If it weren’t for the Stanford Band, I’d probably be a lawyer—and it’s not what you’re thinking: I have no criminal record. In fact, as the Band’s manager it was my job to keep us out of trouble. I was busy.
And yet, I found myself wanting to join Ram’s Head Theatrical Society—not because of some burning desire to act or design sets or smoke behind Memorial Auditorium, but because it looked like they had some pretty good parties.
But my schedule was packed. Yes, I wanted to be part of the theater, that magical collaborative process—but, dammit, I wanted to collaborate on my time. And so, I identified its most solitary aspect: writing.
Some productions (and some parties) later, my amateur scripts had served their amateurish purpose. Professionally, however, law school (the de facto I’m-an-English-major-but-want-to-eat career path) still loomed—until my parents saw my campus one-act and my mother said, “Maybe you should become a writer.”
I went into a tailspin. First, because that sounded better than becoming a lawyer and, second, because how did one “become” a writer? I mean, lawyers had law schools, doctors had med schools—hell, even clowns had colleges. Where was I supposed to go?
Hollywood. As a lifelong student, this prospect terrified me—not the low-morals part, mind you, the actual-job part. To me work wasn’t about signing contracts and getting paid, it was about reading syllabi and paying other people, people called bursars. In other words, school I knew how to get into—but Hollywood? No idea.
But, after a furious bout of soul-searching, I knew it was my destination, and told my parents of my intentions. From the looks I got, I might as well have been setting fire to my diploma—or perhaps the thousands of dollars they’d just spent for me to obtain it.
“But you’d make such a good lawyer,” my mother protested. This was her idea of being supportive—as was, I suppose, her question after I spent two years making coffee and answering phones: “How long are you going to give this ‘writing thing’?”
It’s been 17 years, so far. And, as it turns out, there are ways that Stanford prepared me better than I could have imagined—and again, I have the Band to thank.
Coming up with halftime shows, you see, required us to brainstorm and present our ideas, skills I use now to pitch scripts. The only real difference being that when Band members didn’t like your idea, you were doused with beer as your shirt was ripped from your body. This, of course, would never occur in a Hollywood executive’s office, as it isn’t degrading enough.
But even the lunacy of the Band didn’t prepare me for the all-too-real lunacy I encountered writing for Frasier. Sometime during the sixth or seventh season, we began hearing from an obsessed fan—a guy so enamored of the show he tried writing a few episodes. Okay, 21 of them.
Finding them terrible, we sighed with relief—because while you may watch TV and think, “I could do better than that,” as professionals, our jobs depend on you not doing it.
Our rejection was polite—but that wasn’t what our fan wanted. What he wanted, after 21 scripts and moving from the East Coast to a block away from the studio, was a job. When he didn’t get it, he angrily accused us of taunting him via coded messages in the shows, of mocking him by costuming the actors like him, and of warning him off by sending a gang of transvestite thugs to beat him up.
We’d done none of it—but started considering the transvestite thug idea, because the guy was scaring us. The studio installed a metal detector and a security door, and posted the guy’s picture with the guards. In our conference room we remained hopeful this wouldn’t end violently—but made low-ranking writers sit closer to the door, in case it did.
Eventually, of course, it did end—not with a bang, but as most California conflicts do, with a lawsuit: a rambling, incoherent, crazy-ass 600-million-dollar lawsuit.
Which made sense. The guy was, after all, a lawyer.
JON SHERMAN, ’90, was rejected from both law schools he applied to.
