You’ll Never Blue Ball in This Town Again Read online

  I would then say, “OK, but the next time is the following Friday night at eight at the Comedy Store and the Friday after that...”

  I eventually learned to just take their business cards (or in the case of court-ordered community service, their phone number at their group home) and add them to all the business cards that I had been collecting over the past couple of years in a glass fish bowl complete with pink sand and a bridge for the cards to swim through. When I was really desperate for people—like if I was doing a big showcase for a comedy festival—I’d just pick out the cards and start dialing. Oftentimes I had no recollection of who the people were or even how I met them. This tactic got me in trouble with guys, because they thought I was interested in them and wanted to get drinks afterward, and I’d be like, “Nope, this was it. Just the comedy and laughs. Hope you enjoyed. Thanks for coming tonight.” It happened with girls, too. Some wanted to be friends and go shopping, and I’d be calling them back saying, “Oh gee, I can’t, but do you want to see a Groundlings sketch show tonight instead?” It was still better than having my parents come, because during some of my more risqué bits, like how Caller ID is *69 and how coincidental that is when it’s your ex-boyfriend calling, my mother would turn to the strangers seated around her who were laughing and say to them, “That’s my daughter and what is so great is that she’s still a virgin!”

  The only results I was getting from SCLA, besides having fifty-year-old men approaching me at nightclubs, asking, “Don’t you belong to Sports Club LA?” (at least they weren’t asking me, “Didn’t I choose you at Great Expectations?”) was that each month I was $155 poorer, with only one-sixth of a pack of abs. No matter how much I tried to get famous director Michael Bay’s attention while squatting repeatedly, he failed to look in my direction. I got angry with myself that I didn’t “seize the day” and show up dressed like a 1940s nurse when he was casting Pearl Harbor and start jogging on the treadmill in my white nursing shoes and pin curls, and maybe start a conversation with Michael about my love for the jitterbug, Rosie the Riveter, and my war efforts, including how I wore a yellow ribbon for three days during Desert Storm.

  However, I did make one girlfriend, Lily, who was in the fashion industry and only dated very rich older men. She was a self-proclaimed gold digger but also proud that she wasn’t like some of the girls at the gym who really were prostitutes who were paid in cold hard cash as opposed to just having your rent paid. Lily really wanted to get married someday, too, and hoped that the fifty-eight-year-old, thrice-divorced, ears, nose, and throat doctor would be her knight in shining sinuses. All my friends at the time were in serious relationships, so it was great to meet someone who also enjoyed fine food at someone else’s expense and parties that always seemed to include security, a guest list, catered hot hors d’oeuvres, and a sushi station.

  Lily was thirty-three years old, but swore me to secrecy. She didn’t want her fifty-eight-year-old boyfriend to know how old she really was because that could kill the deal. I told her that one day he would find out, like my dad did when my mom lied and said she was twenty-three when she was actually twenty-four. As the priest searched for her baptismal certificate when they were making plans to marry, she finally came clean. Lily had told him that she was twenty-six, like I was. Ageism is a serious thing in Hollywood, especially when the annual Playboy mansion Halloween party invite list is involved. Lily got both of us on the list. I dressed as Xena the Warrior princess (a cheesy, campy, syndicated show about a hot girl who swung a sword around in medieval times and her very lesbian-acting sidekick). I had the costume and wig from a sketch I did at The Groundlings. Lily wore trashy lingerie, along with 90 percent of the other female partygoers, and got the Little Bo Peep outfit complete with the corset and platform thigh-high leather boots. Halloween has always been every girl’s excuse to dress like a slut and every ugly guy’s chance to hide behind a mask. One Halloween, I danced with Zorro all night, begging him to remove his mask. When he finally did, he had one eye going in a completely different direction before making a right, a left, then another right.

  When I attended my first Playboy mansion party, they took my photo and phone number. I guess I looked cute enough, because they invited me back to several parties. The problem was I couldn’t just bring a cute girlfriend with me. I had to send in her head shot plus a full-body photo and hope she’d be approved. Forget even considering bringing a guy. The parties were 85 percent women, 11 percent men Hugh Hefner’s age, and 4 percent attractive guys under forty. Talk about slim pickings. The most exciting thing that happened was when I narrowly avoided tripping over Verne Troyer by the Grotto. Thank God, the food was delicious, because that soon became my main priority for attending these things. After downing a few drinks, I found myself at the buffet piling on their signature lamb chops. I was a little leery about where to sit, since so many of the girls wore only painted lingerie. I didn’t exactly want to plop down where one of them had just been dining, not for fear of their paint rubbing off on me, but more the fact that vaginal discharge happens to the best of us. Just because you have a G-string spray painted on, doesn’t mean you’re really wearing one, no matter how amazing the artwork is. But most Playboy parties end the same way at around 2:40 a.m.: this is when everyone left suddenly decides at the same exact moment that it’s time to get the fuck out of there and go home. The problem is you have to take these little shuttles from the mansion back to a parking lot at UCLA where your car is parked. There are only a few shuttles running so people would panic in fear of being stranded at the Playboy mansion and pile into the first shuttle they saw, knock people over, sit on top of each other, it was total mayhem. It was as if that shuttle bus was a lifeboat aboard the Titanic.

  Lily invited me to other great parties with celebrities and industry types. At one of these shindigs, I met Kato Kaelin, the most famous houseboy and key witness in the O.J. Simpson trial. My brother-in-law knew him from when he used to work at car shows, so that was my way of introducing myself. He was probably so happy that someone actually knew him from something other than from living rent-free at age thirty-five and hearing three thumps the night of a double murder. I made out with Kato at some mansion near the porta-potties, but there was really nothing there. It had been a few years since the trial and his star was fading faster than his looks. Somehow the shoulder-length shag with blond highlights is less acceptable at forty than at thirty-five. What can I say? Life is not always fair. However, he was kind of funny and proceeded to call me and invite me to other great Hollywood parties.

  At one of these parties, I was thrilled when a William Morris talent agent approached me. He was about thirty and a typical agent, a little on the short side, well dressed, with dark rimmed glasses and full of charisma. It turned out he represented Tom Arnold, so I immediately went on about myself and my comedy aspirations, including the fact that I had just performed a one-woman show featuring many Groundlings’ characters as well as personal stories. It seemed at the time that anyone breathing had a one-person show, but he seemed impressed. He gave me his card and told me to call him on Monday to set up an appointment and bring the tape of the performance for him to watch.

  That Monday morning, I made my coffee and began to peruse my latest batch of business cards collected over a busy fun-filled weekend. Among them were a few sales girls and gay guys who worked in retail from the Beverly Center shopping mall. I had added to my credit card debt buying a new outfit, but I justified it because they said they’d come to a show. Suddenly the William Morris agent’s card popped up. I stared at its raised printing and heavy card stock. I hated calling agents, but I wasn’t getting any younger, and I thought, Heather, seize the day. You need to make this happen. Have some balls and call. I took a deep breath, a bite of my Thomas’s English muffin with its natural crevices trapping just the right amount of butter, and dialed. Then I hung up, remembering that agents were very busy in the morning when the breakdowns (what was being cast) came in, and I should call after noo
n. Good—a reason to procrastinate for another three hours and go to SCLA to trove through the members. At 12:10 p.m., I called.

  “William Morris Agency. How may I direct your call?” said the perky receptionist.

  “Alan Weinstein’s office, please,” I said politely.

  A moment passed. “Alan Weinstein’s office. How may I help you?

  “Yes, may I speak to Alan?” I asked.

  “Who may I say is calling?” she questioned.

  “Ah, this is Heather McDonald,” I said as silence set in.

  “From what company?” she pressed.

  Oh shit. I wasn’t from a company. Should I tell the assistant I met him at a party? “We’re friends,” I blurted out. I figured if he didn’t remember, then nothing was going to happen, anyway.

  “One moment please,” she said.

  A few minutes passed when I heard, “Heather, how are you?” It was Alan.

  “I didn’t know if you’d remember me from the party Saturday night,” I said cheerfully.

  “Of course, I do. Are you going to come by and see me today?”

  Wow! All the other times I set up agency appointments, they were set for weeks ahead or they told me to just keep inviting them to any shows I had, to which they rarely showed up—except for the time after courting a small talent agency for two months, I finally got all eight agents to come see me at a cool stand-up place called Luna Park. When I attempted to put them on the list, the asshole running the room wouldn’t do it, so I had to put another sixty-four dollars on my credit card. My set went great, and so did the guy’s after me. They passed on me and signed him.

  So to have a William Morris agent—the crème de la crème of Hollywood agencies—want to see me that very afternoon, I was beyond ecstatic. We made plans for me to come in at four p.m. That was great because it gave me just shy of four hours to get ready, and I spent every moment doing just that. After many wardrobe changes, I decided on a black short-sleeved bodysuit, which snapped at the crotch like a leotard, it was like a onesie for an adult, a short pleated black miniskirt, and black mules. I felt although it was tight and skimpy, being all black classed the look up a bit. My hair looked good, but it would look especially good if I kept my sunglasses on top of my head, giving my hair false height without appearing like I was trying too hard.

  I walked into the lobby, gave my name, and was directed to the elevators. A hand stopped my elevator door from closing, and attached to it was Shari Belafonte, the famous daughter of Harry and a beautiful actress in her own right. Now I was sharing an elevator with Hollywood royalty. At my floor, I was met by a girl about my age who was a bit nerdy and a little frump-a-dump. No offense Tri Delts, but she would have been one of you if we were still at USC. She eyed me up and down and said, “I’m Amanda, Alan’s assistant. Follow me.” As I followed, we passed a large conference room with priceless views of the city and spastic assistants with headphones speed walking through the halls. She turned her head back to me and asked suspiciously, “So how do you know Alan?”

  “Oh, we met at a party over the weekend,” I answered.

  “What a surprise,” she said sarcastically. What the hell was that supposed to mean? I wondered. “I’m a stand-up and perform at The Groundlings and just wrote/starred/directed and produced my own one-woman show to a one-night-only sold-out performance.” Although I bragged, I failed to mention that the theater only held ninety-nine seats and every single attendee knew me personally. I continued, “Alan is dying to see it! He asked me to bring the tape so he could view it when he has a chance.”

  “Great. Have a seat. I’ll tell him you’re here,” she said in a rather snippety tone.

  As I sat on the black leather couch, she got on her computer but kept looking back at me. When I’d catch her scoping me out, she’d give a polite smile and resume typing. What is with this bitch? Has she never seen a potential client before, or maybe she was thrown by how cute a female comic can be?

  Just then, Alan came out to greet me. “Hi Heather. Come on in.” As I stood up to follow him, I realized I should have worn flats. He was even shorter than I remembered. “Have a seat,” he said as he extended his hand toward a love seat up against the wall. I thought it was a bit strange that he didn’t offer me the seat across from his desk but figured it made sense when he sat right next to me. We talked about frivolous things as I kept trying to wedge in information about my burgeoning comedy career, dropping subtle hints about how much money he could make off of me when I have my own sitcom cleverly titled It’s Heather. Suddenly, Alan put his hand on my knee and looked me in the eyes, which he could do since we were both sitting down, and said, “You know, I noticed you right away when I saw you by the lion statue at the party.”

  “Which one?” I laughed. The home was owned by a prominent LA Persian businessman. Persians are known for their love and overuse of feline statues, columns, and an inherit need to build a balcony off of every bedroom in their architectural endeavors. I was feeling a little uncomfortable and wanted to keep the conversation on track, so I reached into my purse and pulled out the VHS tape of my show.

  “So here is my one-woman show. I really appreciate you looking at it,” I said as I held it in my hand.

  Alan then leaned over and began kissing me. Something came over me and I began kissing him back, getting pretty into it. He was sexy for an industry Jew. His lips were soft, his skin was well moisturized, and he smelled of expensive cologne. If my nostrils weren’t deceiving me, I’d say it was Emporio Armani Diamonds for men. Something was so sinister about making out with an agent that it was reminiscent of the old days of the casting couch back at a time when not all casting directors were either women or gay men. Things were getting steamy and I was definitely aroused. He felt my breast over my body suit and I didn’t stop him. I don’t know what I was thinking, just that there was something really exciting about this whole sleazy experience. His hand then went up my thigh to where the front of my bodysuit and the back of my bodysuit met with three small snaps. As he attempted to unsnap those suckers, I pulled his hand away. I was not about to be fingered by a William Morris agent through a Donna Karan bodysuit. Represented, yes. Fingered through Donna, no.

  “Alan, what are we doing?” I asked. “I’m starting to wonder if you’re really interested in my body of comedic work or just interested in my body,” I said. I thought that was a pretty clever line.

  “No, no, I am, but I’m also interested in you,” he said as he leaned in closer so that I could feel his hard-on on my thigh.

  I left my head shot and tape, and Alan assured me that he was going to watch it. As I walked out of his office, the assistant gave me a disdainful look and I felt pretty disgusting. As I got in my car, I talked to myself out loud as I often do. “Heather, what the hell? That is not you. What were you thinking?”

  A couple of nights later, my phone rang at one a.m. It was Alan, drunk and wanting to get together right then. He was begging to come over, and when I said no, he kept giving me his address for me to come over. “Have you watched my one-woman show yet?” I demanded.

  “No, but I really want to. I’ve just been really busy.” Then he started getting really dirty and graphic in an attempt to have phone sex with me. He even brought up the freakin’ bodysuit and how sexy it was under my schoolgirl skirt. My skirt was just pleated; it wasn’t plaid. This guy was a sick fuck. I hung up and could barely sleep. I was so mad at myself for getting in this situation yet again. How could I be so stupid? I’m from LA—well, sort of, the Valley. I graduated from college. I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. The next morning, I grabbed the bodysuit and threw it in the trash can, the nonrecyclable one, because I didn’t want that thing making a comeback in any way, shape, or form. Then I promptly called William Morris and got Alan’s assistant on the phone to inform her that I would be there in an hour to pick up my one-woman show VHS tape. She started to question me, but I stopped her and firmly said, “Just have it waiting. I don’t need to see A
lan. I want my tape back.”

  I was so sick of this shit. I had recently dumped an ineffectual talent manager who had become a caterer, but for a year I didn’t have the strength to break up with her. Finally, I went to her apartment—oh yeah, she ran her catering/managing business from her apartment, too—to pick up my remaining head shots, résumés, and Groundlings sketch tapes that I had paid for and given her to send out. To my surprise, not one of the tapes or head shots was missing. In over a year of managing me and making her own salad dressings, she hadn’t sent one out? Yet I was so codependent I felt guilty that she hadn’t made any commission on me. As soon as I got my tape in my hands, I bolted out of William Morris. I was so upset that I decided to work out my anger at Sports Club LA.

  While working out, I was actually perspiring on my forehead for the first time. A little while later, I saw Lily. She was all excited to see me because the fifty-eight-year-old boyfriend was having a dinner party and she wanted me to come. Of course, I wanted to come. A free gourmet meal? Are ya kidding?

  The dinner party was for ten people and Lily’s boyfriend was quite delightful to talk to. He was really funny and liked to drink. They sat me next to some record producer that the fifty-eight-year-old had known since they were kids growing up in the Bronx, I’m assuming, sometime during the Great Depression. I barely spoke to the record producer guy all night. He was tall but completely gray with a set of brand-new porcelain veneers. The next day, Lily called me and said that Richard was really interested in me. “Who the hell is Richard?” I asked.

  “He’s the music mogul,” Lily replied excitedly. “He’s produced records for everyone. He wants the four of us to go out.”

  “Lily, no. He is not attractive, and no offense, but he’s really too old for me,” I said.

  “Heather, he’s a multimillionaire and normally only dates twenty-year-old models. The fact that he’s interested in you means he really likes your personality,” she said encouragingly.