Jane Lynch - Happy Accidents

For Mom and Dad

…and every kid out there mustering up

the courage to answer the call of their

own hero’s journey

Cover

Title Page Happy Accidents Jane Lynch

Dedication

Foreword by Carol Burnett

1. Pontifical

2. Grand Delusions

3. Refuge

4. Normal

5. The Call of Comedy

6. Compulsion

7. Angry Lady

8. Walk Like a Man

9. Canyon Lady

10. Jobber

11. The Dangers of Flattery

12. “Perfect”

13. Feast

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Copyright

About the Publisher

I FIRST BECAME AWARE OF JANE LYNCH WHEN I SAW the movie Best in Show.

I had turned into a Christopher Guest junkie after seeing his brilliant comedy Waiting for Guffman. He created an atmosphere of sheer mirthfulness. I loved the wonderfully talented group of actors he put together. He let his players run with their characters without the benefit of a formal script. They were not only actors but also writers and improvisers. He trusted them, and they were hysterically funny. I couldn’t wait until his next movie would be released.

That turned out to be Best in Show. Along with his regular group of actors, there was a new face, and I thought she was terrific. I looked for her name at the end of the picture: Jane Lynch. I hoped she would become one of the rep players in Christopher’s future movies. She did.

Next came A Mighty Wind, followed by For Your Consideration. In each of these films Jane played an entirely different character, with hilarious results. Later, I was bowled over by her scene-stealing role opposite Steve Carell in The 40-Year-Old Virgin. These aren’t Jane’s only credits by any means, as you’ll learn when you read her down-to-earth, heartwarming (and sometimes, heartbreaking) life story.

I finally had the pleasure of not only meeting her but getting to work with her in a little-known movie, Post Grad, starring Michael Keaton. I played her mother-in-law, and most of my scenes were with Jane. The main thing I took away with me from that experience is how much Jane made me laugh even off camera. She sees the “funny” in everything.

And then came Glee. I loved the show from the get-go. I asked my agent to call the producers and let them know I’d be willing to carry a spear, or whatever, if they’d only allow me to get into their sandbox and play … preferably opposite Jane. My wish came true. I was cast as Jane’s mother, who was a former Nazi-hunter … (excuse me??). We got to sing, “Why, oh why, oh why, oh—why did I ever leave Ohio?” from the Broadway musical Wonderful Town. Did I mention that Jane has a great singing voice? Twice, I jumped up and down in front of the TV set in my living room when she won the Emmy and a Golden Globe for her portrayal of Sue Sylvester.

I remember once many years ago when I was doing The Garry Moore Show and the brilliant vaudeville comedian Ed Wynn was the guest star that week. Sitting at the writers’ table one afternoon, Ed was regaling us with tons of wonderful stories about the icons he had worked with and known throughout his illustrious career. Among those he mentioned were Bob Hope and Jack Benny. He gave us his definition of comedians, which I never forgot:

“Comics say funny things [Bob Hope] and comedic actors say things funny [Jack Benny].”

Jane is cut from the same cloth as Jack Benny. She doesn’t need a joke to get a laugh. What’s funny about her is her “take” on any character she’s playing … and I might add, because she’s a wonderful actor, she plays the character very seriously, thereby making it that much funnier.

I was honored when she asked me to write this foreword. Her story is fascinating, and she relays it without holding anything back. It’s all here, warts and all. She has gone through a lot in her life (good times and bum times) and tells about it with courage and honesty. She has come out on top as a performer and as a human being.

I’m happy to call her my friend.

—Carol Burnett

IF I COULD GO BACK IN TIME AND TALK TO MY twenty-year-old self, the first thing I would say is: “Lose the perm.” Secondly I would say: “Relax. Really. Just relax. Don’t sweat it.”

I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t anxious and fearful that the parade would pass me by. And I was sure there was someone or something outside of myself with all the answers. I had a driving, anxiety-filled ambition. I wanted to be a working actor so badly. I wanted to belong and feel like I was valued and seen. Well, now I am a working actor, and I guarantee you it’s not because I suffered or worried over it.

As I look back, the road to where I am today has been a series of happy accidents I was either smart or stupid enough to take advantage of. I thought I had to have a plan, a strategy. Turns out I just had to be ready and willing to take chances, look at what’s right in front of me, and put my heart into everything I do. All that anxiety and fear didn’t help, nor did it fuel anything useful. Finally releasing that worry served to get me out of my own way. So my final piece of advice to twenty-year-old me: Be easy on your sweet self. And don’t drink Miller Lite tall boys in the morning.

I DON’T KNOW WHY, BUT I WAS BORN WITH AN EXTRA helping of angst. I would love to be able to blame this on my parents, as I’m told this is good for book sales. But I can’t.

Enjoying a Very Merry Breakfast, Christmas 1980.

I grew up in a family that was pure Americana. We lived in Dolton, Illinois, one of the newly founded villages south of Chicago created to house the burgeoning middle class. We were like the subject of a Norman Rockwell painting, except it was the 1960s and ’70s, so he would have had to paint us with bell-bottoms and a stocked liquor cabinet. I didn’t settle into myself as a child, but the family I had around me was entertaining and embraced the life we had.

My dad, Frank, was a classic Irish-Catholic cutup. He was always singing a ditty, dancing a soft-shoe, or cracking wise while mixing a cocktail. He was almost bald by the time he was nineteen, and every day he’d smear Sea & Ski sun lotion on top of his naked head, then slap a little VO5 onto his hands and smooth the ring of hair around the sides with a flourish. “How do you like that?” he’d say to himself in the mirror, and sing under his breath, “I’ve got things to do, places to go, people to see.” And after that daily Sea & Ski ritual, damn if he still didn’t end up getting skin cancer on his pate. However, it would be lung cancer that took my dad from us in 2003, and I miss him every day.

I can remember my dad, when I was really young—so young, it’s like Vaseline over the memory—dancing with me in the living room. “Do you come here often?” he’d ask, twirling me around and singing along with Sid Caesar: “Pardon me miss, but I’ve never done this … with a real live girl …”

My dad also did a bang-up Bing Crosby. I loved it when he sang, and we never had to wait very long for it. He’d sing while putting sugar in his coffee, while buffing his shoes, or for no reason at all. He’d make up songs about us, the more ridiculous the better: To the tune of “Val-deri, Val-dera,” he’d sing “Janeeree, Jane-erah.” My nickname became simply Eree-Erah. He added –anikins or -erotomy to the end of anyone’s name. My older sister was Julie-anikins, my younger brother, Bob-erotomy. One of his favorite joyous exclamations was “Pon-TIFF! Pon-TIFF!” from the word “pontifical,” which was his way of saying “fabulous.” And “My cup runneth over” was boiled down to “My cup! My cup!” Speaking of cup, coffee was coffiticus, my mom was L.T. (Long Thing, because she was tall), and the phone was the telephonic communicator. We would roll our eyes or feign embarrassment—but we all wanted to be the subject of Dad’s silliness, to be a part of his joy.