City of broad premises
Live from The Elevated... As a woman, there are just certain moments you'll never forget. The first time you make love. The first time you make rent. The first time you make bail. For me, I'll never forget the first time I read on the side of a bus, "This fall a woman will be president." It's pretty cool because I think the same thing happened to Malcolm X when he got the idea to do his Spike Lee movie.
I'm writing a new cookbook for vegans. It's going to be a best seller. The secret ingredient? Snausages.
I enjoy TV. Sometimes when I'm alone and it's late in the evening I like to watch "The Real World" and "Fantasy Island" at the same time. It's like the perfect equation. The only thing that's more mathematically precise is listening to Kelly Clarkson and Mingus simultaneously.
I am a music nut. Uncle Tupelo. Wilco, Sun Volt. But you know who makes the best insurgent country ever? The Iraqis, man. They tear it up.
Have you seen the new David Foster Wallace sex tape? Oh my God. That part where he stops to write a footnote? Classic.
For Christmas I'm getting everyone I know the special "American Pie" commemorative DVD box set. I have to say I do think it was a little tacky how they tied the whole thing together with one of Tara Reid's leftover nipple stitches. But what are you going to do? That's the industry for you.
At night sometimes when I'm falling asleep I'm not sure if I should pray or masturbate. So I try to do a little of both. That's just what I told the priest at confession the other day. He assigned me 10 Hail Marys but then he thought better of it and gave me something a little less erotic.
I was trying to read this Lester Bangs autobiography, but then I realized I'd like it better if I chopped it up, cooked it, and injected it directly into my bloodstream. And man. Can that guy write.
I Googled happiness the other day and all I got was a picture of an orangutan shitting in a bucket. But you know. At least I got an answer.
I have a real problem with anti-Semitism. That's why I'm naming my first born Adolf Goldenstein. Take that, Third Reich. You ain't so big now, are you?
Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey have broken up, which is sad, but I'm glad to see she's getting out there again. I hear she's gone back to dating her father. Which I guess, you know, some people just belong together.
So I don't really like the term "alcoholic blackout." I prefer to look at it as a beautiful rainbow—with a total absence of color.
Have you ever kidnapped a bus full of day laborers and murdered the local city councilman and you've got like six federal agents on your tail but somehow you manage to make it past the security checkpoint at the airport and you're sitting comfortably in first class sipping your Courvoisier and Coke and no one recognizes you in the pageboy wig and glasses you stole off the dead clown you've checked in your luggage and that's when the in-flight safety video comes on and just as you're drifting off to sleep you hear, "American Airlines: Yeah. We know why you fly."
I'll just tell you this one last thing. A couple nights ago, I was licking jelly off of Sarah Silverman's vagina...and I thought, 'Oh my God—I'm turning into Jimmy Kimmel.
And now, I'm off to New York.

 Rush week

Why it continues to be helpful to have a friend who used to work at Maxim
Me: I just purchased all of Michigan Avenue and am weeding through the very wrong wrong purchases. Suede boots that slouch at the top. Was I fucking high? Ky: OMG are you dressing for a Theta party in 1991?!?!

 Don't be a hater

Early warning
I will be doing a short set as part of Cayne Collier's Elevated showcase on Wednesday night. And while we're on the subject, I think it's wrong for American Girl dolls to have abortions. It's totally out of historical context. The Elevated 2833 N. Sheffield Wed 8:30 PM, $4 Unless you are 7, you should come on by.

 She's with the band Hole

Don't look like you got so much money
Defamer cites its favorite review of the week from the LA Times' Carina Chocano as: "Rent" is commodified faux bohemia on a platter, eliciting the same kind of numbing soul-sadness as children's beauty pageants, tiny dogs in expensive boots, Mahatma Gandhi in Apple ads. It's about art, activism and counterculture in the same way that a poster of a kitten hanging from a tree branch ("Hang in There!") is about commitment and heroic perseverance. I quite like a few lines down in the same review: It feels sort of like watching "Touched by an Angel" with your grandmother and realizing that although you're clearly looking at the same thing, you're seeing something entirely different. It's awkward to behold. It has also inspired me to dig out a story I wrote for the Voice in 1996 (a busy year for me, it seems). Let's call it an early celebration of my return to the city a week from today. The Village Voice, © 1996.
"Authenticity Blues Casting Rent: the Off-Manhattan Production"
How do you teach bohemia? On the Nederlander Theatre stage, a messy list of icons is rattled off in 4/4 time by a messy troupe of actors woven together in thrift-store patches. The sold-out audience sits enraptured as the rebellion is ticked off in singsong glory too fast to catch subtleties: "To Sontag, to Sondheim, to anything taboo/ Ginsberg, Dylan, Cunningham and Cage/ Lenny Bruce/ Langston Hughes/ To the stage/ To Uta/ To Buddah/ To Pablo Neruda, too."
They are Rent's original cast of 15 singing "La Vie Boheme," the fight song of the counterculture according to Jonathan Larson. They have seen it all: the death of Larson the night before the show previewed in New York, the Bloomingdale's boutique, the $1 million record deal with David Geffen.
Almost 200 miles away on the Shubert Theatre stage in Boston, another cast of 15 prances around colorfully, also punching out the "La Vie Boheme" anthem: "Pee-wee Herman, German wine, turpentine,/ Gertrude Stein, Antonioni, Bertolucci/ Kurosawa, Carmina Burana."
Rent's dream-work expansion has begun. A new cast full of hip yet vulnerable actors has been picked to represent East Village culture through the fine-tooth comb of the Bernard Telsey Casting Agency. In July the call went out for "singers who truly display a quality of street life, can move well, and have a good time." Auditions that would be tight for another show were all wrong for Rent, casting director Telsey explained. "Rent, you want those raw, frazzled mistakes. But you want to know that you can help mold it or shape it. You don't want something that's canned or polished."
Such was the trick: having the right street appearance to go with the right voice, the right stage presence, and the right lack of props. Telsey estimates more than 6000 singers were heard for the off-Manhattan staging. After several callbacks, the chosen few were announced in October and ushered into the legend—already sealed tight with Tony and Pulitzer decorations, media fanfare, and Democratic National Convention glory.
Once inside the bubble, the Boston cast's education into "street life" was promptly begun. They were given a study packet that one cast member described as "a primer on bohemia," explaining all the characters from Sontag to Carmina Burana nodded to in "La Vie Boheme." They met with the founder of Friends in Deed, an HIV support group alluded to in the play. They visited the Bell Café, where Larson wrote much of Rent and which he refers to in the show as the Life Café. They heard a tape of Larson singing his protagonist's ballad, "One Song Glory," and met his personal "tribe." They saw his famed fourth-floor walk-up with the bathtub in the kitchen.
"We've met his father. We've met his friends. We've heard when they met," said C.C. Brown, 29, who plays anarchist Tom Collins. "This is more research than any other show will give you. When I did Saigon, we just watched a couple of Vietnam movies."
That's because one of Rent's playing cards is authenticity. In auditions, Telsey paid close attention to candidates, judging them half on vocal ability and "can they really do what's required" and the other half on personality. Brown seemed like a natural as Collins. For instance, "He smiles and you just feel the way you do with Jesse Martin," who plays Collins on Broadway.
Brown also fit the part well, packaging nicely the right unpackaged style. To match Martin's sweater, cap, open vest, and warm hint of beard, Brown went shopping for something "different but similar" before his audition in front of director Michel Greif. He bought a long khaki vest, an African beanie, and didn't shave for a week and a half. At this stage, Brown also had the casting director's feedback to help him get into character. "Telsey said things to me like, 'Don't look like you got so much money.'"
By the time he was brought together for a photo shoot with Stephan Alexander, the actor who would play Angel, his drag-queen lover, Brown was "willing to do anything to get the job." Brown picked Alexander up. Brown rode Alexander piggyback. "I went with the rule of being unorthodox."
So did many others. Alexander actually snuck back into the line of 4000 at the original open call because he wasn't happy with his first audition. Telsey described him as "just so in the best way 'sneaky.'" Glenn Sabalza, a rival Angel candidate from Miss Saigon, auditioned his second time complete with drumsticks and drag makeup. Telsey said the difference was what felt real. "Nothing against the Saigon guy, and it wound up being a great performance, but everybody still wants the authenticity of it. That's streety and more real and not performing the drag queen. Alexander is like the way Wilson [Jermaine Heredia Wilson who plays Angel on Broadway] was. Just so simple and so like wrap-him-around-your-arm."
There was a similar stripped-down appeal to the actor who was cast as Roger. Like Adam Pascal, who plays the HIV-positive musician on Broadway, Sean Keller was in Telsey's words, "a real rock 'n' roller." With guitar in hand, Keller performed "Like a Prayer" for Telsey, then performed the Beatles and Elvis on command. Telsey loved it. "He didn't even know what he was doing, had never done an audition, didn't have a resume, came in with his guitar, and after his audition—we're still going two hours later, we're done with auditions and he's outside in front of my building, and he's just sitting on the floor playing guitar. It was almost as if his case was open and you could throw money into it."
Previously a bartender and singer-songwriter, Keller said, "They were talking about wanting street credibility. I was like, all right, fine. I'll just be myself." At one point during the audition process, the 24-year-old was called up by a casting agent assistant and asked if he wanted the part because his attitude needed a little work. "I wasn't as nervous as they wanted me to be or something."
How actors approached their material made a world of difference. In watching Greif interact with a young hopeful trying out for the narrator's role of Mark, the struggle to communicate Rent's elaborate take on grit and despair become apparent.
After belting out U2's "One," the would-be narrator launched into the signature song "What You Own." "Don't breathe too deep/ Don't think all day/ Dive into world/ Drive the other way/ ... You're living in America/ At the end of the millennium/ You're what you own."
Greif told him to look deeper. "Even though the lyrics are saying, 'Let's celebrate the fact that we're all commercialized and let's get in our fancy cars and go,' he doesn't believe that. The song is about 'What part of myself am I going to have to cut off to make it in this commercialized world?' It's not, 'I'm going to surive it and I'm going to be a coward.' It's 'I can't, it kills me.'"
The actor paused. "Let me just think about it. All right."
After another run-through Greif continued, "Instead of beginning to dismiss it, 'I hate that. Forget that. Fuck that.' Instead tell us how astounding it is to you. Is that clear?' Musical director Tim Weil added, "Put some real throaty stuff in. Especially on 'At the end of the mill-en-ee-um.' It definitely has the anger of the Who. 'We won't get fooled again.'"
The actor plunged in again. "You're living in America/At the end of the mill-en-ee-uu-uuum. You're living in America/ Leave your conscience at the tone."
Greif stopped him short. "I want it without the attitude."
"Okay, I gotcha. More ironic?"
Greif looked frustrated. "I saw what you were doing before as irony. I don't want any attitude."
After one more chorus, they moved on.
"It's really trying to get these people to just be pure with their talent," Telsey explained. "That's what makes them accessible to a Broadway audience."
But how do you teach authenticity?

 Self-defense

Why I no longer correspond with 7-year-olds
7yo: Happy Thanksgiving, Aunt Mandy. Me: Happy Thanksgiving. 7yo: What are you doing? Me: I'm watching a movie. 7yo: Well, I made the sweet potatoes! And Daddy's making the turkey! Me: That sounds great. Delicious. Good for you. 7yo: Are you cooking a turkey? Me: No. Not really. 7yo: Aunt Mandy. Me: Yeah? 7yo: What did you used to make on Thanksgiving before you got divorced?

 Tomahawk

In the year 2000
While converting files from an old laptop last week, I happened across an hourlong interview I conducted with Conan O'Brien as a college student in 1996. Located, quite naturally, in a folder called "Hot Stuff," it sat next to a disturbing number of journal entries about boys ("For the first time, I truly felt like a woman") and an even more disturbing number of thesis statements about Marshall McLuhan ("For the first time, I truly felt like a woman"). I present the Conan interview for you in its entirety. He is 32. I am 20. My use of the word "killer"? Timeless. Me: Hey Conan.
Conan: Hey Mandy, how you doing?
Me: Good. How are you?
Conan: I'm wearing make-up, Mandy, and I'm a man, and it's late at night.
Me: I'm sorry.
Conan: Help me. I didn't change out of my make-up yet. I feel like a creep.
Me: And you've been doing interviews all night, huh?
Conan: No, not that many actually. Not so bad. I—actually, mostly meetings. You know, crud like that. I didn't have that many tonight, I think.
Me: So you're ready for a really big intensive interview right now?
Conan: This is the one where we just answer all the questions that have never been answered. This is where I open my heart to you.
Me: Pretty much.
Conan: Saying, 'Help me, help me, male impotence is horrible.'
Me: You're an idol among college students at Northwestern.
Conan: Oh cool. That's nice to know.
Me: Yeah, yeah, definitely.
Conan: Well, that's nice.
Me: Okay. At what point do you think you reached this new comfort level that you have as a comedian and talk show host rather than just being a comedian-writer-turned-talk-show-host?
Conan: Right. Well, you never know. Like—uh, it's hard to define any one moment. I think there were just points where I think what eventually happened on the show is that I'm on TV so much that, you know, initially you go into it thinking (manly voice), 'Well, I've got to do a good job and give everyone a good talk show. A good professional network talk show.' And then, people don't want to see you trying to do that. You know, you get out there and that just kind of falls away after a while, and you just start fucking around, and you just start asking people what you—The journey here is not to become a good talk show host. It's to be the person sort of that you always were. I sort of feel like that happened with me—and kind of with all of us, the writers, and Andy. We just all sort of realized—it wasn't even, I don't even think it was that conscious. I just started coming out there and just, you know, we babble about stuff. There are times during interviews when I'm just obsessively babbling about something, and you realize, you know, people are laughing. And you realize later on, I wasn't thinking when I said that. You know, you just start saying, 'Let's have a week of time travel. I'll come out of a rocket pack, and, you know, we'll change the whole set every night. Or I'll come out on horse, or (laughs) we'll send a Trojan horse over to Letterman and smash a truck into it.' You're just doing things because you think they're funny. Like last night I was supposed to do some Subway ad for Subway sandwiches, and I'm doing the ad, and I'm not thinking, and I'm just like (high-pitched ad voice), 'Okay, remember. Eat Subway sandwiches. A Subway sandwich, you can have it plain or with all the fixins.' And now my first couple months on the air, I would've probably just said, 'And with all the fixins.' Or, 'Get your Subway sandwich, bye-bye.' And like last night I just said, 'You can have it plain or with all the fixins.' And I stopped, and I thought, 'I just said, "And with all the fixins."' And so I just told the audience, I just told the people watching, 'I can't believe I just said "fixins".' And people started laughing, and I was like, 'You know what, you know I've become such a whore.' And it's just honest. You're not thinking, you're just doing it. Like now when I'm on the show, always some nights are going to be better than others, but that's what I'm like, and that's what Andy's like, and this is the way we are together, you know, this is how we act at rehearsal. This is how we, you know, we've—What you see is what you get, and eventually, that's the only way you can go.
Me: Definitely. Do you think your extensive experience as a comedy writer gives you an edge versus a lot of people who interviewed for your job who were just stock comedians?
Conan: I think there were a couple of things that have really stood me in good stead which was, one, that everyone just sort of portrayed it as, 'No, he's never performed before. You know, he's not a stand-up so he's never performed before.' And actually for years, I'd been doing improv in Los Angeles, and in Chicago, and as a writer I was kind of a performer. What improv is is getting out there and creating something with somebody else and listening and responding. Do you know what I'm saying?
Me: Mm-hmm.
Conan: And 'being in the moment,' to use an awful actor's term. Just kind of—and so I was used to getting up in front of people with other people in front of audiences and sort of locking in with that person and trying to make something happen and that's the best training you can have for interviewing people. That's, I think, better training than being a stand-up comedian.
Me: Yeah.
Conan: My thing is—or my style is, I don't try to score jokes off of them. I'll like try and come up with something funny with them. And I mean, they both work. They just work differently and I think the—do you know what I mean? If my kid was going to be a talk show host—you know, I don't have a, I'm not married or anything—you know, heh-heh, I'm not admitting to some kid. 'Cause I'm not allowed to admit to that. No, but you know someday I have a kid, and he wants to be a talk show host, I would send him to improv class. You know I would have him work out with the Groundlings or Second City 'cause I think that's great training for getting out there with somebody for the interviews, and the interviews are—no matter how much comedy you do—the interviews are always going to be at least 50 or 60 percent of the show, and it better be okay, it better be good. The other thing that helped me a lot, and I think helps me a lot is that, you know, I was a comedy writer since I was 18. That's when I got my first check for writing comedy when I did a Lampoon. That was like, turn pro when I was 18.
Me: Did you get paid a lot for doing the Lampoon?
Conan: No. No, no, no, I got like, when I mean, 'I got paid,' I mean I got a check. I wrote a bunch of stuff for a parody they did one summer, and I got paid like $300 for the whole summer.
Me: Killer.
Conan: But I remember I kept a copy of the check because I thought, 'This means I'm professional.'
Me: Yeah.
Conan: And the—I was just thinking about what's—I was thinking seriously about what's funny, what's not funny, why is this funny, and why is that not funny. I was thinking about that every day for a couple hours since I was 18, so I think something that people don't appreciate that much is that these shows have to have a voice. They have to have a sensibility I think in the long run to really be successful. You know what I mean? It's not just about a guy who, you know, if I was just kind of like a good-enough looking guy, and I came out every night and chatted with people, I don't think I'd still be here. Because I believe that in the era we live in, and especially following David Letterman, you know his 12:30 show had a really strong comedic voice.
Me: Right.
Conan: And I sort of believe that's what my show had to do. It can't be the same voice, and it can't rip off what came before it. But it has to accomplish the same thing which is have a really strong sensibility. And so because for years and years I had had ideas about what's funny and what's not and what's hacky and what's stupid and what's good-stupid vs. bad-stupid, you know what I mean?
Me: You have that voice.
Conan: You know, I sort of feel like I had some idea of what that would be. And it wasn't just me, but I had the ability to—I know who was out there, who I could hire, who would help me to put that together. I didn't see the whole thing myself, but I knew who to call up to say, 'C'mon, let's go. Uh, help me.' And they came, and as a group we had a sensibility. It wasn't all me, but I think if I had been some guy who wasn't connected to that world of writing and comedy, I'd have been screwed because—you know what I mean? I feel like every night, I mean every day at rehearsal I sit there at 2 o'clock, from 2-3:30, and we go through the comedy and I say, 'You know what? This isn't going to work,' or, 'This part's funny, but let's put that first, and let's put this second, and 'This thing is lame, can we fix—what can we do?' And you know?
Me: Do sometimes you just leave things in? Like I was watching some little thing that you did on grave epitaphs, and it had the 'O.J. Simpson, Still Looking for the Real Killers but Burning In Hell,' and to one of them you said, 'This is one that stayed in after rehearsal even though it wasn't that funny.'
Conan: Right. No, yeah, and that was funny because I told people.
Me: Yeah, that was completely what made it funny; it seems like you're a lot more comfortable.
Conan: Yeah, but it's like the thing that you learn is just like okay, if something doesn't work the worst thing you can do is pretend that it did.
Me: Yeah.
Conan: Just tell people. Say, 'Okay, that didn't work.' Not all the time. If you're always telling people, 'That didn't work, that didn't work,' then, you know, no one's going to watch, but enough things work on the show that when something doesn't work or if something works despite me thinking that it wasn't going to—you know? I'll like let people in and say, 'Well Andy liked that one, but I didn't like that one,' you know and there was, yeah. There was one night when we were doing some bit, this was like two months ago, and I said it, and we got to that joke, and I said the joke and—silence. And I just said, 'Ladies and gentlemen, I wanted to cut it. Andy told me, it'll kill.' And people started laughing, and Andy and I like started fighting, and I mean it wasn't real fighting, but he was just like saying, 'Well no, I just thought,' and I was like, 'Ahhhhhh,' and that was funnier than anything in the bit, and that's it. It's just about being honest. Do you know what I mean? People really appreciate it when you admit to the fact that look, you're out here every night, you're doing a volume business, and, 'Okay, you caught me.' (Laughs) You know? That didn't uh—Sometimes I get better response when I go out in the monologue, and I tell a joke, and it gets nothing. Like one night during time travel I came out, and I told a joke, and it got a laugh, and I told a second joke, and it got nothing. And I said, 'Not only did that joke bomb, but I'm dressed like a complete ass.' It was early '80s night, and I was wearing this stupid costume.
Me: Don't you love doing that, though?
Conan: Yeah. It's really fun. It's fun, but you kind of learn that it's all okay, you know? And you do the best you can. I think the nice thing, or the system I have is that I really work hard during the day to make it—because I don't like it when people go out, and they really don't have good stuff. Sometimes people go out there, and they really don't have good stuff, and they think that they can always make fun of the material, and that's not true. You have to have the goods. You know what I mean? You have to have—when Johnny Carson used to bail on jokes it was because he had just had like 15 that worked, you know what I'm saying? But if you go out there, and nothing's working, and you say, 'Boooooy that didn't work,' you're going to say, 'Well why am I wasting my time with you?' But what's fun is—my system is just, we work really hard during the day to come up with stuff that's going to be kind of innovative and look fun and be smart and give people a bang for their buck, and we do our best. Some nights better than others, but the average I feel like is good enough so that when something just completely doesn't work then we've earned the right to go, 'You know, sorry.' You know what I mean? And, 'Aren't we fools?' and people will laugh.
Me: Do you think you have the David Letterman complex of picking over the night's program or stressing about what was good?
Conan: I think I probably don't have it. I mean it's different from what he's talking about. Certainly when I watch Dave in an interview with Charlie Rose, and you know he was talking about how he walks out after a show, and people say, 'Great show,' and he doesn't believe them. And I've experienced that. I—the difference is that, you know, I know when I've been like really funny in a way that—I know when I've been hitting on all cylinders, and I know when, 'Boy, that was damn good Conan O'Brien I gave people tonight,' and it's hard to get that all the time. It's hard to get that, you know, like two to three nights a week, and what happens is you get a little better over time when you're not—when you're sort of just doing an okay job at, or when you don't feel it, you do a better job, or it's still okay enough. But I definitely have the—you know, I'm obsessive. I always want things to be better, and even when things, when everyone else seems pretty happy here, thinking, 'Hey that was a really funny show,' I can tell you what wasn't, what was lacking. I just try and not let that consume me because, you know, I don't know. You get into weird kind of life decisions of well—you know what I mean? I just don't want to die of morbid depression when I'm 38. And also it's a quality of life thing for everybody else. I'm not the only person out there. And if I'm always like, 'Why wasn't that better? Why wasn't that better?' It's gonna start making Andy not like doing his thing. People are not going to want to be around me.
Me: So you have fun with it.
Conan: Yeah. So it's a balancing act. It's my nature to brood somewhat if things could have been better, and it's my nature somewhat to see the faults, but I try not to do that too much. Because some of that is good for business. Some of that keeps you sharp. Some of that keeps you from getting a swelled head, and it pushes you to keep you trying new things. And some of it is destructing.
Me: When you started writing comedy you said that you picked apart what made something funny. What for you makes something funny?
Conan: I like to be surprised. I love physical comedy. I don't believe in, you know, I'm not a big believer in well—I don't like to categorize or generalize. Do you know what I mean? If something's funny, you just look at it, and it's funny. You know what I mean? If someone—I mean, I'm trying to think of a good example of it. I was always drawn to the Pink Panther movies that Peter Sellers was in. I loved those when I was a kid because I loved Kato surprising him when he got home. Those were movies that I really loved. I just had a really wide range. My dad was a comedy fan so he would take me to old movies. I saw W.C. Fields so I thought that was great. He was funny. His humor's really mean. People tend to think, 'Well comedy in the old days was softer.' No, you can't generalize like that. Like the Marx brothers. Or there's really mean stuff in that. Like W.C. Fields stuff, like, in one of his movies, his mother-in-law's giving him a hard time. She's this old woman, and he turns around and hits her and knocks her out. It's just something that if you put it in a movie today, people would be like—you know what I mean? It's not like politically correct. I'm always drawn to kind of cartoons. I love the Warner Bros. cartoons. So that's why I think I was drawn to 'The Simpsons.' And the stuff I wrote for 'Saturday Night Live,' it was kind of silly. You know what I mean? And I've always been drawn to that. I've always been drawn to the make believe over the real. Like for example, Dave's show in the '80s was really brilliant because it exploited real people really well, you know? Like people out on the street, and you know the remotes where Dave is asking a guy who makes keys to explain his job. It was all about real stuff. And I think if anything my show is like a reaction to that. We're not rejecting it 'cause I just think he did it brilliantly. I just don't want to—like my sense of humor and the sense of humor of the people who work here on the show is that everything is just kind of invented. It's surreal. Like we say Andy has a daytime talk show. Well we completely made up that Andy has a daytime talk show but Andy commits to (higher pitched Andy voice) 'Oh well, it's going okay, it's going all right.' And we really act it out. 'Hey I think it is going well, it's going great, yeah, take a look.' And it's all invented. And we talked about the time that I couldn't read and did a documentary and we really commit to it and as actors, I'm crying and drinking. So there's more I think of a fantasy element and there's more of a—we invent everything I guess is what I'm saying. Do you know what I mean? We don't go out much and just create things with real people, you know what I mean? If I went out on the street and bumped into people they'd all be fake, and they'd—(laughs) they would all tend to serve some higher fake purpose.
Me: Where do you think that love of fantasy comes from?
Conan: Uh, I always had this insane—not insane because I think a lot of people have it—but I always just have like a hyperactive imagination and um, I had a younger brother named Justin. When I was a kid, he was much younger than me, he was like a little kid, and I used to use him kind of as my—like he would want to play with me, and he would just want to play cops and robbers, and I would keep evolving the game, you know what I mean? And I would say, 'Okay, you're a rabbi,' and he'd be like, 'Whaaa?' I'd say, 'You're a rabbi, and I'm a robot from the future,' you know what I mean? He'd be like (distressed little brother voice) 'Whaaa—what are you talking about? I don't like this.' And then the game would start changing, and I would say, 'Okay you've just been audited by the IRS, and you're in there, and you're complaining because you're going to have to close down your shtetl.' (distressed little brother voice) 'What's a shtetl?' 'Now just listen to me—and you're being audited when the robots from the future arrive,' and it'd just be like—he'd be crying a lot—upset, but that was my sensibility when I was growing up because I was always kind of babbling all the time, singing at the top of my lungs, putting on really stupid plays, making people look at them, and so I wanted to—I was a tap dancer when I was a kid.
Me: You haven't changed a bit, huh?
Conan: No, I know, I've just become—it's all sad. It's all a desperate, desperate cry for help.
Me: Is it kind of weird having a group of writers write for you when you're so used to being on the other side of the desk?
Conan: It's funny but it feels right somehow. (Laughs) I used to always—I used to like 10 years ago, or more than that now, 11 years ago when I was in college, the school newspaper did an article on me because I had edited the Lampoon a couple times, and I was kind of a known guy on campus, so they wrote articles about five or six people that were graduating that year, and one of the articles was on me. And they asked me what I wanted to be doing in 10 years, and I said I want to have—I want to be working on, I want to be the host of the Conan O'Brien Show, and I want my own line of jeans. And that's from June of 1985, and sometimes I think about that, and I think, you know, I was headed this way for a long—this is what I've wanted for a long time, and so yeah, I do pinch myself sometimes (sexy voice) just because it feels good. No, I pinch myself sometimes because I think—you know what I mean? It's wow, this is—wow, I really have my own sh—you know that kind of thing. But on another level, it's like I used to—I was talking about who are my writers? I remember talking to a friend of mine in 1984 and saying (spooky dreamy voice), 'I wonder who will—will you be one of my writers?' And he was like, 'Yeah, I'll be one of your writers.' So maybe that's just incredible arrogance, but I used to think about it a lot.
Me: It's good to have confidence. Do you think in the year 2000 you'll still be doing in the year 2000?
Conan: Umm (laughs). It's funny because I've noticed that we're getting so close to the year 2000 that it's becoming kind of like we're talking about the eerie future but it's only a couple, like four years away, and so it's kind of stupid because when we started—I used to do that bit with this guy Robert Smigel and a couple of other actors, we used to—we did that bit in a stage show in Chicago in 1988, and in 1988 the year 2000 was still far enough away that you could say, 'In the year 2000, Man will, you know, walk on air, that kind of thing,' but in 1996 when you're saying—you know what I'm saying? It's like saying (year 2000 voice), 'In 1998 ties will be slightly thinner, acrylics will be out, "Friends" will still be on.' You know, it's only a couple of years from now, you know what I mean? 'The Dodge LeSabre—you know, cars will be a little different than they are now, mostly around the headlight area.' You know, it's like you're not—It's only a couple of years, and it will be weird, like what will we do? Maybe we'll just have to change the song to like (sings), 'In the distant future…'
Me: Do you think the strongest thing about the show is the bits?
Conan: Well the bits are what—yes, I mean the bits are sort of how we define ourselves I think. And you know we, you know—I like to think if like Sting or those people who are on our show that I'll ask him slightly different questions than, you know what I mean? That the interview will have more of my flavor in it than on the other shows but your comedy especially on this show, that's really, that's really where you get to very cleanly and definitely tell people what you're about, do you know what I mean? You can do that somewhat in a booking, and you can do it somewhat in the interview style, and we've done it I think in a pretty good degree to the kind of music we have on the show. You can do it all there. But your homegrown comedy is really where you're going to be saying this is something that you can only get here. You can only buy that here. So yeah I think that probably would make sense. That's what attracted me to the Letterman show in the '80s, do you know what I mean? The way they would do viewer mail or the remotes or the—all that kind of stuff was always what sort of grabbed me right away, that's what gets you in the door.
Me: Do you think you ever wanted to be a rock star?
Conan: I think everyone in comedy is a frustrated—I really do. I think a lot of comedians are people who couldn't make it in music. I play guitar, and I like nothing more than—I mean, on the show I've always done it to like pathetic effect. Like tonight we do a bit where I talk about in the monologue where I show people that I also got bleeped performing on the Grammys just like Alanis Morissette. They show me, and I'm singing that doo-n-doo-doo 'Feeling Groovy' song getting bleeped you know, but whenever we do it in the show, I'm playing a style of music that isn't really what I play, and so people probably get the impression that (bewildered voice), 'God he's really, what a queer guy, you know,' because I'm intentionally sort of doing a (lounge singer voice) 'Slow down, you're moving too fast,' but that's not you know. Yeah I mean, I've several times, I've—we've had people on the show, and they're like kind of in a rockabilly band, and they're playing like a Buddy Holly style, very stripped down R&B, and you know, I think to myself, you know, 'What if I could do that for a living,' that's probably what I'd do, but I've always felt like it's oftentimes someone's failure to get to Point A that makes them a success getting to Point B. That, you know, that everybody was always trying to be somebody else, you know like Elvis sort of wanted to sound like Dean Martin but got screwed up somehow and didn't quite. It failed to sound like Dean Martin but ended up being great sounding like Elvis, and you know what I mean, and not in music but I mean you know sort of our attempt to have a professional (laughs) you know comedy talk show has resulted in not quite hitting the mark or not having a conventional show but coming up with this other kind of weird thing.
Me: When you started out do you think you tried to adopt somebody else's voice and then kind of grew into your own?
Conan: I think yeah earlier on in my career—
Me: Just kind of the idols you mentioned earlier on—
Conan: Yeah, or you try to, you know, you try your hand at different things, and it's probably, you know, again you know it's my inability to do many things that led me here. You know it's like I'm not, I don't think I'd be a great actor, and I'm not really a stand-up, and I had no passion for just telling jokes and talking to an audience. I wanted to—and I wasn't happy or satisfied or fulfilled you know, writing, and felt kind of like well maybe like, well maybe I'm sort of a failure at this because it's not—I don't like to just lock myself up in my room and live in my head. I have to be with people, and I have to make something with people, and that's—it's all those things kind of not working out that led to okay, this is a job that combines all those deficiencies. (Laughs.)
Me: Is it weird to watch 'The Simpsons' or 'SNL'?
Conan: No, because I see them erratically, and I feel like I don't have a great perspective on it because do you know what I mean? I mean there are times when—
Me: You're pretty busy.
Conan: It's not just that. When I was working for 'Saturday Night Live,' I think I probably thought it was better than it was—do you know what I mean? When I would do a sketch on 'Saturday Night Live,' you know I would sometimes think (pompous voice) like, 'I'm changing the face of television.' I think that's as funny as anything that's ever been. My friends would go like, 'Oh yeah, I caught that, that was okay,' and I'd be like, 'Those fools, there's something wrong with their TV sets.' And then when I was at 'The Simpsons,' you know you sort of get a little ego about it. You think, 'I'm changing the face…' You know, 'I'm writing some great "Simpsons" episodes. How will these fools survive without me?' You know, and then you leave, and they're good. They're really good. And I see things, and I go, wow, who thought of that? I wish I would have thought of that. And so you know, I don't know, probably when it comes time for me to move on from this job, I'll be like, 'I pity the fool that tries to follow in my….' No, it'll be like he or she will be like fine, and I'll probably be watching them being like, 'Ooh, where'd they think of that idea?'
Me: You wrote the 'Simpsons' episode about the Harvard grads being comedy writers being told that they need more life experience, and the one guy says, 'I wrote my thesis on life experience.' Do you ever consider yourself that guy?
Conan: I—I know that guy. And I think that yeah, there's a big. (Sighs) You know I sort of feel like, you know the great thing about doing this job is that it's given me a hell of a lot of life experience. Like I really, I meet a lot of people, but I think that yeah, there's a—I don't know, I'm always careful not to try and write about things or portray things that I really don't know anything about. That's why, you know, I heard Roseanne once giving an interview. And they told her that all these writers, she's always interviewing all these writers who are just out of a really good college do you know what I mean? And they're smart and everything, but they want to write about what it's like to live in a lower middle class family, you know what I mean? With the kind of problems that women have and stuff like that, and you know these guys want to write about that kind of stuff, but they don't know anything about that stuff, and I can kind of think that that is a problem and that's why I sort of confine myself to like a little world that I know. And if you ever see me as the producer of a show about like a lower class black family or women trying to find men in their 40s or something I'm hoping you'll put a bullet through the back of my head because people would be within their rights to ridicule me.
Me: What are the things that you think you know best?
Conan: Oh man. (Sleazy voice) Well I think I know the ladies pretty well. What's wrong with you? I think, what do I know well? Man, I, uh, I don't know.
Me: Do you think you're a voice for our generation?
Conan: No, I really don't. I really think, and I don't say that because it's cool to say, 'Oh no, not me.' I say that because I'm not. I mean how old are you?
Me: I'm 20.
Conan: Okay, you're 20. I'm 32. I mean how could I possibly be a voice for you? It's absurd. And I think one of the things that I never tried to do was—was appeal to 20-year-olds or talk to 20-year-olds or attract 20-year-olds because I think you and your friends, you would pick up in a second when someone is faking it. You know what I mean? And I really believe like—you know what I mean? I'm a 32-year-old guy who has a lot of ideas about what I think is funny and has a certain personality and if young people like that then great, and I'm glad but, you know, I'm no—I don't think I'm a voice for people my age because people my age don't even get to see my show. I mean, people my age you know are usually starting to have kids and stuff, and they're always saying to me, you know, some of my good friends are like, 'You know, I've read good things, but sorry, pal, I'm just not up.' And it's like, well they have to get up at 7 o'clock and go work at a bank or something with kids. So...
Me: If you want to appeal to my generation just say the word superfresh a lot.
Conan: Hey, I'm hep. Oh, I think I just fucked this up big time. You know, the big rule for me is: Don't think about it too much. Meaning like don't think about who all the—I think sometimes all the people can get screwed up by fame because they get into, they probably get asked so much what are you doing? What do you want? And they start thinking about it a lot and get lost. And it's like all I want to do is keep trying to do a funny show, and at some point, you know at some point, what I think is funny is going to depart from what people in college think is funny and maybe that's going to be in a year, or maybe if I'm lucky it'll be in a couple of years, or maybe it'll be like sometime late next week, you know kind of it's not up to me. Just keep doing it. See what happens.
(BREAK)
Conan: Gotta get rid of my full body make up. Don't ask me why I leave.
Me: That's really intense because aren't you like 6'8"?
Conan: That's right. (Annoyed) 6'4".
Me: That's cool. I'm 6'2".
Conan: You're 6'2"?
Me: Yeah, I'm a really tall girl.
Conan: Oh that's great.
Me: Yeah I like it.
Conan: You should like it. I think that's really cool. I mean I think there's nothing more attractive to me than tall women.
Me: Unfortunately, I'm like 500 pounds.
Conan: What?
Me: Just joking.
Conan: You're very powerful.
Me: Do you consider yourself at all a creation of Lorne Michaels?
Conan: I think I have this job largely due to Lorne Michaels, but beyond that—no, I'm not a creation because, and I think he would say the same thing. As Popeye says, 'I am what I am,' and he didn't—what Lorne did which was invaluable, and which I'll always be grateful for is NBC said, 'Lorne what do we do?' And he was like, 'Well you should maybe go look at that guy over there. Well just go look at him. I mean have an audition or something, but include him because he's got something I think. I think he might be able to do it. It's going to take time but—' And they did, and the audition went really well and so Lorne sort of steered them in my direction, but it wasn't like a 'My Fair Lady' thing where like there were rigorous classes with the Zenmaster. I mean Lorne to his credit kind of—you know it's that old story of the father that throws his—'Kid's got to learn how to swim!' And throws him in the lake, and there's a little bit of that with Lorne. You know, Lorne wasn't in my face all the time saying, 'You must do this, then you must do that,' Because a big part of his gift is to know—he did give me broadstroke kind of call me up and say, 'I don't personally like this,' or you know, sort of broadstroke kind of things, but he also knew kind of like, 'This kid's got to just figure it out, and I think he's a smart guy, and I think he's got talent, and I think he'll figure it out.' So that was kind of his contribution.
Me: Why do you think more women have been watching you in the timeslot? That's still true isn't it?
Conan: I think so. If the mail is correct. Uh-huh. Huh, I have no idea. I don't know, maybe the clothes I wear.
Me: Do you think it's the hairstyle?
Conan: I'm hoping. That may be what's keeping some of them away. I have no idea.
Me: Do you mind being on so late?
Conan: No, the great, great thing about this job is that it's on at 12:30. Because if I was on any earlier I wouldn't get away with some of this stuff, and you know what I mean? 12:30 is this great sort of time when there's still enough people up, but do you know what I mean? You have enough people watching that you can actually command some attention but you're on late enough that people are in a bit of haze so you can get away with more. I think a lot of people probably late the next day, like at 4 in the afternoon are like, 'Wait a minute. That was really offensive, you know?' But then it's too late, or that was, 'That made no sense. He just made a really old man eat pie. What. Whaa?'
Me: I think the most brilliant thing was the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame bit.
Conan: Oh yeah that was fun.
Me: How did that time as Harvard Lampoon editor affect the rest of your career?
Conan: I think one of the ways that it developed me is that I don't think, looking back on it—I don't think that I was elected president of the Lampoon twice because of my pure writing ability. I think I was elected because I was this, I was probably somewhat of—It's a little bit of a cult of personality. And um that, you know, like my way of handling people. Do you know what I mean? And it's sort of like my way with people and just sort of my ability to talk to people and just, I don't know, the whole package was probably why I got to do that, or why I was elected president so early and got to have the job for so long. And so in that sense I think that's something that later on, it's not my ability as a writer, and it's not my sole ability as a performer, and it's not my sole ability as a leader of people. Like I kind of have some different abilities in different areas and when you take the whole package, I think that's kind of something that was evidenced a bit, you know, when I was at the Lampoon, and later on, I was able to turn that into a talk show.

 Dibs

Actual item
I heard the makers of Viagra are suing the people behind the iPod Nano for stealing their marketing slogan. Sadly, this takes the phrase "impossibly small" to a whole new level.

 Time out

Why I continue to only correspond with 7-year-olds
"I am sick Aunt Mandy. Happy Thanksgiving. I will do this every month. What is your favorite animal? Mine is a cat. I love you. You are #1! Have a good day! When are you going to send us our presents? Ok I can't think of something so bye bye! Go home! Knock knock who's there? Who who who? There's an owl in here! What is your favorite month? Mine is May and October. What is your favorite food? Mine is a cherry!!!!"

 My new Discovery Center technique is unstoppable

Inquisition
Roommate seeker: You don't smoke, do you? Me: No. Roommate seeker: Okay , okay, good...wait. You don't have pets, do you? Me: No. Roommate seeker: Okay , okay, good...wait. You don't have plants, do you? Me: Only when I drink.

 Automatically interesting

Being a part of it
This week I accepted a position as a features reporter at the New York Post, starting in mid-December. I'll be posting more erratically as it appears that "finding a place to live" has worked out well for others who have made similar transitions. I also finally read Confessions of an Heiress, and it's caused me to re-evaluate quite a bit in my life. Read the following passage, and I think you'll understand. It's a little thing they call supply and demand. ...The way I keep people wondering about me is to smile all the time and say as little as possible. Smile beautifully, smile big, smile confidently, and everyone thinks you've got all kinds of secret things going on. And that keeps them wanting more. And when they want more, you are automatically interesting. If you give too much away, no one needs to know anything else. You've given it all away—and for free. And if you do that, well, you're never going to have any money. Or make any money. It's what they call "supply and demand." So, while I'm going to reveal some of my secrets here, don't get your hopes up too high. I'll never reveal ALL of them. How tacky would that be?

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