It was also the only sketch I did for six months, and suddenly I got a taste of pigeonholing. That's right. I had pigeonholed myself as a thirty- year-old African-American woman from Chicago who goes to Rambo movies at midnight. My spirits would soar because this bit started to get me auditions with casting directors, sometimes for a big network show, but then I'd go in and they'd say "Do that Rambo sketch!" I'd do it, and they'd say "Bye-bye, thanks! Isn't she great?" I was now performing for free in offices around town, for people who had nothing to give me in return.

It taught me a lesson about going in to read for roles. Are television and film executives and casting heads cal ing you in for their own amus.e.m.e.nt? Or are you real y appropriate for the part? That's when I started trying to find out as much information as I could before I went in for auditions or meetings. It's something I think al actors should do, so you're not wasting your time. If I'm sitting there at an audition al dol ed up in high heels and a cute outfit but I'm surrounded by tal , gorgeous blondes, I'm thinking they're cal ing me in because I'm the performing monkey. At the Groundlings I was surrounded by girls who looked like me, yet they would waste al this time and energy being upset that they weren't up for the role of the ingenue in whatever it was they auditioned for. This line of thinking inhibited a lot of careers, in my opinion, because instead of being happy about being up for the best-friend role, they'd be crying, "How come I'm not the girl who gets the guy?" Let me tel you something; I knew I was never going to be an ingenue. At eighteen, I wasn't that girl. My thinking was, don't ever try to be anything but the homely, wisecracking girl. Be Rhoda, and go bal s out for it. Find the meeting or audition where they're looking for someone who's able to be funny on their own, quick on their feet, rather than think I'm going to be able to compete with the tal , stupid, gorgeous girls. Hooker with the heart of gold, quippy secretary, nosy neighbor, that's what I wanted to do -and knew I could do it better than anybody else-and so I'd go into casting offices and say, "I want to be second banana."

Even with this more realistic goal, it took years for me to get an agent.

I tried answering ads in every industry publication that existed: Hollywood Reporter, Variety, Back Stage West Hollywood Reporter, Variety, Back Stage West, you name it. I went to public casting cal s that I would hear about on local television commercials or read about in the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times. I had my ear open at al times, and in al situations, in hopes that I could at least overhear a conversation between a couple of people in acting cla.s.s or audience members when I attended a play, or at dinner parties, hoping to get some kind of a tip on where auditions might be held at any time.

I went to several talent agencies, and the dril was always the same. I would paper Hol ywood with invites to the Groundlings, or any underground play I happened to be doing on the side, and about once a year, some little down-and-out, Broadway Danny Rosestyle Broadway Danny Rosestyle agency agency -usual y one that sat above a resale jewelry shop, the kind that boasted client pictures of Linda Blair fifteen years after The Exorcist The Exorcist, or Erin Moran long after Happy Days- Happy Days- would "sign me." I would go in for the meeting, fil ed with hope that this would be the agent who would believe in me and send me out on real live television auditions. But invariably, I would have a less than promising meeting, keep working away in the Groundlings, and never hear from that agency again. would "sign me." I would go in for the meeting, fil ed with hope that this would be the agent who would believe in me and send me out on real live television auditions. But invariably, I would have a less than promising meeting, keep working away in the Groundlings, and never hear from that agency again.

I soon learned that the agency business is simply a numbers game. In my opinion, 98 percent of al agents sign up unknown actors hoping the actor wil have a gig that just fal s into their lap, so they can then col ect their commission. And guess what? In my case that's eventual y what happened. In defense of agents, I wil admit that it is difficult for an agent to promote an actor if that actor real y doesn't have anything going on.

So it is kind of a chicken-and-egg situation. That's why I don't count on agents for very much these days, except to negotiate contracts. I learned early on that a very important thing to let go of was the notion that anyone was going to get me work except me. I wasted a lot of time waiting for the phone to ring, when the most important thing is to generate your own shows, your own performances, get out there and do it, anyhow, anywhere, until they can't help but notice you if you're good.

And even then, you better not have a big nose.

Of course, the term "work" in show business is a loose one. In those days, I had bizarre notions of what a real acting job was. One time I was sitting around the Groundlings with a bunch of girls, and someone came in and said, "Hey, there's a dentist in Marina Del Rey, his office is cal ing, and they need an actress to come over and pretend they're coming on to him for his birthday. They'l pay thirty dol ars." The idea was, a bunch of his friends would be in a nearby room and then they'd yel "Surprise!"

Dentist humor. "I'l take it!" I shrieked.

I dol ed myself up Robert Palmer-video-style in a total y cheesy $19 powder-blue minidress, f.u.c.k-me pumps, and a hot-pink sock in my hair, and drove down to Marina Del Rey in my beat-up Toyota Corol a with 100,000 miles on it. I walked into that office thinking, I am a I am a professional actress professional actress.

Real y, to me, it was another improv. This was a cake walk, I thought.

And it was. I strol ed in, sat in the dentist's chair, and when the guy came in, I crossed and uncrossed my legs about fifty times a la Sharon Stone i n Basic Instinct Basic Instinct, and just started making the most horrible double entendres. "Can you fil my cavity?" "Are you gonna root around in my ca.n.a.l?" "I don't spit. I swal ow."

I'm pretty sure I took my top off, too, when I said, "Can you do a breast exam?" That's when everybody barged in with the "Surprise" and cake and I said, "Thanks, everybody," and took my $30 in cash in an envelope -like a wh.o.r.e- -like a wh.o.r.e- and left. and left.

I was stil thinking, I am a professional actress I am a professional actress.

Let's hash this out for a second. Why didn't I bring a friend? I was so stupid I didn't even have the wherewithal to grab a gay and say "Drive with me." If you were a predator, how easy would it be to cal up a theater company and get some dopey girl to come down to Marina Del Rey for cash so you could get her alone in an office?

And there's no tel ing how far I might have gotten lost in my craft if that little party had donuts....

Let me tel you one more thing about dues, and I'm talking to you, LC, or any of you b.i.t.c.hes from The Hills The Hills. Like taxes, sooner or later, we al have to pay them.

Me with Janeane Garofalo. We became close in my early stand-up years.

Why do I make fun of Hilary Sw.a.n.k?

After I couldn't seem to cut a break after working my b.u.t.t off for nearly a decade, hearing Ms. Boys Don't Cry's Boys Don't Cry's "I moved here and slept in my car for four days with my mom" sob story al those years later just chafed my a.s.s. I wanted to reach into the screen when she unloaded that poor-me c.r.a.p on Oprah and slap her in the face. Cry me a f.u.c.king river, Hilary. You star in a Karate Kid movie at nineteen, and win two Oscars by thirty. Go f.u.c.k yourself. I was banging guys in donut shops. Try being an extra, going to Santa Monica City Col ege acting cla.s.ses with bored housewives, working as a Kel y girl temp, and doing endless Method exercises where you're pretending to hold a cup of coffee until you sweat because you real y believe it. Then talk to me. If somebody had said, "Okay, you can either do it the way you did it, or you can live with your mom in a Toyota for a year, and it's fil ed with your own feces," I'd take the p.o.o.p car. Not an issue. "I moved here and slept in my car for four days with my mom" sob story al those years later just chafed my a.s.s. I wanted to reach into the screen when she unloaded that poor-me c.r.a.p on Oprah and slap her in the face. Cry me a f.u.c.king river, Hilary. You star in a Karate Kid movie at nineteen, and win two Oscars by thirty. Go f.u.c.k yourself. I was banging guys in donut shops. Try being an extra, going to Santa Monica City Col ege acting cla.s.ses with bored housewives, working as a Kel y girl temp, and doing endless Method exercises where you're pretending to hold a cup of coffee until you sweat because you real y believe it. Then talk to me. If somebody had said, "Okay, you can either do it the way you did it, or you can live with your mom in a Toyota for a year, and it's fil ed with your own feces," I'd take the p.o.o.p car. Not an issue.

And don't even get me started on "I yodeled in a van." Boohoo, Jewel.

How horrible. I'l bet you liked winning that Grammy by twenty-five.

Sometimes you'l read about stars who can look back and realize how shocking it was that it happened so quickly for them. John Corbett is like that. He started off as a hairdresser, and when I was at the Groundlings he used to be our lighting guy, running the fol ow spot (the light that stays on a performer when they're onstage) for ten dol ars a show, while I sat on his lap. He was supernice, thought al of us in the Groundlings were real y talented, and because he was hot, al the girls wanted him. I remember him saying once, "Oh, hey, the other night I went to a play and some agent came up to me and asked me for my picture."

The whole time I'd been in LA, I'd prayed for that agent-approaches-you moment, and never gotten it.

"You're kidding," I said, barely disguising my despair.

John said, "I didn't know what to do, so I gave her my phone number."

He sent in one picture responding to a casting ad in the trade paper Dramalogue-one Dramalogue-one picture-and got a giant Mitsubishi commercial. picture-and got a giant Mitsubishi commercial.

Suddenly the fol ow-spot worker was the cute guy in car ads, the face of Levi's, and then he was on Northern Exposure Northern Exposure. I love John, but boy, do I hate those stories. "I was here a week, and Robert De Niro came up to me in a restaurant and said something about a movie!" Ugh. I consoled myself with the fact that at least John could act. Don't get me started on the f.u.c.king Heidi Montags (oh, I mean Pratts, since when you have three weddings, I guess you might as wel take the guy's last name) of the world, who are just handed a show like it's a flyer for a G.o.dd.a.m.n nightclub. Where's the talent? Where's the hard work? Unless you count getting blowouts hard work.

I'l admit it, it was hard watching everyone else at the Groundlings make it into the Friday-Sat.u.r.day group ahead of me, people like Jon Lovitz, Mindy Sterling, and my good friend Judy Tol . It felt like being held back at school. I'm pretty sure I was in the B company at the Groundlings for longer than anyone I know of in the history of the place. I would just always hear that I wasn't there yet. So I hunkered down and worked even harder: writing more, going back to cla.s.ses, trying to be funnier.

When I final y made it into the main company in the mid-1980s, though, I did have the great fortune to perform with the man whom I had hopelessly pestered as a total n.o.body al those years ago: the awesome Phil Hartman. Phil had left the Groundlings, but came back after years of doing television pilots that never got picked up to be series. Everyone was mystified that he hadn't broken out. Of course, Sat.u.r.day Night Live was Sat.u.r.day Night Live was looming for him, but until then I had the distinct pleasure of being in the same show with him in that ninety-nine-seat theater on Melrose Avenue. I remember that the looming for him, but until then I had the distinct pleasure of being in the same show with him in that ninety-nine-seat theater on Melrose Avenue. I remember that the LA Weekly LA Weekly came out and they said the highlights of the show were him and me. Phil came in and set the paper down and said in that distinctively mock-serious tone of his: "Wel , wel , wel , look who thinks we're the standouts." I tried to be cool-"Oh, hey, congratulations!"-but inside I was like, "Wow, I'm mentioned in an article with Phil Hartman!" came out and they said the highlights of the show were him and me. Phil came in and set the paper down and said in that distinctively mock-serious tone of his: "Wel , wel , wel , look who thinks we're the standouts." I tried to be cool-"Oh, hey, congratulations!"-but inside I was like, "Wow, I'm mentioned in an article with Phil Hartman!"

Phil was so obviously bril iant and hilarious, but he was also an incredibly good guy. When I just wasn't getting any traction with auditions in LA, I went to Chicago for a month. John Hughes was making al his. .h.i.t films there, and I had this idea that maybe I could make something happen. Wel , one time I came home at the end of the day to my brother's apartment and my mom cal ed.

"Ooooh CHRIST, I've been trying to get you since yesterday," she said breathlessly. "Phil Hartman cal ed us with a little part for you, but it was something you had to run over and get that day."

"You're kidding!" I moaned into the phone.

My mom said, "You know, he was so sweet. We had this nice conversation, and he said, 'I think Kathy is real y talented. She's real y standing out, and when this part came up, she was the first person I thought about.' "

I was so touched. For him to think of me like that-when I just a.s.sumed I wasn't even on his radar-meant the world to me. But missing that opportunity just wrecked me. It made me realize I couldn't leave LA. If you wanted to work in television, you couldn't live in Chicago. I'm not Tommy Lee Jones or Sandra Bul ock, who can live on a ranch and expect people to track them down. Even if nothing's happening, it didn't pay to be somewhere else.

I went on to watch Phil become a huge hit, with immense pride and joy. I would later run into him at NBC events when I was on Suddenly Suddenly Susan Susan and he was on and he was on Newsradio Newsradio. I remember my last conversation with him like it was yesterday. I had gotten a chuckle out of him, and felt honored to make the great Phil Hartman laugh.

Sometimes I got to know famous people before they were famous from my stint teaching cla.s.ses for the Groundlings. It became my day job toward the end of the '80s, and I did that for about five years. I led five improv cla.s.ses a week, and it was real y fun except I lost my voice frequently during that period because you're doing a lot of yel ing over your students for four hours at a time. I consider myself to be single-handedly responsible for the success of any and al of my famous students: Wil Ferrel , Cheri Oteri, Chris Parnel , Mike McDonald, and Kenny G's wife (don't ask).

I have deep shame, though, about one of my charges, a young Mariska Hargitay. This was before the beautiful Mariska would go on to achieve Emmy fame on Law & Order: Special Victims Unit Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. I was getting ready to start a new cla.s.s in a hot, sweaty, rented storefront in Hol ywood-because the Groundlings had so many cla.s.ses that not al of them could be at the theater itself-and before the first day I remember my mom recognized her name from my list of students, because of course she knew everything about every celebrity.

"Hargitay!" she crowed. "Mickey Hargitay's DAUGHTER? Holy Mary Mother of G.o.d, JAYNE MANSFIELD'S KID?"

Natural y I was excited now. Anyway, this tal , gorgeous girl comes into my cla.s.s, and she's in no way acting like the child of a celebrity. She was just very sweet and normal. We started cla.s.s, and in the Groundlings curriculum, one of the first exercises you do is the cliched "trust" game. I made everyone stand in a circle, with me in the center, and I said, "Being onstage, you have to trust your fel ow actors, especial y when you're an improviser. You're going to be there for each other, and they're going to be there for you. For example, I'm going to fal back, knowing that you'l catch me."

Then I let myself fal backward, and sure enough, I was caught.

Everyone gets out some nervous laughter, and then they al took turns doing it. By the time it got around to Mariska Hargitay, we'd already done it with ten or eleven students, and they clearly had gotten the point.

Then it was Mariska's turn. "Okay, Mariska, cross your arms in front of you and gently fal back," I said.

She fel back and n.o.body caught her. She fel flat on her a.s.s.

I was horrified. This had never happened in one of my cla.s.ses before.

I don't know if there was a fly buzzing in front of our faces, or being typical actors, we were just distracted. People must have turned their heads at the wrong time, but as the teacher, I took ful and complete responsibility. And this was a 5'10 girl, too. It's true, the bigger they are, the harder they fal , and BOOM, she went right down on her coccyx. Like a ton of bricks. No, not a ton of bricks. A few very beautiful bricks. She giggled and got right back up like a pro, but it looked like it just f.u.c.king kil ed her. I mean, everybody else got caught except Mariska Hargitay.

n.o.body else wanted to do the trust exercise after her. n.o.body trusted anybody. It was a terrible way to start that cla.s.s.

To this day, whenever I see Mariska, and it's probably been ten times, I apologize. I let her down that day. Let her fal down, if we're being specific. If she has any lingering trust issues since becoming a big star, I blame myself. Whatever medical problems I read about her having, I point the finger at me. I mean, come on, she joined a show cal ed Law & Law & Order: Order: Special Victims Special Victims Unit Unit. Was this not a cal for help? Was she not my very special victim?

When I told Mom later, she didn't help any with my towering guilt.

"As if she hasn't been through enough," she said.

Gee, thanks, Maggie.

Things started to pick up for me career-wise when I final y began getting

commercials. I had a commercial agent long before I got an acting agent, but I probably auditioned for about seventy national and regional commercials before I actual y booked one.

The breakthrough in that area came in the early '90s when I nabbed a TV spot for Kenwood, the stereo brand. As explained to me at the audition, the setup was a futuristic world, and I was supposed to perform the '70s funk hit "Play That Funky Music, White Boy" as if music had never existed. They said I could do whatever I wanted, and since I heard al these people before me singing crazy versions of it, like they were amateurs at a talent show, I just looked at the camera completely deadpan and spoke the words in a halting monotone, total y rhythmless, like a zombie. If you've heard Paris Hilton's alb.u.m, you know what I'm talking about.

I Cher-ed this Bob Mackie outfit for the Kenwood commercial.

Anyway, I got the gig! I showed up on set, my first real y big professional set, and it was huge, meant to look like the '70s. (Real y, it just looked like my high school.) The guys were al in bel bottoms, and they put me in this wild orange jumpsuit that the wardrobe guy told me was a Bob Mackie that Cher actual y wore on The Sonny and Cher The Sonny and Cher Show Show. I was like, "Holy s.h.i.t!" Chast.i.ty was probably conceived five minutes after this outfit fel to the floor.

The director was a guy named Joe Pytka, and he was the king of big-time national commercials. Chances are everyone in America has done three things: breathed, taken a s.h.i.t, and watched an ad Joe Pytka directed. His reputation, though, was not so good. I kept hearing, "Look out for this guy. He's a monster. He fires people al the time. Don't take it personal y." But I knew if I played my cards right, he could do a lot for me.

So we start shooting, with the client and my commercial agent there.

They cue me, I do what I did in the audition and-whew!-the director's nice to me. But he was vicious to everybody else. He starts firing people, screaming at them. Then, without notice, he'd leave to go play basketbal for an hour, leaving everyone standing there, and come back al sweaty and pick up where he left off. After he launched into another of his tirades, I started talking to somebody about how mortified I was by him, and then a crew member ran up to me and said, "You're on mike!

You're on mike! Everyone with headphones can hear you!"

I said, "I don't care."

I then went up to Joe Pytka and said, "Just so you know, you're a freak, and if you keep screaming and having these fits around me, al that's going to happen is I'm just going to cry and leave. So real y, take it down a few notches."

There was this hush. And then Joe said, "I like her!"

And that was it. I was golden. He was the first powerful person whom I took a risk with by cal ing him out, and he didn't penalize me for it. He got my sense of humor, and it made me realize that if I could make that happen with the people in charge in this business, I was home free. He single-handedly gave me a commercials career, and helped me get out of the yearly pittance I was making as a temp, and into a real living. To have Joe Pytka in your corner was fantastic, and he championed me in a way for which I'l always be grateful. Over the years I've done at least seven major commercials with Joe, including some Super Bowl ads.

But I have to admit, it also gave me a false sense of security about who I could tease. On subsequent shoots with Joe, it was common for me to talk back to him during his fits-which the crew loved-and he'd jokingly say, "Ah, f.u.c.k you," back to me. Or I'd go yel at him during one of his basketbal breaks, and he'd laugh. But much later, when I did an elaborate commercial with Joe that starred Shaquil e O'Neal, I learned the real pecking order of power. Shaq had to pick me up at one point, and while I was in his arms in between takes I made some inappropriate joke at his expense, and Shaq gave me this death stare, like, "Did you just f.u.c.kin' talk to me?"

And just like that crew member running up to me years ago when I spoke out of turn about Joe, now it was the seemingly al -powerful Joe Pytka in the damage control position, covering for my big mouth. He had to touch Shaq gently and keep saying, "She's a comedian! She doesn't mean it! She's a comedian!" People real y do lose their s.h.i.t around athletes. So thank you, Joe, for the commercials career, and for preventing me from being tossed like a free throw.

Shaq's not going to read this book, is he?

Shaq! I'm a comedian!

I was in the Groundlings, I was doing commercials here and there, but it stil wasn't happening for me. What else could I try?

Commercials are great, but when you're in the Groundlings, it's Sat.u.r.day Night Live Sat.u.r.day Night Live you want most. Especial y when your cla.s.smate Jon Lovitz gets plucked from the main company so fast he leaves a little puff of smoke like in cartoons. The problem was I could never get Lorne Michaels to laugh. I had two private meetings with him that I'm sure he doesn't remember, but it was the opposite of my success with Joe Pytka: Being myself and trying to shock him into laughter wasn't working. you want most. Especial y when your cla.s.smate Jon Lovitz gets plucked from the main company so fast he leaves a little puff of smoke like in cartoons. The problem was I could never get Lorne Michaels to laugh. I had two private meetings with him that I'm sure he doesn't remember, but it was the opposite of my success with Joe Pytka: Being myself and trying to shock him into laughter wasn't working.

It was always best, though, if Lorne could come see you perform, and thankful y he decided he was going to see me, Lisa Kudrow, and Julia Sweeney. In my case, I was one of the three because somebody at Bril stein/Grey, a very powerful management company, thought I was worth seeing. I wasn't represented by them, but I sure wanted to be. My impression is that if I got the job on Sat.u.r.day Night Live Sat.u.r.day Night Live, I would have been represented by them very quickly. So the Groundlings essential y geared the late show so that the three of us rotated scenes: It was al about Julia, Lisa, and me. I remember there was one Groundling girl backstage who wasn't chosen to audition, and she was throwing costumes into a bag saying, "This is ridiculous! As if you're any more talented than I am!"

Lisa Kudrow and me with our old noses.

I thought, What an awful thing to say to someone before the biggest What an awful thing to say to someone before the biggest tryout of their career tryout of their career. But her reaction certainly hit home how important it felt, because that's what it was: the biggest audition of our lives. I had heard Lorne had a no-Groundlings policy for many years, so we considered this a make-or-break moment.

Wel , sure enough, I had a bad night. My sketches were bombing. I was dead in the water. Especial y when the audience-al too aware of the TV starmaker in their midst-held their laughter to see how Lorne reacted, as if they were scared of enjoying the wrong thing. It just stressed the fact that this was a performance for one, not a typical show.

Ultimately I failed to do my characters as wel as I had hoped that night.

Nerves got the better of me. Even Lisa, who before the world knew her from Friends Friends was great with role playing and a true standout at the Groundlings-always doing something off the beaten track, always a little better than everyone else-couldn't get it together the way she usual y did. My dear friend Julia, though, rocked it. She knocked it out of the park with al her characters, including Pat-her soon-to-be-famous gender-nonspecific nerd who she'd developed at the Groundlings-plus her improvisations were amazing. That performance secured her was great with role playing and a true standout at the Groundlings-always doing something off the beaten track, always a little better than everyone else-couldn't get it together the way she usual y did. My dear friend Julia, though, rocked it. She knocked it out of the park with al her characters, including Pat-her soon-to-be-famous gender-nonspecific nerd who she'd developed at the Groundlings-plus her improvisations were amazing. That performance secured her Sat.u.r.day Night Live Sat.u.r.day Night Live gig. gig.

Meanwhile, I was crushed that I couldn't make it work. After al I'd done to get some recognition there, it was easy to feel that I'd blown a golden opportunity, that I'd hit a ceiling. But Lisa and Judy Tol felt differently about my abilities, and each one independently told me the things that would help change my life and career for good.

The late Judy Tol was one of my best friends, and was the only friend of mine who was an actress and a comic, living in those dual worlds.

She was always one clique ahead of me, which was kind of good, because while we were pals-getting into misadventures, going to Carl's Jr. at three in the morning to eat four orders of fries and then compare stomachs: "I'm fatter!" "Shut up! I'm fatter!"-there was always a little part of her that was mentoring me. I used to fol ow her around to her stand-up gigs, where I got to meet the top comedians of the day, like Richard Lewis and Andrew Dice Clay. She'd finish up at the Groundlings on a weekend night, then say, "I have a fifteen-minute set at 1:40 a.m.," and run to the Melrose Improv. I'd go and meet the most interesting people at the Improv bar. I even got into a conversation once with playwright Sam Shepard.

One day Judy said to me, "You know, you should try stand-up. I think you can do it."

My first reaction was "No way. I do characters. I can't tel a joke to save my life. I can't do what you do. I'd get heckled. At the Groundlings n.o.body gets up to leave. There's no dinner served. I could never perform for people who are given drinks. That's my alcoholic family, bored and wishing they could just eat their food instead."

My good friend Judy Tol and me al dol ed up.

She was persistent. "No, this is your thing."

Here I was, saying that doing characters was my thing. But Lisa Kudrow gave it to me straight. "You're okay okay with characters," she said. with characters," she said.

"But you're real y funny as yourself. When you talk to me as you, you're funnier than anybody I know."

Whoa. Okay. I always enjoyed making my friends laugh by just talking about my day, my parents, some stupid TV show I was watching, something crazy that happened at an audition, or my less than stel ar love life. But that certainly wasn't the stand-up I saw being done on local stages. It was one-liners and screeds about men versus women, or observations about pets and airplanes. But with Judy and Lisa's encouragement, I convinced the show director at the Groundlings to let me open the late show each week with a monologue, a five-minute story. Which invariably became a twenty-minute story. (The one downside was that everyone in the Groundlings company backstage began to hate me for making the show start so late.) It put me out front in a way that I was comfortable with-in other words, outside of the sketch format where I could start to develop my own persona with my own point of view-and I started to get good feedback.

As for what I would talk about in those openers, believe it or not, I did no celebrity material back then. My act has pretty much always been retel ing whatever happened to me that week in a funny way. I didn't begin ragging on celebrities until years later when I would actual y be in the presence of them, experiencing them firsthand. So I started out mostly talking about my c.r.a.ppy day jobs, some new guy who'd just dumped me, or my family, but celebrity referencing didn't kick into high gear until I started getting parts on television.

Meanwhile, Judy was trying like hel to get me sets at the Melrose Improv or the Comedy Store on Sunset Boulevard. She got me an audition with Mitzi Sh.o.r.e, who ran the Comedy Store (and who birthed Pauly), and the cool thing was I got my first crack on a regular standup night with the other name-brand comics instead of on the night usual y reserved for beginners: open mike night. Picture gang members, bigwigs, and banjos.

My first night at a real comedy club, though, I left out personal stories and the retel ing of my week and basical y just did my Groundlings act. I went onstage at the Comedy Store and said, "Hi, my name is Kathy Griffin and I'm from the Groundlings!" Then I would turn around, put a wig on, turn back to face the crowd, and then talk as my mom for a minute.

Then I'd put on my cat's-eye gla.s.ses and do my old Jewish lady at the Farmer's Market. n.o.body did characters at the Comedy Store. It was completely inappropriate. But I got laughs. Maybe there was something to this!

Then I bombed for two years.

Open mike nights categorical y sucked, at least for me. The problem was I was doing my act like I was stil trying to get on Sat.u.r.day Night Sat.u.r.day Night Live Live. (I've stil never been asked to host that show, although one of my recurring D-list moments is when people stop me in the airport and tel