COCKROACH BASEMENT (An Ode To Comedy)

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• January 22, 2017

Just a couple months ago, I was sitting on the beach in Florida with my parents, whom I love very much, and my brother, drinking beer.  And I thought to myself how fortunate I was.  And then my second thought was, “God, I wish I was doing some shitty show in a basement in New York City, where I can’t put my backpack down because then cockroaches might go on it (this has happened to me more than once).”  My third thought was, “wow, there is really something wrong with you.  You are a fucking addict, and a psycho, and maybe a sociopath.”  My fourth thought was, “enjoy the moment, stupid.  You miss your parents and siblings.  You have dreams about eating dinner with them at your home on Long Island.  This might be because you go to bed hungry too much, but you are clearly lonely.”  So my fifth thought was, “wow, this is beautiful.  I love the ocean.  I am never sad when I’m in the ocean.  And I love beer.  Beer is good too.”  This lasted, oh but a moment, and then I was thinking about the characters in my script, and whether or not my writing partner thought the jokes I added were clever or stupid.  Though my favorite jokes tend to be both clever and stupid.  And this is my brain on a slow/good day.  Yeah.  It’s exhausting.

I might be in trouble.  Because I think comics are the only people who can help me not see myself as a failure anymore.  In recent weeks, talking to comics about ideas and potential opportunities, exchanging stories about the good, the great, the bad, and the absolutely frustrating has had me feeling like I belong amongst comics again.  Melancholy distorts your connection with humans, especially the ones you feel most akin to, and even when out of a depression, this part of me is slow to grow back.  It’s been a while since I had felt belonging or that this is where I’m meant to be (given I think life has no meaning), but I am exactly where I want to be: part of the New York stand-up circuit, and writing scripts.  Broke, yes.  Anxious and scared, sometimes, of course.  But as much as I’m disappointed at times, I’m also still excited about my life.  I am tired, yes, but I am not bored.

No moment made me feel more certain about my position in life than this one right here:

A picture tells a thousand words, yes, but let’s go back a little bit.

My friend and funny comic, Tim Krompier, and I work together quite a bit.  He’s a writer also, and he’s one of my go-to, “hey can you look at this script I’m working on” guys.  We used to do these theater tours (which he helped me get) called the Nobodies of Comedy Tour, where we did 1000 seat theaters, and they were really sweet gigs (to this day, some of my favorite shows).  The same company does shows where they show a cult movie and then after, a host/comedian interviews one of the stars (Christopher Lloyd with Back to the Future, Barry Bostwick with Rocky Horror Picture Show, etc).  They’re really cool shows for any film nerd.  So Tim (Kromps, for short) had been moderating some of these gigs, because he’s funny and does a really great job entertaining both the crowds and talent.  He knew I was a Monty Python fan, as most comics are, and when he said he was doing Holy Grail with John Cleese, I was like, “dude, please can I tag along.”

Let’s go even further back.  My love for Monty Python stems from my parents love for Monty Python, and my Mom showed this movie when I was very young, and I loved it.  Since then, I don’t think there’s any movie I’ve watched more times or quote more.  I am perpetually quoting Python, and half the time people have no idea what I’m doing.  Once, when I was on a dating ap, my profile said:

“To go on a date with me, answer these questions three:
What is your name?
What is your quest?
What is your favorite color?”

My hope was someone would get the reference, and clearly, we’d be soul mates.  Whelp, NO ONE EVER GOT THE REFERENCE.  Sometimes, guys answered it sincerely, which made me howl with laughter because I’m very mean.  Point being: Holy Grail and Life of Brian are two of my all time favorite comedies.

Back to present day.  I tag along with Kromps to the Proctors Theater in Schenectedy, which is actually one of the biggest theaters I’ve ever performed in (with Kromps and this company).  It’s cool how things come full circle sometimes.

We got there just as John Cleese did.  He was checking out the theater.

“John,” Kromps said, “this is my friend Lori.  She’s a big fan.”
John Cleese looked at me.  Shook my hand, and said, “well, you’re not very big at all.  You’re about 5’5.”

I laughed. And averted my eyes from comedy genius. I am not worthy.
BE COOL LORI.  DON’T BE WEIRD.  I KNOW THAT IS DIFFICULT FOR YOU.

After screening the film, Cleese and Kromps take the stage.  “I love how he laughs,” Cleese says about Kromps, who cackles at one of his stories.  Not surprisingly, Cleese is a very entertaining story teller.  And he loves making Tim laugh.  He looks at Tim after his punchlines, and if you know anything about body language, you know that when someone laughs, the first person they look at is the person they feel most akin to.

It was Cleese’s goal to get Kromps to laugh so hard, that Kromps would stand up and pace the stage.  Because comedians always want to impress other comedians.  Watching my friend Tim from backstage, I got to witness something special: Kromps and Cleese are peers in this moment.  How fucking cool.

He told stories for over an hour.  There were so many good stories.  But this is what really resonated with me.  He spoke about his mother, who was a terrible worrier and suffered from depression.  Cleese said, “she wrote her worries down, so not to forget them,” and then he’d laugh.  She was born at the end of the 1800’s, and lived to 2000.  She lived though a century, and he joked about how she never learned any information.  Because anxiety took up all her energy, and there was no room for curiosity.  Despite this, he said, they shared a black sense of humor, and unlike his mother, he had a great thirst for curiosity.  An interesting peek behind the curtain of a comedy legend.

Cleese’s favorite Python movie is Life of Brian.  But he said, even now, in his seventies, he doesn’t know what’s going to resonate with audiences as really funny.  You just have to keep writing and creating and trying, and well, being curious.

Of course he had great stories of all the Python members, particularly Graham, who was a genius, but also seems to have been insane in the best possible way.

This was already the best.

Applause, and John Cleese and Tim Krompier come off stage. I tell them the show was great, which felt like kind of a stupid thing to say, but it was great, and then I just stood there smiling like an idiot.

“It’s my friend, truck,” Cleese said to me.
I stood, trying not to smile too hard.  BE COOL LORI.  
“Do you know why I called you truck?”
I shake my head, and mumble, “uh… no.”
“Because that’s what we call lorries in Britian.  Trucks.”
HE  REMEMBERED MY NAME.
I laughed, and averted my eyes.
Then, we retreated to the back with some of the crew, and talked about the show some more.  I’m just in the back, chilling, with John Cleese.  NO BIG DEAL.  I often do not request pictures with people.  I don’t like to look at my picture, usually.  But I sometimes regret this.  There are many friends and people whom I look up to in comedy I wish I did have pictures with.  I would regret it forever if I didn’t ask.  Tim asked Cleese, who he said, “of course!”  I went to go beside him, but then he took my hands in his, spun me around, hugged me.  For a split second, I was really uncomfortable, because I’m really weird about being touched.  But then he squeezed my hand a little, and I squeezed back, and then I was just so happy to be Lori Palminteri in that moment.

I enjoy looking at pictures of myself as a kid.  Partly because I was such a cute kid, but mostly because our family albums are filled with pictures of me with huge smiles on my face.  But anyone who knows even a little bit about body language knows the smile is all in the eyes.  Despite growing up to be a suffering writer, in my childhood, I glowed.  As a comic, you have to watch video of yourself to improve.  You have to.  I should do this more, but watching myself is painful to me.  Usually.  Not always.  Not if I can catch myself really having fun in the moment.  I think I really like my AXS “Live at Gotham” tape because I truly had a great time.  I was terribly nervous, and when I watch the tape, I can tell I’m nervous in the first couple jokes.  But then I fall into the moment, and I’ve having the time of my life.  That moment right there is why I do comedy.  Or anyone, I guess.  It’s magic.

That picture captures the smile of a huge comedy nerd, gleaming, like a child, because I’m so happy to be a comedian.  After the picture, we had a talk just Palminteri and Cleese, and he says, “what do you do, truck?”
“I’m a stand-up comedian.  That’s how I know Tim.”
And his eyes widened, this is a man who loves comedy as much as he’s contributed to it, “you’re a comedian!  That’s wonderful!”
We talked shop for a couple minutes.  Just me and Cleese. ME, LORI PALMINTERI, IS TALKING ABOUT COMEDY WITH JOHN CLEESE.  
“What’s your stand-up like?”
“Dry and dark.”
“Oh, that’s my favorite.” (I know)
“Me too.”

AND NOW I’M JOHN CLEESE’S FIFTH WIFE.

I jest, of course.

The ecstatic joy of meeting comedy legend and one of my heroes, John Cleese, derives from the same desire to be sitting in a cockroach basement waiting to tell my jokes.  My passion is bigger than me.  After all, I’m not very big at all.