Hey Mom Page 11

  Then this evening, I attended the Vanity Fair pre-Emmy party. Mom, it’s the party everyone wants to go to. They took a photo of me for the magazine. I met lots of great celebrities (I won’t name-drop) who were all so nice to me. Everyone seems to like the part I play, which means they would really like you, Mom. I always give you credit. You’re having a second life, and way more people could know about you Sunday night, when hopefully I’ll be walking up those stairs to accept our statuette!

  I’m going to bed. Sorry to write so brief but I can’t stay up as late as I used to. You liked to go to bed early but you were restless. I could hear you getting up at night and watching TV downstairs, usually the local news or The Tonight Show. I know you liked it mostly for the background noise and the light it gives and the fake company it provides. So do I. When I was older and I would come home late, you would be up to say hi and give me that beautiful smile, and ask me, or me and Tommy, if we were hungry, and of course we always said yes because you would whip up your signature grilled cheese sandwich, which had too much cheese and even more butter, or maybe you’d make a sandwich from slices of pork roast that you had cooked earlier.

  Now, when I get into bed, I follow some of your ritual. I like loose-fitting pajamas and a long-sleeve shirt. A lot of people seem to like sleeping in their underwear but not me—What if an earthquake hits and you have to go outside? I wear socks to bed, like you did, because I get cold feet, the real kind of cold feet, from the outside air or my own bad circulation, not the kind that makes people doubt what they’re about to do is what they should do. I think Dad’s feet were cold, too—hot temper, cold feet. And I always have a glass of ice water bedside, like you, with a napkin underneath so I don’t hurt the table. And in case I have a heart attack, I keep an aspirin there that I can pop right in. Rosie O’Donnell says having an aspirin nearby once saved her life.

  Anyway, I’ve got to get my sleep, Ma. Sunday I want to look as good as you did.

  Keep your fingers crossed for me, Mom,

  Louie

  I Don’t Have to Smile Like I’m Happy for Someone Else!

  © FX

  Hey Mom,

  We did it!

  That’s the first thing I said when I got up onstage at the Microsoft Theater, after they announced “Louie Anderson” as the winner of the Best Supporting Actor in a Comedy Series.

  Mom, we did it!

  Then I said a few more things (after putting on my glasses).

  I have not always been a very good man but I play one hell of a woman. This is for my Mom, Ora Zella Anderson, who I stole every nuance, shameful look, cruel look, loving look, passive-aggressive line from. I really thank her.

  I said a bunch more things, thanking Dad and all my siblings, alive and not, and all their spouses (that’s a long list to get through, Mom, before the awards show orchestra starts getting itchy to play you off stage—so there’s a clear disadvantage to being from a family of eleven kids), and thanking Zach and Louis C.K. and Jonathan Krisel and of course Abraham and Ahmos and lots of people on the show and at the FX network, and many others. It sounds corny to say that we share these awards with others (and easy to say, since I get to take the trophy home all by myself, unless I want to chop it into pieces). And of all the people who share it with me, you’re the one who allowed Christine Baskets to happen. You gave me something no one else did or ever could: life.

  Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner

  (with mashed potatoes and gravy, of course),

  Your son

  Note to Thomas Wolfe: You Never Actually Leave Home

  Hey Mom,

  We started shooting the second season of Baskets and on my way to the set early early this morning (5:30 a.m. call, which means in makeup and hair by then, and start shooting an hour or so later), still dark outside, I heard the sound of a passing train, which made me think of home in St. Paul. Is it Minnesota I’m thinking of, or childhood? I remember how, when I walked a few blocks from the projects to a certain nearby street (was it Ames Avenue or Ames Street?), I often heard that lonesome sound, a clear whistle, with purpose, a haunting, beautiful sound. To hear it was to be reminded that someone was passing through your town headed somewhere interesting. If you were ambitious and adventurous and really wanted to get out of St. Paul, the train was probably moving slowly enough that you could jump on. Or most kids could. I was too fat. And why would I ever leave your breakfasts, Mom? When I finally left St. Paul, it wasn’t because I didn’t like it, or even because it was, I don’t know, six hundred below in winter. I left to find my future, my fame and fortune.

  Whenever I hear that train sound, I get nostalgic. It’s one of those sounds that takes you out of yourself, like a lone dog barking or children at recess in a schoolyard.

  Not long ago I was back in St. Paul, on Minnesota Public Radio, and they introduced me, as often happens, as “Louie Anderson from Minneapolis,” and I always correct them that I’m from St. Paul. But they’ll forget and later in the conversation they’ll refer to me as being from Minneapolis. St. Paul rarely gets any credit.

  St Paul: the Other City. (True, not the greatest slogan.)

  Either way, Mom, I have lots of fans from Minnesota and I think they like me partly because I’m so proud and clear about where I come from. The parents of Joe Mauer, the homegrown star of the Twins, once came to see my show and I was introduced to them afterward. Go, Twins! Then again, I have many Minnesota fans who, in typically direct fashion, tell me exactly how they feel. One man came up after a show, shook my hand, told me he was from Bemidji, and said, unsmiling, “I don’t care for you but my wife does . . .”

  Mom, can we ever really go back home?

  After my appearance on MPR, I drove around the Other City, St. Paul, the place where you and Dad “landed,” and I headed for our address, 1122 Hazelwood Street. A four-bedroom apartment duplex in the Roosevelt Housing Projects. You said ours was one of the first families to move in there, as if it was some badge of honor. As I approached, I drove by the corner of Selby and Dale, an area that was re-done a few years ago.

  There it was. 1122 Hazelwood. Same as ever, mostly. 4-BEDROOM APARTMENTS were available, for some young family. Good luck.

  Mom, you know the woods in front, where all the kids played and we had BB-gun fights? And any new development, which would destroy that play area, mysteriously burned down the moment it looked like something might finally be happening? Still nothing there, Mom, except memories.

  Anyway, I looked at the buildings of downtown St. Paul. It’s getting better. I can’t say it’s changed all that much, and some parts remain kind of run-down, a little dingy. Remember how we were all taught that the James-Younger Gang, made up of outlaws Jesse James and Frank James and Cole Younger and others, used to hide out in St. Paul, on the East Side, off Payne Avenue? The East Side was always Italian. It’s a wonderful town, St. Paul, a real city, a workingman’s city, but the streets do seem smaller than the streets of Minneapolis. Minneapolis is nicer and richer, but St. Paul has lots of nooks and crannies, and wherever there are nooks and crannies, there’s room for people who don’t fit in elsewhere. I see why it’s the Other City.

  But that’s good. We need “other” cities and “other” places. Everyone needs a place to live. Everyone needs a chance. Because of the role in Baskets that Arby’s plays (Christine Baskets seriously considers buying one of the local Arby’s to run as a family business with sons Chip and Dale), I’ve been talking to some top people at Arby’s about setting up a job-training program for young people so they can get jobs there and make some extra money and have better lives. And the Arby’s people seem interested. Mom, remember our Arby’s, the first fast-food drive-thru in the neighborhood? We loved driving through and getting the Arby’s Junior, a great sandwich. You can still get the Arby’s Junior Special, you know.

  I remember driving with Dad on Tax Day down Seventh Street to the post office, mailing our taxes back to the government at the very last minute because the post office w
ould be open until three in the morning. I remember driving in downtown St. Paul with Dad, and if I got really lucky, or Tommy was in the car too and we got really lucky, we would stop at the Coney Island place for a hot dog with the works—sauerkraut, raw onions, mustard, no ketchup—maybe two, if we were really, really lucky, and a Coke or root beer. Hey Mom, did you know they once named a hot dog after me at a place called Pink’s in Las Vegas? (The original Pink’s is in L.A.) A “Louie Anderson” was a hot dog with mustard, onion, and sauerkraut. Doesn’t that sound delicious? Anyway, back to St. Paul, to when Tommy and I were kids and we might go with Dad to the KC Hall to play bingo even though Tommy and I were too young to be there, but no one ever said anything, and we played three cards for a dime, with no dabbers, and our markers were lima beans. And, Mom, when we got home and you found beans in Dad’s pocket, you threw them at him, because he was gambling with what little money we had, even though it was just bingo.

  Remember Jerry’s Chicken, where they came to the car to take your order? And I remember the shopkeeper I bought red hots from. I remember the welfare store where we often got clothes, and Ames Elementary School, where they lined up “normal” kids on one side and us project kids on the other.

  Seriously, who came up with that genius idea? Even then, more than a half-century ago, when the world was a different place and we’re supposed to appreciate that people in previous eras behaved in different ways and we shouldn’t automatically judge them as awful . . . Didn’t anyone stop and say, “You know what? This seems like a pretty mean, stupid idea!”

  No? No one?

  Jeez,

  Louie

  My TV Family

  Hey Mom,

  I wanted to tell you about the people I work with. The Baskets crew and cast are extraordinary, so talented and so kind, and I’m beyond lucky to get to work with them. They’re like a second family. I really love what I’m doing. Each day, I feel like a kid going to his own birthday party.

  My dedicated assistant is Aida, a lovely woman who makes sure I always have what I need and get where I need. This morning she met me, as she so often does, with a hot cup of coffee, lots of powdered creamers, and a side of well-done crispy bacon, which I usually share with Hair and Makeup.

  I got to work on time, as I always do, though I love to remind everyone around me, who gets there even earlier, “Look who’s on time!” In the trailer, they put on my makeup, then my wig, then lipstick. All along, Martha Kelly was in the next chair, getting her makeup and hair done, and she and I started running lines. We had a lot of dialogue in the first scene we were filming.

  Something in the makeup area smelled like potpourri, as if everyone’s grandma had just walked into the trailer.

  Martha and I had to stop doing lines for a moment because the sound of the blow-dryer drowned us out. But then we resumed. It was a cute scene. We’re good together. The mix of Christine’s oversize personality and Martha’s slight one makes a good contrast.

  It was a very long day of shooting. I was in every scene and had very little downtime. I had one scene with an older actor who looks even older than I know he is. He reminded me of Dad when he was older, and also of Billy, though Billy was quieter, shyer. I tried to be as nurturing as I could with the actor, both as Christine and as Louie. It turned into an even more emotional scene for me because of who the actor made me think of. I was constantly on the verge of tears. God, I miss Billy.

  But this is what I love so much about Jonathan, the director: he doesn’t care how long it takes to get where he wants us to go. Yet he never yells about anything. He just says, “Yes, let’s try another one . . .” He’s basically saying, “When you stir the thing, stir it like this, maybe? A little more of that?” Again, I got emotional because of the way he wanted me to stir it. He knows how to tug on an actor.

  He’s not the only one I’m blessed to work with. Zach’s a dream partner and a dream human being. He’s genuinely interested in you, in any person he’s talking to. (Me, I couldn’t care less. I’m kidding, I’m kidding.) The crew is full of lovely and welcoming human beings. I try to get to know at least a little bit about all of them. Each of them has a story. Each of them has struggles, and such strength in dealing with those struggles to do great, professional work.

  When I get to take a breather, and Zach and Martha do, too, and the crew is setting up the next shot, they have the “second team” stand in for each of us, background actors with name tags for the characters they’re standing in for (“Christine Baskets,” “Chip Baskets,” “Martha Brooks”), and who look vaguely like those they’re standing in for—like I said, it all feels like a second family, almost literally. When we’re about to shoot a scene, and the aides yell “Quiet on the set!” and “Shhh-shh!” and everyone is doing their job and no one wants to mess anything up, it doesn’t just feel like teamwork and a job well done but something more. We’re bound by love. Love and kibitzing. “What color underwear do you think I have on today?” I ask a passing wardrobe person, before my first costume change. (She’s wrong. It’s striped.)

  There are just so many people required to make a show, even a relatively modest cable show like ours, from the person who removes my wig at night to the people who serve the great food all day to the person who makes sure Christine is wearing the right necklace to the person who gives me the purse I need and the person who brings me a chair so I can sit while I’m waiting for the scene to shoot. It’s like a family, Mom. When it’s going right, it’s really going right. (And when it’s going bad, it’s going bad.) Jonathan is the dad and Sally Sue Lander, the First Assistant Director, is the mom. Together, they provide structure and guidance. They make sure we all have one thing in mind, which is making something that means something to each of us. Zach’s a huge star who could do anything he wants but he chose to help make a show whose message is ultimately about love, compassion, humanity. We can always use more of that.

  • • •

  Things don’t always go in the order you expect. You film things out of sequence, to save time and money. (A crew member with a still camera will frequently pop into our break room to take a picture of us actors for “continuity” purposes, so that when we’re filming at a different location a month from now, and Christine is supposed to have just gone from her house to Costco, I’m wearing the same dress and jewelry she was wearing a month before.) And in my career, I can say that things have not always gone in a straight line. Often you have to do one thing to find another. Sometimes you have to do a few things to find the thing you’re meant to be doing.

  Playing Christine is not just me doing an impression of Ora Zella. I’m trying to get at the essence of her, which means getting at the essence of you, and also the essence of me. I also think it expands to the Anderson clan. I think your daughters, as they grew up, were and still are all doing some version of you. And I’m trying to understand the very best and the worst of Christine. The heroic things she does and then the weaker things, like when she despairs enough, slips enough, that she retreats to her room to half lie on her bed, propped on one elbow, while eating gigantic spoonfuls of Cool Whip. I remember when Dad would be raging and you would retreat to the bedroom to watch TV. I’m just doing my best to play this woman as the realest person she is. The way she exhales with her whole body. Jimmy says Christine most reminds him of you when she’s consoling her kids, when she’s trying to cheer them up. But Shanna says Christine most reminds her of you when Christine is scolding or shaming her kids a bit. “That one look she used to get when she didn’t like something, you capture it, Louie,” says Shanna. She says just seeing me dress like a woman reminds her of you, period, even if Christine never said a thing.

  I don’t know how many people watch our beautiful little show. The ratings aren’t great but who knows anymore how to measure a show’s popularity, with DVRing and streaming (never mind, Mom—it’s like a VHS, but better). I feel as if those who do watch it love it. Winning the Emmy helped, and if I can get nominated again a
nd maybe win again, and if Zach can get nominated, which he absolutely deserves, then that might buy us more time, regardless of so-so ratings. I think our viewers love the show because they get the characters. Personally, I feel fortunate and relevant. Not that I felt irrelevant before this came along but it’s exhilarating to be part of such an original, strange hybrid of a show. It’s an adult family comedy. It’s slapstick drama. It’s got a lot of Charlie Chaplin’s melancholy and hopefully a lot of his humor, too. It’s All in the Family with more mental illness and work instability. It upsets people in a good way, a way that says we’re part of the human race, and that most of our endeavors, even when we mean well, won’t work out. It’s about people who in real life would be thought of as dysfunctional, or partly dysfunctional, yet who still do their very best to function once in a blue moon.

  And Christine gets to be the M.C., master of chaos.

  My favorite line from Baskets might be, “I’m your mother. Do you know what that means? Does it mean anything to you?”

  You mean something to me, Mom,

  Louie

  Big & Beautiful

  Hey Mom,

  Once, I had an idea for a line of men’s shirts with the stains already on them—a little mustard on the chest, some spittle around the collar, sweat stains. “Life Shirts,” I was going to call them.

  I wasn’t serious but I really do want to do a line of clothes for QVC or Home Shopping Network called Big & Beautiful, or Big Essentials, or maybe Ora Zella, featuring clothes that Christine Baskets has worn on the show or could wear or dreams about wearing. I model the clothes as Christine. She’s the spokesperson, you’re the inspiration, Mom.