Darrell Hammond - God, If Youre Not Up There, Im Fucked: Tales of stand-up, Saturday Night Live, and other mind-altering mayhem

God, If Youre Not Up There, Im F*cked

Tales of Stand-Up, Saturday Night Live , and Other Mind-Altering Mayhem

Darrell Hammond

To the boys from Hells Kitchen:

Marty Hennessy, Bobby Spillane,

and Big Mike Canosa

And to Myrtise

Contents

The Hall

The Golden Years

Theres Something Wrong Here

From Hell to Hells Kitchen

It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Worst of Times

God, If Youre Not Up There, Im F*cked

Blood on the Floor

What You Didnt See

You Want Me To Go Where ?

Ill Show You Multiple Personality Disorder, Pal

I Saw What You Did, and I Know Who You Are

A Host of Hosts

Politics for Dummies

My Welcome Outstayed Me

The Golden Years Redux

I Mean It This Time

Honest

Westchester County, New York

November 2010

Y ou know whats worse than being in rehab? Being in rehab over the holidays. You know whats worse than that? Being in a rehab that doesnt allow smoking. I mean, what the fuck? Addicts smoke. If we cant drink, we cant shoot up, and we cant ride the lightning bolt, at least we can smoke.

I was sent to the Sanctuary, a few miles north of New York City, via ambulance in the fall of 2010 after getting drunk and trying to cut my arm off with a large kitchen knife. It is one of the best psychiatric and rehabilitation facilities in the country. I was put in the celebrity ward, which drew its share of boldfaced namesaward-winning actors, sports stars, European royaltybut there are also wards for specific mental illnessesdepression, schizophrenia, eating disordersand a criminal unit filled with dealers, streetwalkers, thieves, and assorted other miscreants who were there by order of the court.

Deprived of my freedom, separated from my family, I was one of the lucky ones being given yet another chance. It sucked.

Ive been hospitalized or shipped off to rehab so many times that Ive honestly lost count. But each one had its own particular brand of hell. The program at the Sanctuary proudly boasted of its success in bringing addicts back to health while generously providing all the butter-laden cookies and cream-filled pastries we could cram into our alcohol-starved, sugar-craving mouths. Hell, I put on twelve pounds in the first three weeks trying to get healthy.

Meanwhile, the ferret-faced floor wardens were always looking to bust us for any infraction. There was one nurse there, an attractive, muscular woman in her forties who we called Strap-On because she was constantly reaming someone for some petty crime. She and one of the tough love counselors busted us for smoking numerous times. Each room had its own bathroom, and when she caught me hanging out the window of mine with a lit cigarette, she announced it loudly to all within earshot, Hes smoking in the bathroom! as though shed discovered Satan carving his initials in a church pew.

So to avoid her wrath, and if it wasnt too cold or snowing, the smokers would wander out of the building, down a flagstone path that wound across the finely manicured grounds, to The Tree, the worst-kept secret in the place. An ancient cedar encircled by a layer of dead butts like some weird white-and-tan mulch, it was wide enough and tall enough and just far away enough to hide a grown man getting his nicotine on.

By Thanksgiving Day, Id been in this rehab for three weeks, and Id run out of cigarettes. My family wasnt speaking to me, and my friends were all doing their own thing for the holiday, so no pumpkin pie and stuffing for me. Some of the other patients were spending time with their loved ones in the glassed-in sunroom, awkwardly trying to act normal. I figured Id take a stroll by The Tree to see if any of the other smoker derelicts were there, so I tiptoed past and out the door.

Bingo. Annabelle, a stunning mocha-skinned hooker from Philly, was sucking on a Marlboro Red. Annabelles lawyer had convinced a judge when she got done for possession that she needed a doctor more than a jail, so she wound up here instead of the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women, where such lovelies as Amy Fisher, the Long Island Lolita who shot her lover Joey Buttafuocos wife in the face, have done hard time. Annabelle had been at the Sanctuary about a week.

Hey, Joe. Everybody knew me as Joe. I hadnt been on TV in a whilemy last appearance on Saturday Night Live , a cameo as Arnold Schwarzenegger on Weekend Update, was a year earlierbut I wasnt in the mood to be recognized while I got myself sorted out, so I checked in under a false name. Unlike certain celebrities who like to share their meltdowns with Matt Lauer or TMZ, I prefer to bring the heavens crashing down around me in private.

Hi there, I said. Gorgeous as she was, I couldnt take my eyes off her cigarette.

Annabelle caught me looking. You want a drag?

I took the butt from her extended hand. The cherry red lipstick on the filter was definitely not my color, but I didnt care. Those two puffs were about the best I ever had.

Thank you, I said. I owe you. I noticed her hand was trembling when she took the cigarette back from me. From the cold or withdrawal, I couldnt tell which.

No problem, Joe, she said. Then, smiling, Now say it like Bill Clinton.

The Hall

Studio 8H, 30 Rockefeller Center

New York City

1995

T o say its intimidating to walk into 30 Rockefeller Center to audition for Saturday Night Live is one of the centurys greatest understatements. The building itself, once known as the RCA Building until GE bought the company and NBC along with it, is one of the citys great landmarks, built during the Depression in classic Art Deco style. You could get dizzy looking up at the Josep Maria Sert mural Time on the ceiling above the main entrance. Thank God it was summer, because if the enormous Christmas tree had been up out front, Id probably have passed out.

Trying to ignore the hordes of tourists lined up to take the NBC tour, I checked in at the security desk Yes, Mr. Hammond, heres your pass, go on up, theyre expecting you and stepped into the same elevator that for two decades had ferried a seemingly endless cavalcade of comedians to stardom.

I got out on the eighth floor and was escorted to makeup, where a lovely young lady dabbed me with powder to douse the shine of nervous sweat on my forehead. At least I had a few months of sobriety under my belt, so I didnt have withdrawal shakes. Although I could have killed for a slug of gin right about then.

When Id been sufficiently fluffed and primped, I was led into the theater that Id fantasized about forever, Studio 8H, or the Hall, as I call it, where legends like George Carlin, Buck Henry, and Andy Kaufman had performed, a few feet from where the Rolling Stones and David Bowie have played, and where Lorne Michaels, who hatched this comedy phenomenon a generation earlier to replace weekend reruns of The Tonight Show , was sitting on a chair in front of me.

I almost said, You know what? Im thirty-nine years old. Im on lithium. Do you know what lithium is for? If I may quote the National Library of Medicine at the National Institutes of Health: