Love Letter To Rob Reiner

Alone in a Crowd/What Does Your Dad do, Rob?/Four Agreements

I read a couple of small things this week. Very short. One was a two-page story called “The Child.” And some of the commentary on it talked about how, “Most of life is a struggle against loneliness. The fear of being isolated or marginalized.” My mind went right away to older folks. The images I had were of this retirement home that use to be on Melrose Ave. in the 1990s. At the time Melrose was an epicenter of young and cool, and right there on the corner was this retirement home. And there were small balconies for each apartment, and they all had the same ONE white plastic chair on it, most often not occupied. When I would take my baby for a stroller ride, I’d see those balconies and it just seemed like the very best image of what “Lonely” looked like. But I kept thinking about those few words of commentary on the story. “Most of life is a struggle against loneliness.” Most? And it brought to mind something I’m working on right now that’s set in high school. And as I kept reading the commentary, it turned towards that, too. How high school is often about the fear of being marginalized and how it’s a training ground in starting to decide how much of your personality to push aside to fit in with others.

So today I’m going to share a thing about a time I felt alone and how I got a gift that lifted me up and out of that.

I was at a July 4th party one year and Peter Marshall, the recently passed away host of The Hollywood Squares was there. I had been in a writing room job that I felt marginalized in. IF you’ve been a TV writer, I hope you’ve never had a job like that. But often we all have jobs like that. Whole days of maybe not talking much in the room, feeling like no one wants to hear from you, and yeah, maybe some bullying going on. I went to the party with all of those feelings, and was being pleasant to everyone, being friendly, but feeling a little introverted and lost in my own thoughts.  Someone said to Peter, “Tell us the story about being in World War 2.” I kind of love it when I hear that call to action, “Tell us the story about…” Because it usually means it’s a story that’s been told, it was good enough to have someone who heard it want others to hear it, and I hadn’t heard it, so we settled in to hear it.

I don’t remember the details of this story, full disclosure. The thing I want to tell you is that it started in a very sort of game show host cadence. Because Peter Marshall was a game show host, right? And then, the tone shifted, and it became very real. Peter Marshall and the soldiers he was with were in real trouble. This wasn’t a, “And then the General laughed and we all had a good time,” story. Real things were being talked about. Real danger. And the air in the room got still. And to me, it felt like the lights got dimmed. I know they didn’t, but that’s what it felt like. And at the very climatic moment of the story, Peter got emotional and his voice broke. I looked around me and saw that everyone else was experiencing this same moment with me. Together. And when conversation started back up again in various pockets of people, everyone was more…present. And with each other in a way they weren’t before the story. I’ll never forget the moment after the story. And I have been looking around on the internet to see if maybe he told that story on camera sometime so I can hear it again and this time remember the details.  I promise I’ll post it if I find it.

Being in writer’s rooms can be the most exhilarating and rewarding times of your career when you are making each other laugh, fixing a story problem and being engaged with seven, eight or nine super smart people all focused on the same thing. They can also be incredibly broken and dysfunctional and feel like an endurance contest in destroying your spirit. Just know that we’ve all been there on both sides of that. Take a breath. Go for a hike, get out into the world because even if it feels like the only thing happening in your life, it doesn’t have to.

---

Now I want to write a love letter to Rob Reiner. That’s right. Let’s do it.

Dear Rob,

When you were playing Mike Stivic on “All in the Family,” you were amazing and I was 8. I didn’t really watch that show. My parents went on a vacation to California and they went to a taping of an episode of All in the Family. Or we were living in California and they went to a taping of All in the Family. I don’t remember exactly. I was 8! I think I saw an episode after they went to the taping because I wanted to see what that was all about. I thought you were hilarious. Mostly because you did a spit take after Archie Bunker said something mean. Again, I was 8. At this point, I didn’t know your dad was Carl Reiner, or what his story was. Later when I found out your dad was Carl Reiner and he was a writer of some sort, I think I must have thought, “Carl must be so thrilled to have a talented son like that. I wonder if Carl is funny.” I know. This was before the internet where you could look up Carl Reiner.

Not sure if these were the moments when I started thinking about being a television writer or not, but when I look back, it certainly seems like part of it.

Imagine my surprise many years later when I’m running my own sitcom and my friend David DeLuise tells me you are in the audience for a taping. And I ask, “Do you think Rob would be in one scene if we ask him?” And we did. And you said yes. I wrote a quick scene for you and you had one request, “Can I do a spit take?” Hell yeah you can. And magic of all magic, my parents happened to be at that taping, and got to meet you. You were amazing and gracious and took a chance to do some comedy you had no idea you were going to when you left the house that night. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for taking a pic with my parents.

And then, a couple of years later, I went and pitched Paramount Studios the idea of doing a remake of a movie you directed, “Soapdish.” That was fun to sit with you, but I don’t know if I shared any of this with you or if I said, “Hey you did this nice thing for me.” I never know if people remember me. And I know in the run up to that pitch at Paramount, I was mostly focused on it being the first time I had ever pitched a movie! I am one hundred percent sure I didn’t tell you that before we went into the room to pitch. Sorry about that. And sorry they didn’t buy it. It would have been amazing to work with you and get to know you more. But I do love what you do, and I bet your dad was proud to have such a talented son.

P.S. I loved the Albert Brooks documentary you did, and I can’t wait to see the new Spinal Tap movie.

Love,

Peter Murrieta

I think I’ll do a few more of these love letters as we go, that was fun to do. Hope you like it.

The next piece is for subscribers so read on if you are, and if not, maybe think about subscribing so you can.