Conan (on Tracy Morgan): “The interview notes are worthless because you don’t know what he’s going to say.”
Sweeney:
“That’d be
funny,” without
explaining
how Richter
would survive
the stunt.
Conan: “I
used to be
very intense
at rehearsal.
It wasn’t
helping.”
FLAMING C, the fishnet-wearing,
oven-mitt-wielding superhero created
by O’Brien and drawn by legendary
animator Bruce Timm.
O’Brien, one of six kids, likes to
wander the halls with his guitar, interrupting writers like a little brother
pestering a sibling during homework.
“One of my favorite things is to take
out my iPhone and pretend to read
them reviews of the show, which all
praise my ability to rise above the writing,” says O’Brien, who wrote for
Saturday Night Live and The Simpsons
before crossing over to late-night host.
“It’s all a joke. At the very least, I’m
trying to create an atmosphere where
failure is inevitable and where everybody gets to make fun of everybody.”
11 a.m.: At the staff production meet-
ing, the various departments—props,
stage, hair and makeup, costume,
etc.—coordinate what needs to get
done in the next five hours. The writ-
ers produce their own pieces, which is
how O’Brien learned at SNL. This
requires a face-to-face meeting to
explain the idea. Otherwise, says
Sweeney, “it’s like Spinal Tap: ‘Wait,
who thinks we wanted an 18-inch-tall
Stonehenge set?’ ”
As usual, there’s a lot going on. A
photographer is shooting the staff ex-
terminator, played by one of the writ-
ers, catching a rat. Someone’s outfitting
the Richter dummy for the stairs prat-
fall. (An earlier option: taping the real
Richter throwing himself down the
stairs.) And stagehands are construct-
ing King’s talk-show set in the rafters.
1: 30 p.m.: O’Brien’s jamming the White
Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army” on his
electric Gibson as if this is last
summer’s “The Legally Prohibited
From Being Funny on Television Tour.”
It’s a typical rehearsal, except that
things usually start at 1. (Blame the
King set or my interviews. Your call.)
Interns and writers sit in the audience, and O’Brien strums around the
stage while the crew sets up each
sketch. The guitar gets his creative
juices flowing, giving him an outlet
for his energy.
Comedy writing has two main
ingredients, O’Brien says. Part one:
left-brain bullshitting. Part two: seeing ideas up on their feet, in rehearsal,
and then reworking them. After writing for TV for 25 years, he still doesn’t
know what will translate from paper
to stage. But he often knows how to
make it funnier. O’Brien leans against
the front of his desk—Steve Hollander,
the stage manager, calls it “home
base”—introducing each bit as though
the show were live, and then he
watches and listens. After the Richter
dummy tummy-surfs the stairs like
the toddler in the video, the real Rich-
Sweeney: “It
turned into a
mini train
wreck. A toy
train wreck.
No lives were
lost.”
a li TTle af Ter 10 a.m.: When O’Brien
gets to the office (later than usual—he
had a doctor’s appointment), he checks
in with Jeff Ross, his longtime executive producer. Their offices are adjacent, separated by a couch strewn with
orange Conan pillows. “He tells me
the big headline,” O’Brien says. “ ‘ We’re
being sued by McDonald’s’ or, I don’t
know, ‘ They’re coming to arrest you.’ ”
noon: O’Brien reads the first round of
jokes for the monologue. He rewrites
some, checks the ones he likes, puts a
squiggle by those that need work, and
jots “GA” (for “great area”) by others
that need a new take on the same
topic. The squiggles and GAs always
outnumber the checks.
