Gasping for Airtime - Jay Mohr [92]
But by the time “Rock and Roll Real Estate” aired on Saturday Night Live, the sketch had been read at three consecutive read-throughs. It had been rehearsed three times on Thursday or Friday night and three more times on Saturday for camera blocking. It had been performed in three live dress rehearsals in front of three different studio audiences. When David Duchovny, Molly Shannon, and I took our places during the second to last commercial break of the season, the sketch was about to be done out loud for the thirteenth time in three weeks.
The show had run like clockwork and the sketch did not get cut. It bombed horribly, which was made worse by the fact that I was dancing around like a jackass during its demise. Each time the sketch had been cut, I had performed it the next time with a little something extra at the read-throughs and the rehearsals. Twelve times I gave everything I had. My intensity increased incrementally with each performance or rehearsal. When the sketch reached America on the thirteenth try, it got no laughs. The sketch, like me, was tired.
I finished the sketch knowing that it had tanked. I knew the reason it tanked was because I had no more energy. I now hated the sketch. They could have taken it away from me whenever they wanted, which made the actual performing of the sketch more of a fuck-you than the great experience it should have been. When the sketch ended, I pulled my Rod Stewart wig off by myself, ripping out some of my hair that was bobby-pinned to my scalp and the wig. I didn’t care. It was over. Once again, I had survived the madness for twenty weeks.
The season-ending after-party was held at the skating rink at 30 Rock, and it was an extravagant affair attended by countless celebrities as well as former hosts and cast members. I actually enjoyed myself at the party and didn’t get as drunk as usual. I got home at a decent hour, went straight to bed, and slept until 5:30 P.M. the following day. I woke up to pee and went right back to bed and slept until early Monday morning, at which point I woke up to pack for my afternoon flight back to Los Angeles.
On the flight, I took out a yellow legal pad and began to make another list. This was a list of things that I would have to be assured would change if I was going to return to the show. I was prepared to walk away. If I was going to be on Saturday Night Live for a third season, things were going to have to change. Never again, I wrote, would Don Pardo scream, “And featuring!” before he announced my name. If I came back, it was going to be as a full cast member. Never again would I have to sit in an elevator shaft on a show night and scribble caveman drawings on the walls in pencil. Never again would someone write me into a sketch as a guy who says nothing, like some extra they dragged off the street.
Over the summer, I continued to add to my list. I made it abundantly clear to my agent that if I was to return to the show, these changes would have to be implemented. If I remained on Saturday Night Live, I had firmly made up my mind that I was going to be treated better, and I didn’t care if I had to put it in writing. I wanted more money, not as a reward for the great work I had done, but for standing around and eating shit over the last two seasons. I figured that if the show had more of a financial interest in me, they might choose more of my sketches on Wednesday nights. I went over my plans with my agent, Ruthanne, and my manager, Barry. I was ready for battle.
I learned that summer that you can’t fight someone if he doesn’t show up.
The show again had a contractual