Official Book Club Selection Part 11

(Photo: Martin LePire/Bravo/NBCU Photo Bank)

As the mil ennium turned, my character Vicki Groener mouthed off for the last time when Suddenly Susan Suddenly Susan ended its run on NBC after four seasons. I was sad for my s...o...b..z family to come to an end and I would miss so many things-eating c.r.a.ppy "pasta surprise" meals at the Warner Bros. commissary with cast members, seeing Nestor Carbonel at the studio gym with his s.h.i.+rt off, and having a little thing cal ed job security-but I was also admittedly excited about my career prospects moving forward. Everybody around me-agents, actor friends, writers ended its run on NBC after four seasons. I was sad for my s...o...b..z family to come to an end and I would miss so many things-eating c.r.a.ppy "pasta surprise" meals at the Warner Bros. commissary with cast members, seeing Nestor Carbonel at the studio gym with his s.h.i.+rt off, and having a little thing cal ed job security-but I was also admittedly excited about my career prospects moving forward. Everybody around me-agents, actor friends, writers -thought I was in a great position. I'd done wel on the series, my stand-up profile had increased, and the buzz was that I would now be able to star in my own show.

"We're going for the ful Seinfeld," Seinfeld," claimed my shooting-for-the-moon agents and seasoned sitcom writers who I met with. "We're going for a four-camera, mil ion-dol ar-an-episode prime-time sitcom cal ed claimed my shooting-for-the-moon agents and seasoned sitcom writers who I met with. "We're going for a four-camera, mil ion-dol ar-an-episode prime-time sitcom cal ed Kathy! Kathy!

It's going to center on you and your crazy life, we're going to find two veteran actors to play your parents, it's going to explore what it's like for you to be a female stand-up comedian on the road, it's going to get into your wacky Irish-Catholic family, your home life, your dogs, and it's going to be as cla.s.sic as Roseanne Roseanne was in being based on the person's actual life." was in being based on the person's actual life."

I real y was was like Rhoda, because Rhoda got her own show! Sidekick makes good! like Rhoda, because Rhoda got her own show! Sidekick makes good!

Yeah, wel those meetings started and ended very quickly. As in, within three weeks. Everywhere I went I heard, "You can't carry a show."

"People don't know you wel ." "You're not young and attractive enough."

Even, "Maybe, but we'd need somebody else to play you, someone younger, and you wouldn't partic.i.p.ate in it."

A manager named Brian Medavoy, who's the son of famed studio executive Mike Medavoy, said to me around this time, "You know, you're real y off-putting. I think that's a problem for you."

When I hear things like that, I always think, How can I spin this to my How can I spin this to my credit? credit? So after hearing I was "off-putting," I felt like saying to everyone, So after hearing I was "off-putting," I felt like saying to everyone, "Wel ... yeah! It's cause I'm trying trying to be the Off-Putting Girl! Your network is going to be on the ground floor of the off-putting trend, and to be the Off-Putting Girl! Your network is going to be on the ground floor of the off-putting trend, and no no one's one's as off-putting as I am right now! Everybody's dying to be off-putting out there, haven't you heard? I've got the market cornered on off-putting!" as off-putting as I am right now! Everybody's dying to be off-putting out there, haven't you heard? I've got the market cornered on off-putting!"

Let's see, what else? My voice was annoying. My TV Q score-some bul s.h.i.+t number that's supposed to indicate your popularity with viewers -was bad. But always- always always-I was too old, old, old, old, old. You'd have thought I was on f.u.c.king life support. I was forty at the time. You know what they say: forty and fabulous! Or in my case, forty and f.u.c.ked.

Those meetings real y took the wind out of my sails. I don't know if I was ever hot, but that round of talks with pretty high-level network people certainly showed me I was not-hot. People don't want to touch you when you're not-hot, they don't want to breathe in your not-hot stench. They don't want to have to go to the drugstore to get some salve for your not-hot crabs that jumped off your not-hot v.a.g.i.n.a. They don't want you, and they're not taking a meeting with you. Once this virus spreads through Hol ywood that you didn't get a deal at Warner Bros. or Fox or ABC or CBS-because they al talk to each other and play golf together and go to the same lap dance parties-then it's as if you're poison. I had gone fro m Suddenly Susan Suddenly Susan to to Suddenly Cold Suddenly Cold. And this happens fast fast.

Because when you have those meetings, they're usual y al happening within a day or two. You'l pitch your concept to every network in one day, maybe. So if you're at al the studios on Monday, by Tuesday night you know you're either celebrating or drowning your sorrows.

At which point I was left with, "Wel , can I be a second banana again?"

The answer was "No."

Thus began my post-Susan post-Susan year of sleeping til 1 p.m., eating buckets of ice cream, and watching year of sleeping til 1 p.m., eating buckets of ice cream, and watching Oprah Oprah every day. It was the worst feeling in the world. Sorry, O. Nothing personal, I just need to work. As tired as I was simultaneously doing the sitcom and traveling for stand-up gigs, it gave me purpose. If I don't have a place to go every morning, I can get depressed after about three days. That's right, my happiness has a shelf life of two days. Even vacations start not to feel like vacations after about five days: They become the thing that keeps me from working. every day. It was the worst feeling in the world. Sorry, O. Nothing personal, I just need to work. As tired as I was simultaneously doing the sitcom and traveling for stand-up gigs, it gave me purpose. If I don't have a place to go every morning, I can get depressed after about three days. That's right, my happiness has a shelf life of two days. Even vacations start not to feel like vacations after about five days: They become the thing that keeps me from working.

And now I was on a forced vacation, and it f.u.c.king sucked. It's not that I wasn't doing okay financial y, because I'd been good with money and socked a bunch away, but I hated that I didn't have somewhere to be every day at 8 a.m. I loved driving to the Warner Bros. lot every day, seeing everyone at the table reads, knowing we taped the show on Friday and that on Sat.u.r.day I'd be at some col ege gig, having a schedule that told me when I had to be on and when I got to be off.

Remember, I'm the daughter of a dad who didn't think twice about working sixty hours a week in retail, and a mom who held down a job while co-raising five kids. And those are stil two of the happiest people I've ever met. For me, my ideal situation is when work and play co-exist.

I'm happiest when I'm working hard with coworkers/friends around me, and we're al in it together. Many of my non-s...o...b..z friends criticize me for having so many close friends.h.i.+ps and relations.h.i.+ps with people who are "on the payrol ": my a.s.sistant, my tour manager, my mother because she gets paid for being on The D-List The D-List. Wel yeah, I want to hire people I like, who I want to be with after I do a show or finish taping. I had a great conversation with Joan Rivers about this once. She said, "Everyone has to understand. You're the brand, and you're a business, but it's a community community that we're al in together." Think about it in your own life. If you work at a job where you love the people you work with, you love going to work. That's al I want. that we're al in together." Think about it in your own life. If you work at a job where you love the people you work with, you love going to work. That's al I want.

There was a smal problem, though, with my thirst to get back on a sitcom. The traditional soundstage-filmed, studio-audience, half-hour network comedy was on its way out, and soon it was "Hel o, Survivor." Survivor."

In the summer of 2000, Survivor Survivor became the number one show in the country, and rightly so. It was amazing, edge-of-your-seat TV, a compet.i.tion but also a peek into some quirky personalities. To this day it's some of the best television I've ever seen. A cheap show to make compared to a sitcom, it was pul ing viewers and ratings in a way n.o.body could have imagined. I mean, there was became the number one show in the country, and rightly so. It was amazing, edge-of-your-seat TV, a compet.i.tion but also a peek into some quirky personalities. To this day it's some of the best television I've ever seen. A cheap show to make compared to a sitcom, it was pul ing viewers and ratings in a way n.o.body could have imagined. I mean, there was Survivor Survivor contestant Jenna Lewis in her bikini on the cover of contestant Jenna Lewis in her bikini on the cover of Time Time magazine. That first summer of magazine. That first summer of Survivor Survivor, your priorities were clear: Thursday night, 8 p.m., CBS, you had to be there.

When reality television became, wel , the new reality in television -and al the networks started developing shows to capitalize on it -many of my comedy writer friends got bitter, and understandably so, because fewer scripted shows meant creative people were starting to lose their jobs. There was this sentiment that reality was the enemy. But I was al over it, not only as a fan, but as someone who's been doing her version of reality for years whenever I got up onstage. Think about it: My act isn't scripted, and here was this new genre that was al about being unscripted. That was me. If sitcoms didn't want what I had, then I'd come up with my own way to celebrate reality TV, and give myself a job.

I went to MTV, where I'd had a relations.h.i.+p from years of co-hosting their New Year's Eve specials or appearing on TRL TRL, and told them I wanted to do a show where I could talk about reality shows, sum them up, interview kicked-off contestants, make fun of them, and just general y tap into this new watercooler TV topic. I said I could do it for almost nothing, I wanted to co-executive produce, and-of course-I wanted my mom and dad on the show, because I thought they were funny.

MTV gave me six episodes that started airing at the beginning of 2001. The show was cal ed Kathy's So-Called Reality Kathy's So-Called Reality. (My name was in the t.i.tle! t.i.tle! Like a big star!) It only lasted for those six episodes-they didn't pick it up for more-but I have to say I loved that job. I would start with a monologue, usual y about whatever happened in reality TV that week, which was always hard because we taped on a Thursday and therefore couldn't talk about that week's Like a big star!) It only lasted for those six episodes-they didn't pick it up for more-but I have to say I loved that job. I would start with a monologue, usual y about whatever happened in reality TV that week, which was always hard because we taped on a Thursday and therefore couldn't talk about that week's Survivor Survivor, so by the time my show aired on Sunday, we were a week behind with events. Also, it was impossible to get clips from CBS-even though MTV shared a parent company, Viacom-so I usual y corral ed my mom and dad into performing Survivor Survivor reenactments from transcripts. Then we'd have guests. Eden's Crush, the manufactured girl group from the WB's reenactments from transcripts. Then we'd have guests. Eden's Crush, the manufactured girl group from the WB's Pop Pop Stars Stars, performed on our show. (I don't exactly remember you, Nicole Scherzinger, but I'm sure you were very nice.) Elsewhere we had hilarious difficulties booking reality show contestants, an early indication in my mind that these plucked-from-nowhere people were beginning to imagine themselves as A-listers.

Bad ratings got Kathy's So-Called Reality Kathy's So-Called Reality canceled, but I'd like to think it was ahead of its time in tapping into everyone's burning desire for this new type of show. Now you have entire networks like Fox Reality devoted to reality TV, and the dude from canceled, but I'd like to think it was ahead of its time in tapping into everyone's burning desire for this new type of show. Now you have entire networks like Fox Reality devoted to reality TV, and the dude from Jon & Kate Plus 8 Jon & Kate Plus 8 on the cover of on the cover of US Weekly US Weekly. Wel , I was there first, motherf.u.c.kers. Not only that, there are elements to Kathy's So-Called Reality Kathy's So-Called Reality that acted as precursors for that acted as precursors for The D-List The D-List, from featuring my parents to mining humor out of the fact that I'm not a beloved personality. One of my favorite things to do on the MTV show was read aloud my hate mail as a way of doing the opposite of what Oprah would do, offering testimonials as to how some episode she did changed lives. "Dear Big Nose b.i.t.c.h," one of my letters read, "get off my TV, I hate you." Another one I read to my parents aloud on the air: "Dear Mr. and Mrs. Griffin, why aren't you in a home?" They thought the letters were hysterical. And so did I.

After So-Called Reality So-Called Reality, it was back to being in career limbo, not sure of where to go or what to do next. I was in a weird place where I was a little too wel known to go sit on folding chairs with total y unknown girls at auditions-and certainly not for two-line parts anymore-but I wasn't famous or successful enough to be packaged as part of a series.

Me on stage at the Laugh Factory, ready to debrief an enthusiastic crowd about whatever crazy celebrity run-in I'd had that week. (Photo: Bravo/NBCU Photo Bank) But there was always stand-up. And just like when I devised Hot Cup O' Talk, if I could find a club and grab their worst time slot-not try to squeeze myself into a high-expectation, traditional Friday or Sat.u.r.day lineup-then maybe I could come up with another show to make my own. My stand-up agent said, "Try Jamie Masada at the Laugh Factory."

I cal ed up Jamie, the club's owner, pitched him, and said, "What's a time when n.o.body comes in?"

"Wednesday nights are usual y pretty slow," he said.

Without even waiting for him to accept me, I said, "I'l take it."

The Laugh Factory is a castle-shaped comedy club at Sunset Boulevard and Laurel that, like the Improv and the Comedy Store, is one of the premier showcases in Los Angeles for comedians. It was a place that catered to couples and straight guys-not exactly my best crowds -and its roster was heavy on male comics and theme nights like Chocolate Sundays (as in, not for Whitey) or Latino Night. It also has a fantastic L-shaped marquee, one side facing Sunset Boulevard and the other facing the cross street, which means you'd have a hard time not noticing who's playing there as you drove past or sat at the stoplight nearby. The club itself is pretty standard, but a two-sided marquee on Sunset can fil a room.

If I was going to play there on Wednesday nights, just me, no opener, not part of some lineup so that people coming to see Dane Cook, for example, had to like me, too, then I was going to have to sel the s.h.i.+t out of that show. In addition to the marquee with my name on it, I thought it might be helpful for my a.s.sistant and me to stand at the corner of Hol ywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue-tourist central with Grauman's Chinese Theatre nearby-and hand out flyers personal y to people walking by. I was enough of a name to get booked on morning radio shows, but I wasn't able to land TV appearances. I didn't have a publicist at the time because they were expensive and I didn't have a steady job. Instead, Jamie would act as a de facto publicist for those live shows, making cal s to the LA Times LA Times or anyone who'd take his cal to try to get a writeup in print. I'd also cal the or anyone who'd take his cal to try to get a writeup in print. I'd also cal the LA Weekly- LA Weekly- so helpful in publicizing the Groundlings shows-and beg to get into their listings calendar. Lastly, there would hopeful y be that crucial intangible: good word of mouth. so helpful in publicizing the Groundlings shows-and beg to get into their listings calendar. Lastly, there would hopeful y be that crucial intangible: good word of mouth.

I also wanted to do something special as an opener for my performance, to make people feel like they were coming to a show. One thing I'd tried at my gigs at the LA Gay and Lesbian Center that seemed to work was showing a five-minute videotaped clip I crudely edited myself of something I thought was particularly funny-Mariah Carey's insane appearance on Cribs Cribs, or an outrageously h.o.m.oerotic Backstreet Boys video-and playing it to the darkened crowd while I stood at the back with one hand holding the VCR remote and the other holding the microphone. I'd start the tape, pause it, make a funny comment, resume the tape, and if the audience laughed then it soon felt as if we were al in somebody's living room watching TV and laughing at crazy s.h.i.+t. It was a great way to prime the audience for that feeling I love, which is that we're al on the same page about what's funny. And if Mariah Carey talking about her negligee room as if everybody has one, or slinking into a bathtub ful of soapy water with her towel still on with her towel still on doesn't make you giggle like a schoolchild, then Dane Cook comes on in an hour. doesn't make you giggle like a schoolchild, then Dane Cook comes on in an hour.

I had been used to gay charity events, gay bingo nights, gay bookstore appearances, where this kind of celebrity razzing went over real y wel . When I started at the Laugh Factory, I'd cross my fingers that there'd be lots of gay guys in the audience, but you'd never know. It's another reason the video opening worked. If the crowd wasn't laughing at my rol ed-eyes voice-over as they watched footage of a makeup-less Julia Roberts braving Outer Mongolia to show how she likes to keep it real, I knew what kind of crowd I had, and could figure out what stories to tel from there.

But let's face it, my experiences performing for the unshockable gays helped make those Laugh Factory shows a no-holds-barred outlet for me. Usual y there are al kinds of agendas at a standard comedy club: the audience is talking, they're drunk, they're bored, they're trying to out-funny the comedian, the guys are hitting on the girls, the first dates are going badly. But when I'd play at the LA Gay and Lesbian Center's theater, the crowd has already had their wine in the lobby, and they're just captive audiences, ready to laugh. There's nothing like the energy of a gay audience, and what began to happen at the Laugh Factory was that the gays were coming to see me, and then the breeders folded in, and eventual y as the show started getting more and more buzz around town, the place fil ed up regularly. I real y believe a lot of couples and straight guys, who normal y wouldn't have given me a chance previously, now came to see what I did as funny. Leave it to the gays to scour a major city like Los Angeles and find the one place they could converge on a Wednesday night and turn it into the place to be. They've always had my back. What I love about the gays is that when I've been lost, they've found me.

I had a receptive crowd, and my scheduled hour went out the window real y f.u.c.king fast. I would often do two-and-a-half-hour shows, and that in itself was great for the show's popularity. People would leave saying, "Wow, I real y got my money's worth!" Then I'd do it again the fol owing week, dressing as appropriately as possible for a sweaty club-tank tops, comfortable shoes-al the while thinking, If this crowd's with me, If this crowd's with me, they're going to have to literally give me the hook to get me off this they're going to have to literally give me the hook to get me off this stage stage. I actual y lost weight during that period. If that's not an exercise regimen, I don't know what is: standing on stage furiously gesticulating, which is an excel ent upper-body workout, and perspiring for two hours or more. Take that, 24-Hour Fitness.

The c.o.c.ktail waitresses real y loved my Wednesday shows. More of me meant more drinks, until the waitresses eventual y told me, "I can make my rent because of you." Plus, they loved serving the gays, because they were wel -dressed, respectful, and tipped wel . Hel , yeah!

The gays are there to laugh, not get in fights and f.u.c.k around. (Okay, there was that one time when some drag queens scuffled with a Marine who came with his girlfriend. Obviously, the Marine lost.) As for my material, that Laugh Factory stint, which ran for over a year past its original limited run, was when I really really started to talk lots of s.h.i.+t about celebrities. That was the most liberating thing about that engagement, because I was absolutely under the radar. On one level I was just another comic at a club, but because I had al this pop culture experience under my belt-the sitcom, awards shows, being on started to talk lots of s.h.i.+t about celebrities. That was the most liberating thing about that engagement, because I was absolutely under the radar. On one level I was just another comic at a club, but because I had al this pop culture experience under my belt-the sitcom, awards shows, being on Hollywood Squares Hollywood Squares, my rigorous TV watching from Oprah to every new reality show-it al came out onstage, with new stories al the time. It was ridiculous. Lines were forming around the block to see me, but it never seemed to get out in the press that I was tel ing tales out of school on a weekly basis-Whitney Houston waving a cracked-out finger at me; Gwyneth looking p.i.s.sy on the red carpet; getting a sweaty, and I mean buckets of sweat sweaty, hug from Richard Simmons-for anyone who paid $10 and bought two drinks on a Wednesday night. Even if I was asked to do a piece on Extra Extra or or Entertainment Tonight Entertainment Tonight, it was usual y "Kathy Griffin's thoughts on plastic surgery!" with no mention about the show.

I was in a strangely great position. I had nothing to lose, and sold-out audiences that couldn't be shocked were eager to hear me report every week on Hol ywood crazy people.

It was during this time that I got my first death threat, though. I guess you know you've made it when people literal y want to kil you.

Apparently I'd offended someone at one of my performances to the point where a person claiming to be from some Muslim group cal ed the club owner Jamie, who's Israeli, and started spewing anti-Semitic statements and said they were going to kil me the fol owing Wednesday. The FBI and LAPD were cal ed in to investigate.

Jamie was pretty cool about it. "Buddy," he said to me, which is what he cal s everybody, "I've gotten so many death threats. But you don't have to do the show if you don't want to. It's total y up to you."

I thought about it, and came up with an even crazier idea: go public with it from the stage! But then again, I didn't real y want a Salman Rushdiestyle fatwa on my head, so I decided to do the show, but not talk about it.

That lasted about five minutes.

"Hey, everybody, guess what! There's a death threat tonight, so watch your backs! The bomb-sniffing dogs were here and everything!" I talked about it for three weeks after that, too.

I think the audiences were a little freaked out, but I also sensed that they were enjoying the in-the-moment-ness of it al . You have to say those crowds couldn't have thought I was some hack. I wasn't stealing other comedians' jokes and talking about bad airplane food and asking where everyone's from. If you're at my show I don't want to know where you're from. Keep that s.h.i.+t to yourself. I have things to talk about, like my very special death threat. And that was a unique topic those particular audiences weren't going to hear anywhere except from my pretty little mouth.

So while some people care enough about me to want to kil me, it stil felt as if n.o.body in power in Hol ywood gave two s.h.i.+ts. One night, though, my UTA agent Martin Lesak, who real y believed in me-he was one of the higher-ups at UTA, but he usual y pa.s.sed me off to a more junior agent who was more concerned with rescuing animals -managed to get Kelsey Grammer and NBC head Jeff Zucker to come to the show. It was a night that changed my life.

These two TV bigwigs stayed only for the first hour, but I had a meeting with Zucker the next day where he said the magic words.

"I think you should have your own sitcom. I think you can drive a show.

And I want you to be yourself. I don't think I should make you a mom. I don't think I should make you an astronaut. I think the show should be exactly what I saw at that club. You, one hundred percent being you."

"Wow," I said. "That's real y cool. Is Kelsey Grammer going to produce it?"

"Why should I pay him to do it?"

"Why should I pay him to do it?"

Yes! I'm disputed territory in an NBC war!

Wel , we started talking about writers, and then it was al about the script phase. They paired me with a seasoned sitcom writer and we col aborated on a script, but then she got another job. A week went by.

Then months. The scripts weren't getting done, and then when they did, n.o.body at NBC would look at them. Then I was back in that situation where cal s weren't being returned, and here I was with an NBC deal and they're not doing anything with me. It's cal ed development hel , or as I like to cal it, the unemployment line.

Things changed when NBC's cable division head Jeff Gaspin cal ed me in for a meeting. (The reason I mention him by name, as if you guys give a s.h.i.+t, is because I ran into him recently at a party. First of al , his lovely wife Karen is real y why I have a television career. She thinks I'm hysterical y funny, and tel s Jeff that, as he is not able to figure it out on his own yet. Shout out, Karen!) I, of course, thought the meeting was going to be, "We're ordering six episodes of your new sit-com!" Instead it was Gaspin being the bearer of bad news from Zucker. The purpose of the meeting was to convince me to let go of my dream of having a mil ion-dol ar-an-episode, live-audience, scripted sitcom and consider instead a $200,000-per-episode, unscripted reality show. And could my house be the set for free? " The Osbournes The Osbournes are real y big," he explained. are real y big," he explained.

Now, I may have been a fan of reality TV and had my brief stint on MTV, but in my head I thought No, I'm a sitcom person No, I'm a sitcom person. That's my training. That's my history. That's who I am. I should have a scripted show. You don't need me for a reality show. You can pick any stripper or little person or freaky Christian who wants to have twelve kids and build a reality show. My training is in stand-up comedy specials and situation comedy. You need me because I know how to find good writers and build a cast and think up story arcs. I real y thought situation comedy was my wheelhouse. By the way, what the f.u.c.k is a wheelhouse? I can't believe I just used that expression. I am a Hol ywood douche bag. I meant to say "Situation comedy is in my wheel-guesthouse."

"We're not going to do an expensive sitcom," NBC said. "We think we can do a show with you where we don't have to pay writers or have a set."

"It sounds like you're just trying to get a real y big show for next to nothing," I said.

They never real y answered that, but that's what it was.

I wanted a show and I wanted to work, so I said, "Okay, let's do it."

NBC didn't do it.

But now I was determined. I had begun thinking about how to do a reality show that wasn't the lowest common denominator. At one point Carolyn Strauss, who was then head of programming at HBO, said to me, "I real y think you could have a show where people fol ow you around. You say funny stuff al the time, and that could be the basis for a show."

HBO was never going to give me a reality show, but if someone there was saying it, it must mean NBC's instincts were good, even if their fol ow-through wasn't so commendable. But boy, was I getting frustrated.

My stand-up show was doing wel , but it wasn't leading to anything. It was driving me crazy. Then my agents at UTA got bored and wouldn't take my cal s.

I started to think about this bizarre position I was in: a hard worker, a s...o...b..z professional, confident of my ability to entertain, but somebody for whom the spotlight always seemed just out of reach. Al around me were people like Paris Hilton who were apparently cover-worthy celebrities, so famous and untalented, and the bane of my existence.

Yeah, that's right, I was bitter. Paris Hilton? Not that funny. And reality TV was turning out people like this al the time. I remember getting invited to a charity event around the time the original Bachelor Bachelor was airing, and I found myself waiting in line with Lisa Kudrow and Ray Romano to get a chance to talk to the show's star, Alex Michel. I turned to Ray and said, was airing, and I found myself waiting in line with Lisa Kudrow and Ray Romano to get a chance to talk to the show's star, Alex Michel. I turned to Ray and said, "What's happened to us?"

"I promised my wife I'd talk to him," he said sheepishly.

It felt like a sea change was taking place, where lines were being drawn on who was big and who wasn't big enough. I remember I got to go to the American Idol American Idol finale for the first season, when it was the hottest new show since ... wel , the first season of finale for the first season, when it was the hottest new show since ... wel , the first season of Survivor Survivor. Anyway, I was famous enough to score tickets to American Idol American Idol, but when I got there, I saw Camryn Mannheim and Jenny McCarthy in the first few rows. I was in row twenty-six. "Okay, no biggie," I told myself. "I have a ticket to the party afterward. I'm in."

I go to the party, and I run into Jenny and Roseanne Barr, and they're wearing wristbands. My little freckled wrist is bare.

"What are those?" I ask.

"They're for the VIP party," they say.

I don't get access to the party within the party? Ugh. I literal y had a conversation with Camryn where we were on two sides of the rope.

Trying to save the day, she said to me, "Hey, I'l distract the security guy and you can sneak in."

"Uh, no," I said. "I don't want to sneak in like some no-name gate crasher to the wristband party. I'm okay out here."

It was experiences like this (and too many others to tel here) that helped me realize what exactly I was, the insider as outsider. I could get invited to celebrity parties, but not to the VIP circle within those parties. I got invited to red carpet events, but I'd get there early, when the photographers first arrive, in order to get my photo taken. I had an agent who didn't return my cal s, but who was happy to send me e-mails hoping I'd rescue a one-legged blind dog. "I have two dogs already," I'd write her back. "But I do need a job."

It was an A-list world, and my life was the D-list.

And then it dawned on me: That's the show!

My husband Matt and a.s.sistant Jessica were two people who understood "Lights, camera, be yourself!" (Photo: Michael Grecco/Bravo/NBCU Photo Bank)

So get this, back in 2004 I was so D-list that I couldn't even get my then agents to go to pitch meetings with me to sel a show about how I was on on the D-list. the D-list.

Isn't that a catch-22? Isn't it ironic? Like that traffic jam when I'm already late? Or ten thousand spoons when al I need is a knife?

Whatever, Alanis.

Apparently, I wasn't what they cal "an earner." You know how on The The Sopranos Sopranos the wiseguys talk about who's an "earner," how they can't kil somebody if he's an "earner," how they're debating whether or not to put up with an "earner"? Let's face it, the big agencies have giant movie stars like Julia Roberts, Denzel Was.h.i.+ngton, and Wil Smith, clients pul ing in $40 mil ion a year, and their agents get 10 percent of that. I wasn't pul ing in even $1 mil ion a year. No agent wanted to waste their time with me when they could be going to a Scientology retreat with Tom Cruise and John Travolta. (Or Wil Smith, if he's been recruited by now!) Anyway, armed with what I thought was a great idea for a reality show, I was only able to get three pitch meetings: with TBS, VH1, and Bravo. the wiseguys talk about who's an "earner," how they can't kil somebody if he's an "earner," how they're debating whether or not to put up with an "earner"? Let's face it, the big agencies have giant movie stars like Julia Roberts, Denzel Was.h.i.+ngton, and Wil Smith, clients pul ing in $40 mil ion a year, and their agents get 10 percent of that. I wasn't pul ing in even $1 mil ion a year. No agent wanted to waste their time with me when they could be going to a Scientology retreat with Tom Cruise and John Travolta. (Or Wil Smith, if he's been recruited by now!) Anyway, armed with what I thought was a great idea for a reality show, I was only able to get three pitch meetings: with TBS, VH1, and Bravo.

TBS and VH1 weren't too impressed with me being by myself and not dragging either an agent or a big-time producer to the meeting, so they pa.s.sed. I final y got my agent to come with me to the Bravo meeting, but only because he knew the cable channel's president, Lauren Zalaznick.

And what do you know? The show, which we eventual y cal ed Kathy Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List Griffin: My Life on the D-List, got signed that day.

It's tough sometimes for me to justify the 10 percent I have to pay an agent. They certainly don't do 10 percent of my job. They don't do a quarter of 1 percent. But they're a necessary evil, and if that agent had not been with me at that meeting, I don't know that I would have sold the show. He didn't even say anything, either. He just sat there. Nice work if you can get it. In fact, that guy's not even an agent anymore. f.u.c.k him, I'm with Wil iam Morris now. I hear this Wil iam Morris character is in it for the long haul. I haven't gotten him on the phone yet, though.

Wel , I went home and found my a.s.sistant Jessica and my husband Matt in the office they shared and broke the news. "Get ready to put on mic packs," I said, "because you're gonna be on a reality show."

Wait, I'm married? I'l get to that story in the next chapter. Stay focused, people.

Basical y, I was offering myself up to be fol owed night and day by cameras. I hooked up with a production company cal ed Picture This, run by a guy named Bryan Scott and a woman named Marcia Mule.

They're both gay. Check, and check. They weren't the most experienced producers in the world, but I figured what they lacked in experience, they could make up in gayness. And their idea was that natural y funny things seemed to happen to me because I gravitated toward bizarre D-list situations. We arranged it so that they'd shadow me for six months, which would be edited down to six episodes. That comes out to a month of taping, and taping, and taping, for every forty-four minutes of content.

To put this in perspective, I believe Sober House Sober House, which is nine episodes long, shoots for a whopping fifteen days. My next show, incidental y, wil be cal ed Kittens Purring Kittens Purring, and I wil shoot forty episodes in two days at a local pet store. Stay tuned.

I did have a template in my mind for how I wanted the show to be: Newlyweds: Nick and Jessica Newlyweds: Nick and Jessica. That MTV series was a big deal at the time, and I knew Jessica Simpson a little from the D-list circuit, meaning we'd see each other at charity events where we both performed. What I liked about Newlyweds Newlyweds was that it seemed to accurately portray how the couple real y was, capturing what was genuinely funny about her-this affable girl who said ridiculous things-and charming about him. It was driven by their personalities, by them doing what came natural y as opposed to putting up a front of how they thought they should act. was that it seemed to accurately portray how the couple real y was, capturing what was genuinely funny about her-this affable girl who said ridiculous things-and charming about him. It was driven by their personalities, by them doing what came natural y as opposed to putting up a front of how they thought they should act.