With nothing to do on a Saturday night, I did what people apparently did all the time 30 years ago.
I watched Saturday Night Live.
One of my lifelong ridiculous dreams is to be an SNL writer circa 1977. While most likely impossible, I have this fabulous image of myself in cuffed jeans and a corduroy blazer with elbow patches, sitting in an NBC hallway at 3am, taking qualudes and flirting with Bill Murray while simultaneously creating moments of timeless comedic genius.
I also want my own little opening intro thing.
You know the opening intro thing, right?
Each cast member gets their own opening intro thing, where they’re surprised yet delighted by the camera in some type of hot, Manhattan night spot.
It’s always the same.
They’re either sipping a cocktail.
Telling a joke.
Or emerging from a cab.
Then suddenly, oh my god, it’s my wacky friend with the camera.
So I had to ask myself. Which one am I?
Am I sipping a martini alone in a crowded bar?
Am I surrounded by adoring friends, about to deliver the punch line when, “Oh, the camera! Ha!” and then back to my joke?
Or, am I emerging in something vintage and beaded from an old-timey cab?
One’s SNL opening intro thing like your “at bat” song. It speaks volumes.
SNL is famous for it’s sexism and I noticed that exclusively men cast members get the “telling a joke” intro thing, and the women are all silently looking pretty at a bar or daintily coming out of a cab.
Screw that shit.
I can totally pretend to be telling a joke and suddenly turn and wink at the camera. I’m busting through the SNL opening intro thing glass ceiling and going with option number two.
Although, I still want to be wearing something vintage and beaded…