How I witnessed TV history for minimum wage

This week I reviewed the documentary "Exporting Raymond," which follows "Everybody Loves Raymond" creator and writer Phil Rosenthal to Russia for an ill-advised attempt to translate the All-American, Average Joe sitcom for Russian audiences. It's funny, utterly ridiculous and true (even if the whole impetus for the project was to make a documentary about how funny it would inevitably be). You can read my review here.

But what made me want to review the film in the first place was good old fashioned nostalgia and a slightly unnerving love of television history. (I was the only person I know who got an A+ in my college History of Television class --yes, even in the Ivy League people -- and my enthusiasm and performance in that 200+ person class landed me an internship at Martin Scorsese's production company. Fodder for another post I think).  Having grown up on television with a penchant for the oldies (Little Rascals of "Our Gang" fame, "The Twilight Zone" and "The Dick van Dyke Show" being just a few of my favorites), I knew I was going to work in "the entertainment business"--whatever that was.

Outside of internships with hypochondriacal directors who think typewriters are "too loud," my first paying job in the business (if I may use the term loosely here) was as a page at Paramount Studios, the oldest working studio lot in Hollywood.

You're probably thinking, "Oh, a page -- like Kenneth from '30 Rock!'" Not exactly, but we did have to wear terrible polyester suits, with the women getting the added humiliation of having to don a skirt with hose and a saggy bow tie thingy straight out of a late-1980s office wear catalogue (this was 1996).  Here's 23 year-old me proudly posing in front of the famous Bronson gate, sans horrible suit jacket.

Yes, I do look proud because, even though my paycheck was paltry to say the least, I got to spend my days roaming freely around a studio backlot, soaking up film and television history at every turn. I also got to share it with the hordes of tourists assigned to me as their guide for our walking tour through the backlot.

While they spent their time wildly looking around for any signs of a movie star  (never happened, unless you count Eddie, the dog from "Frasier," or that host from "Entertainment Tonight" who was often mistaken for Tom Cruise--something I usually didn't attempt to correct), I happily rattled on with great reverence about the empty tank (now in a parking lot) that was used to part the Red Sea for Cecil B. DeMille, or that building where Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz made monumental television together. Rare was the tourist who cared, so I made sure to point out the grassy corner where Bobby Brady got in a fight defending Cindy in that episode of "The Brady Bunch," which usually pleased them.

Besides giving underappreciated public and VIP tours (we got to drive carts!), pages also worked the audience at TV show tapings. Worst job ever. All those poor tourists, lured from Hollywood Boulevard by some obnoxious pamphleteer, who now find themselves standing in a long unmoving line, waiting to find out what TV show they'll get to see taped. Of course, they'd all been told they'd see "Frasier" or "Wings" or something of the sort, but more often than not they got funneled into the shows with less demand and more need for people willing to laugh for free at the same joke over and over again. By the time you drag the sunburned bunches into the sound stage of "Sister Sister," you better be prepared for a riot.

During my six-month tenure on the lot, I was tapped to be one of those poor souls. If you think it's tough to fill the seats for some obscure UPN show, then imagine how hard it is to find people to sit for hours in a freezing cold sound stage for a pilot show that nobody's ever heard of. That's when they call in the pages, baby. Minimum wage is about as close to free as you can get, so when the producers of a pilot get desperate, they pick up the phone and get some pages on loan.

And that's how I ended up in the studio audience for the pilot episode "Everybody Loves Raymond" -- or as we identified it when we first got there, "some sitcom starring a stand-up comedian we've never heard of." We were thanked profusely for being there and it soon became clear why -- a pilot episode needs to be tight, perfect. It's a sales tool to show the network the magic that you've assembled among the cast members, writers and crew. It also takes a REALLY long time to get it right.

Did I know the show was something special? At the very least, I had a feeling it was going to be different based on the fact that it was produced by David Letterman's company, Worldwide Pants. (Dave's blessing meant a lot to me when I was in my early 20s). And when they introduced Peter Boyle, the best part of one of my favorite comedies "The Dream Team," and his on-screen wife, TV legend Doris Roberts, I knew this was a show aiming to make history.

But I also knew that rush hour was approaching and I didn't want to be stuck in Universal City any longer than I had to. And I resented the fact that our page supervisor treated us like wooden pegs that he could shuffle around as needed, always threatening to "blackball" us if we disappointed him (yes I was naive enough then to believe him).

But isn't that what it's like to work in Hollywood? Excitement and celebrity mixed with resentment and traffic? No wonder I left such a glamorous life behind.