The story I most typically tell about my short career in entertainment was my time working with Julie Andrews. The Julie Show was not successful by any measure. Blake Edwards, the legend, exerted creative control seemingly for its own sake. The Sunshines, a lovely couple of democrats hired by Viacom to normalize the operation, could not convince Blake to accept a single page or joke. The writing staff seemed witty enough, but no community, no shared chemistry ever developed. So my story is as follows. I rush about trying to find Julie to give her a message from the set, and some DGA type points at a closed door. I barge in to find her laying on a couch in the dark with her arm covering her eyes. I am a boob, I don't belong there, it is obvious, and my heart sinks. Julie sits up, shakes off her migraine, remembers my name, and apologizes to me with a smile. An old fashioned art of expressing discipline and character I have yet to cultivate.
