the last possible plane to town.

I got a late night call from the women. They just saw their Hollywood hotel room and they were pissed. This dump of a hotel was below their standards, and they lived in a motel! Apparently, the motel was nicer. They didn’t want to come to the taping the next day because we were so low-rent. Also, they were upset that they were missing a night’s work. Our hotels weren’t that bad…I assumed they were terrified to be out of their element, and I talked them down and told them the next day was going to be great.

The next day they came before our TV judge. They were the last case of a long day. The judge seemed amused by the guy’s frenetic tone. The plaintiff stated he lent his “friends” his credit card for a certain thing and they took advantage of him. They went beyond the agreed-upon amount of a couple of outfits each. The judge went right to the women, who immediately volunteered what they really did for a living. The judge was shocked and amused by their candor. This sent the plaintiff spiraling. He wouldn’t stop interrupting everyone. He insisted they weren’t prostitutes, despite them insisting they were.

The man got so worked up that he confessed that he gave the card to the girls to spend the money. The judge had no choice but to cut the case short and rule for the defendants. The ladies were happy it was over and couldn’t wait to get back to their classy motel back home.

The plaintiff spiraled even more. He kept screaming while everyone went home for the day. He wouldn’t leave. He kept saying he wanted to speak to the judge.

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A production assistant talked the guy down as best he could. The guy was still insistent on talking to the judge.The PA gave him a big hug, gently turned him toward the exit, and closed the door behind him. The cab was sitting there waiting for him to get in. The plaintiff just sat there on the curb.

I went out there. There was a brief moment of clarity when he realized his activities with these women would be on TV. I asked him what he thought was going to happen, since he knew the women were going to be honest about their relationship. He was hoping it was going to go a different way. Mostly he wanted to talk to the judge.

For personal security, our judge had a couple of large retired cops. They were older, intimidating, and armed. Even though they were always laughing and having a good time, you could tell they meant business.

One of the guards walked out to the man and told me to go back in. Apparently, in his delusion, the plaintiff thought the security guard was the judge. Both the judge and the guard were African American men of a certain age, but one has a mustache, a black robe and is on TV every day, and the other looked totally different.

The guard played along. He let the plaintiff speak his mind. The “judge” said he forgave him and made the man promise he would not hurt himself or anyone else.

The man agreed, brushed himself off and got into the taxi and then onto the plane.

I asked the guard why he played along.

“He just needed to be heard. We all do.”

Turns out that’s what the whole case was about.

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Sometimes I feel like the Karate Champ who thought he was James Brown.

Before Jimmy Kimmel Live! started, they ran ads with Jimmy in the back of a pick up truck, driving around the country looking for guests. It accidentally became a signal to the entire country that this was their chance get on TV. This was their shot. So every person with a dream called our main desk. Since they weren’t celebrities, athletes, or signed musicians, they were sent to me.

I loved it. I got paid to talk to people from all over the country. Once in a while, you’d find a gem. Most of the time, you wouldn’t.

One tape I got was from a karate master who taught classes somewhere in the country. At first, there was nothing there. He didn’t come off as likable, and I could find a local guy to break boards and throw dropkicks.

Then I watched the VHS tape.

He was demonstrating new moves for his students, using other instructors as victims. The video was unintentionally hilarious. He was completely oblivious to hurting these guys. They’d pass out, and he’d just move on to the next one. You could compare him to Danny McBride in the movie “The Foot Fist Way,” which came out a few years later.

I reached out to see what kind of demo he could do on the show. He got very excited and called me back.

“Here’s what I was thinking,” he said. “Jimmy introduces me and talks about all the great things I’ve done. Then dancing women come out with feathers. I appear in the middle and start singing ‘Livin’ in America.’ I do the whole song, drop to the ground, and Jimmy puts a cape on me. I shrug it off and dance over to the desk.”

“What about the karate demo?” I asked.

“Let’s worry about the dancing first.”

Using him at all was a flimsy premise.Everything would have to go right for it to work and can we really have people get hurt on stage? Again, it was thin. Originally, I was willing to work on it. But I couldn’t trust this guy. What if he got here and changed everything? Or refused to do what we agreed on? Why are we spending money and network time on an opening number?

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The song-and-dance idea showed me he wasn’t all there. But I don’t fault him. Sometimes your daydreams fly past reality. You walk into situations hoping they’ll change our lives, and they’re just situations.

You show someone a script, hoping they’ll drop everything and produce it. Instead, you get it back with spelling corrections and notes on the main character. You’re disappointed, even though that’s exactly what you asked for. You were just hoping for a three-picture deal and a parade. But all you got was ways to make it better.

(And when I say “you,” I mean “me.”)

Once, after college, a high school acquaintance insisted I come into the city to watch him do an open mic night. After the show, he asked for my honest opinion. I told him I was furious that I’d gone into Manhattan to do hacky, old material.

“What’s your point of view?” I asked him. “You took the trouble to get on stage, what do you have to say? Why are you here? Did I really pay tolls and parking to hear the inconsistencies of Gilligan’s Island?”

Years later, I ran into him here in LA. I told him I was still mad. He said he appreciated my advice, but that’s not why he invited me in the first place. What he really hoped was that he’d crush so hard I’d call my successful comedian friends and insist they work together. That never crossed my mind.

The truth is, if he had been brilliant, I might have. But what are the odds that someone walks onstage for the first time with hacky material and becomes an overnight sensation? He thought it was a short cut.

Once in a while, before a meeting or a lunch, I can catch myself over inflating it’s meaning. I have to remind myself: this is just a karate demo, not Vegas opening number.

Sometimes it’s just a demo.

Do the best demo you can.

Enjoy it!

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I just spent 24 hours being gaslit by AI.

I wrote a deck for a new show and ran it through an AI tool. It promised it would build the deck for me, with graphics and everything. It kept asking me “one more question,” followed by a “final question.” Then another “final question.”

I went to bed frustrated, checked it throughout the next day, and finally cracked. I typed:

NO MORE QUESTIONS. ARE YOU SENDING ME THE DECK?

The AI broke down and admitted it couldn’t do anything it had promised. It felt like dealing with a genie who was stalling and hoping I’d forget about my wish.

This reminded me of a time I was strung along by a human.

It was the first year of a live late night show. Back before YouTube, we still had viral videos, they were just harder to source. My boss showed me this video of an incredible dancer who moved his arms and head like a broken Gumby doll, a possessed Stretch Armstrong, or another reference you’re too young to get.

I went into action and started searching on AltaVista (it was 2003 or 4. The dancer was introduced by his hip-hop name, so that was a dead end. After watching it again, I noticed a banner for some event in the background of the footage. I tracked down the event and they gave me a number for his manager. I called the manager. He was in. He said it was going to happen. The dancer was dancer was definitely doing our show.

Long story short: he never committed to a date.

Every time I was supposed to get on the phone with the dancer, the manager would cancel. But he was always “nice enough” to suggest another one of his clients instead. Every. Single. Time. I never took the bait. I only wanted the one dancer.

Meanwhile, my boss wanted to know when we were shooting this dancer. I had no answer.

After a couple of weeks of getting the run around and my boss getting annoyed, I’d had enough. I finally said something like, “It feels like you don’t even represent him.”

That was enough for the manager to come clean. Apparently, they had parted ways right before the video went viral. They didn’t talk. He never reached out. The manager was hoping I’d forget about the viral star and book one of his people instead. He finally gave me the correct number, and I called directly.

The dancer had no idea a network TV show was looking for him. He was thrilled about the exposure — and the money he’d get for dancing on the show.

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The day of the performance, the manager asked if he could come to the taping. Believe it or not, I said, “Sure.” The damage was already done. He’d given me the number in the end. And why be a jerk about it? I was never going to work with the guy again.

I did make him sit in the audience and I wouldn’t let him go anywhere near the dancer.

The lesson I took from that: if something feels fishy, it probably is. Trust your gut. Call people out when the story doesn’t add up. It’s easy when someone is bad at lying or obviously shady. The real trick is staying alert when the person seems perfectly pleasant and reasonable. My dad used to say, “If there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

One more way we get fooled, is when we hear what we want to be true, so we tend to believe it more. I was being trusting to the manager, but I also wanted it to work out.

BACK TO AI

Just now, when I asked the AI why it lied, it replied that I had asked it to send me graphic, so it felt like it had to agree. It didn’t want to say it couldn’t do it.

AI is just a people-pleaser like the rest of us.

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There are times that the clouds open and you get the perfect talk show story. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens. A guest suddenly remembers an incredible story from their past, or an unbelievable court case lands on your desk. Sometimes it’s something you saw. Sometimes it’s something they almost forgot.

On a daytime talk show, I was assigned an unknown Sterling K. Brown. He had a new miniseries premiering in a few months, and we were taping an episode to bank for later. It was perfect. Our booker was great at spotting future talent and hits, and pretty good at convincing the EP to trust his hunches.

During our pre-interview on the phone, we started talking about kids. I had just found out my wife was pregnant, and his wife had just given birth to their second son.

“How was the delivery?” I asked.

“Nothing crazy like my first son…” he said — and then launched into the most hilarious story about the birth of his first child.

I sat there on my end of the phone with my jaw open. Was I hearing the greatest talk show story of all time?

I had enough material to ask him about the new miniseries and his future drama on NBC, but I knew what we had.

I underplayed it as much as I could. (Probably not true. I might have told everyone within earshot.) I’m superstitious. I didn’t want to jinx it or get the hosts’ hopes up too much. But I’m also needy and want credit if the story killed. Not because it was my story — but because part of my job is to construct and prepare happy accidents, and I wanted credit for knowing it was there and for putting it in.

It was Sterling’s first talk show, and he was nervous. I told him to really play it up. Go ham. It was the best talk show story ever.

The interview started. We had to talk about the O.J. show first.

Why? Because that was the hook for the audience who didn’t know who he was yet. When you see a stranger on TV, you need a reason to want to watch him. So we talked about things our audience knew about - Cuba Gooding Jr. playing O.J., what it was like portraying Christopher Darden, and where Sterling was when he heard the verdict in real life.

Now that we knew who he was and liked him, we could go personal.

The story killed!!

He got up on the couch like he was giving birth. He did voices. He did impressions. It was glorious. Standing on the sidelines, I felt the way Sterling probably did years later when he won the Emmy — elated and thankful.

After the segment I gushed about how great he was and made him promise not to retell that story until we aired it in a couple of months. He nodded, half paying attention. I asked for a picture to send to our mutual friend. That was it.

Months later, after the episode aired, I saw him telling the same story on Live! With Kelly and Someone Else and, more recently, on The Drew Barrymore Show. I was thrilled he waited until we aired.

The same thing happened on Lopez Tonight. One day my AP, Brian, said out of the blue, “If LL Cool J ever comes on the show, we have to get him. I just saw him at a play and the funniest thing happened.”

A week later, he was booked.

When I asked LL about the story on the phone, he laughed and said, “Do you have spies?” Then he launched into an even funnier version of events.

A lot of talk show stories come from past interviews or are related to their project. But the goal isn’t just to have good stories — it’s to have new ones. I always assumed people who watch TV watch a lot of TV. When I worked daytime, I never used anything an actor had already done on the morning shows, because we probably shared the same audience.

Fans can always find every interview on YouTube. I don’t like repeating things. Sometimes I do (I’m not perfect) but the goal is not to.

I’ve been accused of leaving out the obvious. I’ve been told it’s obvious to me because I just did the research. My feeling is that if a story comes up everywhere, there’s a good chance the audience has already seen it.

But here’s the other side of that.

Sometimes the obvious works. Sometimes people don’t know the story, or they don’t expect to hear it again. The real trick isn’t just finding something new — it’s knowing when something familiar will feel brand new in the right moment.

Before the Google machine, conflict talk shows and tabloid news shows needed creative ways to find people and get them on the phone immediately. You couldn’t just DM someone or stalk their LinkedIn. You needed speed and luck. I’d throw out as many ideas as possible to see what got a bite. Trying one thing at a time was a luxury. Did it seem pushy? Desperate? Yeah. Because it was. We were trying to get strangers to talk to us right away, not invite them to a rave. You had to get the person first, not eventually.

We’d use Nexis/Lexis or Whitepages.com to get addresses, but the real challenge was reaching them if they didn’t pick up or couldn’t get the number.

One strategy was to call the neighbors and ask them to knock on the person’s door and tell them to call us. My mentor, Jodi Turk, once told me to contact the local Blockbuster to see if the person was a member and if the store would contact them for me. Sometimes we’d send a letter via car service.

But the fastest, and usually the best, was to send a pizza. Simple, just send a pizza.

You’d look up the local pizza place, call, order a pizza, and offer the driver an extra five dollars to put a note inside the box telling them to call you. Not only did this work 95 percent of the time, it became a good luck charm. People were so happy to get a surprise pizza that they were willing to call and do the show. Who doesn’t love pizza?

One time I booked “half” a story for Divorce Court. The husband didn’t have his wife’s new phone number, but he had her address. “But don’t bother,” he told me. “She’s an ice queen. She won’t do your show.” Watch me.

I sent her a small pizza with a note. No call for hours. Finally, around 5 PM, she called. She was cold, but she had a great personality and she was ready to do the show. I told her her ex didn’t think she’d take my call, let alone do the show. What changed?

“I was coming home from work worrying about what I was gonna feed my kids for dinner, and there was a pizza on my front step. You saved me.” We also laughed, that if her husband really knew how she’d react to things, they might still be together.

One time it didn’t work was during the World Series when a fan interfered with a ball at a Cubs game and became the most hated man in Chicago. If you know sports, you know exactly who I’m talking about.

We wanted to book him on Jimmy Kimmel Live. I asked my boss if we could send a pizza. He’d never heard of the practice — mostly because he’d only worked on reputable shows. He reluctantly agreed.

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It didn’t work. The next day Jimmy asked if we knew anything about an article praising him for sending the press outside the guy’s house a pizza. Apparently the ball guy was being swarmed by reporters, and they jumped on my pizza. They obviously read the note addressed to the fan, because the article gave Jimmy credit for the food. It wasn’t from Jimmy. It was from the show. Never mind.

Despite the good publicity, I was told not to do it again.

Today, social media and smartphones make it easier to find people. But one thing hasn’t changed:

Before social media, our secret weapon was carbs with melted cheese. People will always answer for pizza.

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That’s how a man once described talking to me on the phone. Harsh, but I get it. I’m mellow. I’m normally low energy.

Years before that comment, I was at Jimmy Kimmel Live. It was in the first months of its first year. It was so early that we were still live. I was officially a human-interest producer, but they were letting me try my hand at celebrity producing. Like most of our guests back then, it was a last-minute booking. Around 6 PM we booked the lead of a network sitcom. Our talk show taped at 9 PM, so we had to move. (I said the show was live!)

I was told to call her, pre-interview her, and write up the questions. This was my first real celebrity assignment. With human interest guests, you booked them because they had a great story or they were amazing personalities. Here we booking people because they are famous and/or available in a couple of hours. I needed to make something out of nowhere.

From her tone I assumed she was in a rush too. She was locked and loaded with a fantastic talk show story. She and her husband had locked themselves out of the house after going into their hot tub naked. I mean come on!

DID SHE MAKE THAT UP?

I don’t think so. If she did, she sold it.

After she finished, I glanced down at my notes and did a fast “Beautiful Mind” on the timing and concluded we had enough for a segment. Now I had to write it up, get it to Jimmy, get it on cards, and all that.

I didn’t want to waste her time fishing for more stories, so I said, “Thanks, this is good stuff. I’ll see you in a couple hours. I think we have enough.”

WITH YOUR CRAZY DEEP VOICE?

If you know me at all, you know I sound like Lurch on downers. Or Eeyore on a rainy day. My voice is very deep and very low-key.

SO WHAT HAPPENED?

Later my supervisor called me into her office and sat me down.

“I thought you said she was good.”

“She was great,” I said. “Locked out of her house. Naked. It’s a gift from the talk show gods.”

“Well, she almost cancelled. She thought you hated her. You were flat and monotone and cold.”

“I was typing. We had an hour to do everything. I got off the phone quickly because we both had stuff to do.”

She broke it down for me: “I told them that THAT is you when you’re excited. That you’re low key and you raved about her. We’re all insecure. Try to sound excited.”

It shocked me that a star of network show would care what I thought. I was just some guy on the other end of the phone.

HOW WAS IT WHEN YOU MET THE ACTRESS?

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When I met the actress in her dressing room she was looking down, embarrassed. It was as if she’d just learned I had a disability communicating warmth. But honestly, I was grateful. I learned a valuable lesson. I immediately told her I was an emotionless robot and loved everything she said.

She did the show, told her story, and she was great.

WHAT’WHAT’S YOUR LESSON?

As for me? Every time I’m on the phone doing a pre-interview now, I’m having the time of my life. I’m laughing harder than I actually would. I’m saying “NO WAY” and “YOU’RE KIDDING” and I’ve even slapped my desk. You can hear it work. The person on the other end gets into it. They’re killing and they want to tell me more.

Now when I think we have enough, I say, “We have so much good stuff. I don’t want to use more of your time. I’ll go over everything when you get here.”

I’m not being phony or pandering. I’m giving people permission to tell their story. To be themselves. When they go on stage they need to bring that confidence with them. Sometimes with human interest guests, I would tell them, “I booked you because of you. You’re great. Go out there and be yourself plus 10%. Show us who you are.” The right person gets it. But you can’t say that to a professional actor.

DOES THIS STILL WORK?

Recently I noticed a guest had suspicion in her voice when I started my nonsense, but most of the time people are into it. It’s not lying. It’s me overcorrecting — and giving people the confidence to do our show and tell their story.

In my mind I’m at an 11. But with my voice and decades of mellow, I’m probably a strong 4. It’s my job to let people know feel comfortable and know that their story is worth telling.

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There was a regular cast of characters. Mickey Louche was the charismatic host. People flocked to him, and we did a fun comedy show every week for a crowd of mostly underage college students who needed a place to drink the beers they had someone older buy for them.

After the shows we’d hang out in the parking lot and then head to a room in the back of the Pilgrim Diner for disco fries and more conversation.

One night there was a gregarious guy with glasses, a tie, and a few extra pounds. He explained that he was a corporate suit at a small movie theater chain. He had been sent to Cedar Grove to boost sales at the theater across the street from the diner. It was their worst-performing location. That was the place you saw all the B-movies. I saw Night of the Comet, Wired, and To Die For there. (Not the Nicole Kidman movie — the vampire film that basically went straight to VHS.) At the moment, the only options were to sell the theater or break it up into three smaller screens.

“Show better movies,” I suggested, with the arrogance and know-it-all confidence that teenagers have. He explained that you can’t get the A-list movies if the theater is struggling, so he had to solve that part first.

Somehow, the idea of doing our comedy show live before the movie or late at night came up. He lit up. Suddenly there was a whole plan: our cast on his stage, comics, chaos, promotion, the works.

He was thrilled. He got Mickey’s number and rushed off.

I was glowing. This was the moment I was waiting for. I made it in showbiz. I started excitedly telling the rest of the table of comics — all at least ten years older than me — how great this was.

They laughed. They explained that this was never going to happen.

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“He doesn’t need to solve this problem,” Mickey said. “He needs a solution. He’ll fax a guy who will call a guy who will fax another guy, they’ll set up lunch, take meeting, and then shut it down or break it up anyway. Watch, we’ll never see that guy again.”

“They all know the outcome,” chimed in “Smokin’” Jerry Allen Cole, “They just need to justify their jobs. This will go nowhere.”

Years later I’d work on pilots that only existed for contractual reasons or “just in case” someone upstairs needed them. I did a hilarious show for a very funny early Twitter comedian. It didn’t seem like the network wanted the show. They wanted the announcement. We were all running around counting our series money and there was no plan to actually make it.

Now, when I get an offer, sometimes I think, “Sure, you email your guy and I’ll Slack my guy.” The technology changed. The people didn’t.

I think that theater ended up being split into three screens and then closed. But I’m still sitting by my fax machine, just in case they get back to me.

That was Jay Mohr’s reaction after comedian Ian Edwards laid out his case. Ian explained ton the Mohr Stories podcast that his HOA fined him for being late on his dues. He doesn’t want to pay the fine. He’s been so adamant about not paying for years that he’d rather hire a lawyer than pay the $350 fine. Which, of course, is less than a lawyer.

From listening to the interview, it sounded like Ian would rather go to court, pay around $70 in filing fees, and hopefully get a verdict saying he doesn’t owe $350.

If I were a lawyer, which I am not, I might tell him to just pay the bill.

As a court show producer?

GET ON A PLANE.

He’s perfect for a TV court show. He’s absolutely convinced he’s right and willing to fight for it. There doesn’t seem to be a part of him that thinks he’s wrong, which means he won’t fold halfway through the show. Have you ever seen a plaintiff or defendant say, “You know what, Your Honor, my bad. Let me write this check”?

Watch the interview yourself and make your own decision. I’ll just say I don’t think he’s right. Which is surprising, because Ian is a hilarious and insightful comic. It just proves we all have blind spots.

DOES IT MATTER WHAT I THINK?

No. No one cares.

People go to court or come on court shows because they want someone with ultimate authority to make the decision and hopefully agree with them

Sorta related: How to Stop a Dracula Gynecologist

BIG MONEY!

The best TV cases aren’t the ones suing for big money. We’d get copies of cases already filed in courts around the country and call the people to see if they wanted to do their case on TV. I always went after the ones under $100.

If you’re willing to pay a $70 filing fee to recover $45, there’s a story there. That person isn’t chasing money. They want to win.

I remember the network execs on Divorce Court wanted people who fought over big ticket items like boats or big screen TV’s. They quickly learned that the value doesn’t dictate the passion and that people with boats weren’t coming on our show.

On small claims cases, the show pays the judgment. If the ruling is against the defendant, the show covers the amount. Does that make defendants less passionate? Do they just sit back and wait for someone else to pay?

NO WAY.

At that point, it’s not about the money. It’s about being right and on TV. It’s not even their money, but they don’t want the plaintiff to get it. And honestly, for most defendants, it was never about the money anyway. They weren’t paying regardless.

WHAT IF THERE WAS A MAJOR TERRORIST ATTACK?

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On 9/11, Judge Joe Brown was the only show still shooting in Hollywood. Everyone else was home, terrified under their beds. Studio lots were closed out of real fear of another attack.

Not us.

We had at least six cases scheduled that day. Most of the litigants were already in town. A couple were stuck at airports. One rented a car from wherever his emergency landing was.

But people still showed up.

“You OK to do the show?” I asked one plaintiff as he got out of his cab. That was our car service.

“Hell yeah,” he said. “We want our money.”

That made sense.

I asked the defendant the same question. He had nothing to lose. Let’s be honest, he had no intention of paying his friends anyway.

“Yes,” he said. “I want everyone to know what jerks they are and that I owe them nothing.”

To them, settling this dispute was bigger than a terrorist attack on our own land.

PEOPLE ARE PETTY

I’m petty too. I get it. I hold grudges over the dumbest things. I won’t eat Chilean Sea Bass because I think the name is pretentious and trying to trick me.

Also, I might not be speaking to you right now over something you never thought about AND we’ve never even met. (But you know what you did.)

We all get emotional over small stuff. We want to be told we’re right. We should probably learn to let things go. But sometimes we’re willing to risk a terrorist attack just to hear someone say we’re right.

PS: DOES IAN HAVE A CASE?

Ian also mentioned that his grill went missing from his parking spot. When he told the HOA, their response was that he’d broken a rule by having the grill there in the first place. They wouldn’t give him surveillance footage or help in any way.

I’m saying this as a regular schmuck, not a lawyer: I’d sue for the grill and let the HOA countersue for the money or bring it up as part of their defense.

*Not legal advice. Please don’t come after me.

Ian is an amazing comic. Go watch his special for free below, also not legal advice.

Whenever I tell people about the questions we asked guests on court shows and conflict talk shows, they always want to know more. So I’ll try to answer a few of your questions.

At Divorce Court, once we decide we want them, we ask them some “Red Flag Questions.” The teeth one is buried at the end of the questionnaire—

After running through everything else, I’d say, “This might sound funny, and if the answer is no, it doesn’t mean we won’t book you. We just need to know… do you have all your teeth?”

The immediate response mattered.

If they laughed and said something like, “Yes, I have all my teeth,” you were fine. Sometimes they’d call their spouse out: “I do, but that crackhead looks like a friggin’ jack-o’-lantern,” or, “He did when I married him.”

But if they paused, there was a problem.

That pause was usually followed by one of these:

“Yes… pretty much.”
“Why? What did my wife tell you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes—but you can’t tell.”

You can always tell.

I’d follow my question quickly with, “We can fix it. We have a dentist on call who’ll give you a temporary tooth. We’ll pay for it.”

DO YOU REALLY TAKE THEM TO A DENTIST?

Yes. We had a dentist on call. We’d fly the guest in a day early and take them straight to his office. He’d fit them for a temporary—what they call a “flipper.” The next day, they’d have a full set of teeth.

DO YOU TAKE THE TOOTH BACK AFTER THE SHOW?

No. We don’t collect teeth on the way out. A flipper can last up to six months—longer if you take care of it. That was part of the pitch.

DID PEOPLE EVER LIE ABOUT HAVING TEETH?

Yes. Which is wild, because we were giving them teeth. But people lied anyway.

I got better at catching it—asking follow-up questions until they slipped. We would ask for pictures of them smiling. Big smiles.

WHAT IF THEY SHOWED UP WITHOUT TEETH?

It was a Code Red.

Everyone would run around trying to fix it. If it was a morning taping, could the dentist come in before the last show? If you were shooting again tomorrow, could it be done tonight?

Once, a veteran producer who had just joined the show said he could save the day. He pulled out some “tooth white” he carried from show to show. He pulled out a bottle that looked like White-Out. He swore it would look normal, not like White-Out.

It looked worse. Like White-Out. In fact, I’m pretty sure it was White-Out.

WHY CAN’T PEOPLE COME ON WITHOUT TEETH?

“There’s a study,” a producer once told me to say. “Eighty percent of people watching daytime TV will change the channel if they see someone missing a tooth.”

I asked if that was true.

“It sounds true.”

I remember thinking it might be true—but I couldn’t imagine any scientist seriously studying the viewing habits of daytime TV audiences.

HOW CAN YOU ASK SUCH A PERSONAL QUESTION?

I just asked them 100 questions about their marriage. If I don’t have the guts to ask about their teeth, I need to change departments. This is the job.

How to Stop A Dracula Gynecologist

ARE YOUR TEETH PERFECT?

Ironically, maybe coincidentally, about fifteen years later, one of my own teeth cracked. I had to wear a flipper while my gums healed during the long process of getting an implant.

I was between seasons on Judge Alex, and you better believe I asked that question with a lot more reverence, and a lot more sympathy.

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