Dustin Diamond Page 2

  In the beginning I just wanted to have fun, but the process of auditioning was a real drag. I have early memories of leaving school, seeing my mom or dad waiting by the car and thinking, “Aw, shit. Another audition.” I knew I would have to sit in the hot, stale air of the Pinto’s back seat doing my homework while we fought the freeway traffic for our forty-five mile, ninety minute commute into L.A. (or longer if we were stuck in beep-and-creep traffic). But when I arrived, I was all business. I would switch on my spotlight smile, ham it up, and try my hardest to book the gig.

  For me, acting was always about the challenge. It’s like, all my life I’ve enjoyed playing video games, but the thrill has never been about winning; it’s more about meeting and facing down every obstacle that’s placed in front of me. Speaking of video games, being a kid, the purchasing power acting provided me with was a huge motivator. I knew that as long as I kept booking jobs, I could walk into a toy store and buy whatever game system I wanted and every game that went with it (that was a long time ago, remember.) The first gig I ever booked was a commercial for Giant Eagle Food Stores, an East-Coast supermarket chain. The premise was that the food flew off the shelves so fast that they couldn’t keep them stocked. Therefore, the only way to describe Giant Eagle’s food, because it was always moving, was “busy.” In the spot, all this food keeps passing by me piled high on plates, but every time I reach for something, a bunch of hands beat me to it, and the plate is picked clean. Finally, a giant hamburger is set down in front of me. The announcer says, “People say Giant Eagle food flies off the shelf so fast. How does Giant Eagle taste to you?” My response: “Busy.” It was a national commercial, so it made me Screen Actor’s Guild eligible, but I only had one line, so I didn’t qualify.

  I did bit parts on other shows and in movies before SBTB took off. Right around the time SBTB was starting, I played a character named Joey in two episodes of The Wonder Years. One episode featured a gym scene where my character was the last to be selected for the team—even after über-geek Paul Pfeiffer, played by Josh Saviano. The producers asked if another character could “pants” me, offering to pay more money in return. I was like, “Sure!”

  Working on that set, I got an early taste of how kids can be when they’re the stars of a big-time hit. Yes, I must sadly report that Fred Savage, the diminutive star of The Wonder Years, was another Hollywood douchenozzle. I watched Savage stick a pencil eraser in his nose, scoop out a booger, and stick it in a female extra’s mouth. I also saw him go up to a director and kick him in the shin. WHAM!

  In Savage’s case, his dad had a lot of power over the production of The Wonder Years, which is extremely rare. Under those circumstances, it’s understandable how a child actor could easily slip into a tiny prick suit—the whole set depends on them for their paycheck. And to be fair, years later, after they’ve matured and had time to reflect on those years when they had so little control over their daily actions—indeed, their lives in general—many of them mellow and transform into decent human beings. After all, Fred Savage did triumphantly warm our hearts again as the moley-moley-moley mole in Austin Powers in Goldmember.

  I have a lot of great memories of my early roles and of my time on SBTB, and I wouldn’t have changed anything. But looking back now, I do feel like a big chunk of my childhood was stolen from me. I think it’s mostly because I never really fit into the SBTB family. Early on, I was oblivious to the idea that anyone could be looking down his or her nose at my family and me. But it didn’t escape my attention long. I had a huge dad (6’1”, a former martial arts instructor, and just a shade under 400 pounds) with a keen radar for snobbish slights. The span of my dad’s back, from shoulder-to-shoulder, was as wide as our refrigerator. Dad was quick to let folks know they could go fuck themselves. There were times when I secretly cheered my dad’s fearlessness and other times when I was horrified and humiliated, and swore I could never be out with him in public again. But that’s just the way it was when you were the only one driving to the set in a Pinto.

  * * * *

  Good Morning, Miss Bliss starred the fantastic Hayley Mills. There is absolutely nothing I could write about that special lady that would approach the praise she deserves. What a beautiful woman. If she had stayed on with the show when it returned to NBC and was reformatted, it’s hard to know what sort of show SBTB would have become. Would we have still been a hit? Impossible to say with any certainty. I could only speculate. When Hayley starred as Miss Bliss, we only taped thirteen episodes on a closed sound stage. Maybe the transition to a live studio audience would have been a major factor. Miss Bliss was a darker-lit show—different quality, lower budget. Who knows? The viewing public is fickle, and I would be a much wealthier man than I am if I could decipher its maddeningly mysterious likes and dislikes.

  What I can say is that Hayley Mills exuded class. Given that fact alone, I wonder if the revamped format would have been able to fully celebrate its campy cheese factor to the extent it did for so many successful seasons and incarnations with the regal Hayley Mills at the head of our class. Remember, when we started we were up against the likes of Bugs Bunny, so a certain cartoonishness was expected from our scenarios and acting in order to lure away that show’s viewership. Our executive producer, Peter Engel, worked hard to drive home his wholesome vision of the all-American teen: no cursing, no misbehaving, drink your milk, and everybody hug at the end. He took his mantle as the avatar of Saturday morning children’s programming very seriously (never mind that he invented the concept of putting fresh-faced T&A on TV for kids first thing in the morning). When I ponder the alternative reality of a SBTB starring Hayley Mills, I’m inclined to say it would not have worked. Hayley would have convulsed against the material, not unlike a transplant patient’s immune system rejecting an incompatible donor organ.

  One day on the set of Good Morning, Miss Bliss we got a visit from Gentleman Gerry “The Great White Hope” Cooney, the boxer who was most famously defeated in 1982 by Larry Holmes with the “Punch Felt ’Round the World,” in the biggest pay-per-view fight, with the largest prize purse ($10 million) up to that time. He was there to see Hayley because he had a crush on her. He was bouncing around backstage like a little boy. Cooney melted in Hayley’s presence, his bashful eyes sweeping towards the floor, his voice softening a few octaves. Hayley was a very handsome woman who attracted many admirers—like Latino heartthrob A Martinez, who one day popped over from the set of Santa Barbara. He was so smitten with Hayley that he, too, instantly turned into a starry-eyed little boy in her presence. He was, like, “Do you think she’ll talk to me?” But of course Hayley was eminently approachable. He threw out a cheesy opener like, “Hi, I’m A Martinez. Just ‘A,’ my parents couldn’t afford the rest of my name.” Har, har.

  Cooney, the aging pugilist, though there to meet Hayley, spent most of his time off-set, regaling the male cast members, crew, and parents with tales from his life inside the ropes. Cooney had his arm wrapped firmly around my dad’s neck (my dad, a massive guy, was dwarfed by Cooney). As he recounted the fight, blow-by-blow, Cooney kept jerking my dad’s head down—unexpectedly and unwillingly—to mimic the technique Larry Holmes used to overpower him after twelve rounds. He described how, while hunched over in this headlock, he clocked Holmes below the belt. All the guys listening backstage doubled over in instantaneous empathy. “Good story, Champ,” said my dad. “But please don’t punch me in the balls.”

  As I said earlier, when Good Morning, Miss Bliss was cancelled by Disney after only thirteen episodes, the president of NBC Entertainment, Brandon Tartikoff, believed enough in the show’s potential to bring it back to NBC with a new title and revamped cast and format. The story goes that Peter Engel wanted to change the name to When the Bell Rings, but Brandon convinced him to go with Saved by the Bell. A full season for most half-hour television series totals twenty-six episodes. But they only shot sixteen that year. That meant, in order to complete an official, full first season for syndication purposes, episodes f
rom the original Good Morning, Miss Bliss had to be interspersed with the new one’s from SBTB. That’s why, when you watch that first season now, it appears so discombobulated. The way they attempted to solve the problem was by employing what became a signature narrative technique in SBTB: Zack’s shattering of the fourth wall by talking directly to the audience Ferris Buellerstyle, setting up flashbacks of what were supposedly the gang’s junior-high-school experiences. He’d say, “I remember back in the day …” (twinkle, twinkle, twinkle), and the action would flash back to junior high. But really those are just the shows from our season as Good Morning, Miss Bliss at Disney. All those episodes were folded into the SBTB franchise for our eventual syndicated distribution.

  In 1994, the planned merger between NBC and Disney tanked. This had the affect of hurting us kids on NBC shows when we tried to get roles in Disney projects. We were punished for not being pure Disney. It wasn’t our fault, but we were made to somehow feel responsible. For instance, we would audition for in-house Disney projects and would be summarily dismissed just because we were the orphaned ghetto rabble from NBC still clinging to the railing of the ship. In my own experience with the Disney freeze-out, I lost the role as the voice of Flounder in The Little Mermaid. I was told at the audition that I had won the part. “We love you,” they said. “It’s yours.” I leapt into the air I was so ecstatic! Then, in the next moment, someone shuffled some papers, leaned over and informed the director that, “Mmmm. He’s one of those ‘merger kids.’” So long, Flounder. So long unbelievably huge box-office success and Disney animation immortality. But I wasn’t alone. Disney basically banned everyone from Good Morning, Miss Bliss from landing any Disney roles. As far as the studio was concerned, we were like Spartan daughters left alone in the hills to suffer and die.

  Brandon was aware of all this and didn’t like it. I can’t say enough about Brandon Tartikoff. He was a decent man in a douchebag industry, an eagle among turkeys. I heard his daughter loved the show (she, too, was a big Screech fan), and that certainly didn’t hurt Brandon’s decision to give us another go at NBC with his full backing. Well, not full backing. Brandon initially only approved seven episodes for that first season back at NBC. Brandon liked us, but he was only going to dip his toe in the water. He wasn’t ready to do a running cannonball into the pool. He was happy to wait and see how we fared with our new cast and format.

  I have such fond memories of strolling into Brandon’s office at NBC whenever I wanted. I thought I was hot shit plopping myself down in Linda Mancuso’s office? Ha! Brandon was the Head Honcho, the Big Cheese, not only of NBC Entertainment, but of television itself in the 1980s. He played a personal hand in what became the most renown programs of that era: Hill Street Blues, LA Law, ALF, Family Ties, The Cosby Show, Cheers, Miami Vice, The Golden Girls, Knight Rider, The A-Team, St. Elsewhere, Night Court, Hunter, Highway To Heaven, Matlock, Remington Steele, Punky Brewster, A Different World, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, and of course, Saved by the Bell. I mean, c’mon. Shepherding just one of these shows onto network television would qualify him for legend status, let alone all of them.

  Brandon’s secretary would smile as I walked straight into his office, unannounced and uninvited, any time I pleased. It was the prerogative of a precocious child. I realize now what a privilege I enjoyed being in proximity to the man while all these wonderful things were happening all around me. I would wander around his office, studying all the bric-a-brac on his shelves, or deposit myself in one of his deep, cushy chairs. Brandon was a busy man, but he made allowance for my childish impositions and always acted glad to see me. But there was always business for him to attend to, so after several minutes, he’d gently urge me back out the door.

  I can’t help but remember how, when SBTB first started, every critic and industry insider railed against it. They called us another craptacular show that was going to fall on its face and never make it. In Entertainment Weekly, television critic Ken Tucker, after giving the show a grade of “D,” wrote, “Now in its second season, Bell is a ratings success, but that doesn’t mean that it’s edifying programming. Bell features stiff acting, cheap sets, and plots that seem lifted from Happy Days reruns … Forget intelligence or any talent beyond hip-swiveling as worthy attributes; in the world depicted on this program, superficiality is everything … High-minded and low-quality at the same time, Bell is depressing. Kids’ TV should provide intelligent escapism, not dumb sanctimony.”

  Then, when we started to stick, gaining a fan base through the hard work and quirky style that eventually made us a worldwide phenomenon, those same naysayers started coming back around saying, “Congratulations. I said you deserved it. I believed in you all along. So, what’s it like now to be famous?” Fuck you, you two-faced slimeballs. Then, the backhanded compliments started. They would say, “Well, you’ve found your cornball niche in the marketplace, but it’s not like you’ll be nominated for any awards or anything.” They fanned on that ball, too. From 1990 to 1997, SBTB and its cast and crew were nominated for twenty-six awards, winning six. But that’s the thing about Hollyweird, everybody wants to be associated with a smash hit, but nobody knows what one looks like until it becomes one.

  In 1991, Brandon left NBC after his daughter, Calla, nearly died in a car accident near their home in Lake Tahoe. Brandon was driving. Calla survived, after being in a coma for six weeks, but was severely injured. After that, Brandon pretty much shut down. Then, in 1997, at the age of forty-eight, Brandon succumbed to Hodgkins Disease, which he had battled, off and on, for almost twenty-five years. It was a sad day when that news was passed down. One thing is certain: if it hadn’t been for Brandon, there would be no Screech today. You can love him or hate him for that fact alone. Of course, I love him.

  Rumour had it that when General Electric bought NBC in 1986, the first order of business was to install GE light bulbs in every socket of every building at NBC. These were all perfectly functioning light bulbs that they swapped out. Before that, no one ever recalled a bulb going out. But thereafter, bulbs of all shapes and wattage blew with reckless abandon. But it was just like the days of the old monarchies when one king would immediately remove any trace of the previous regime.

  The same thing, sort of, happened when Brandon left NBC Entertainment in 1990 (he would quit NBC totally the next year). Warren Littlefield, who replaced him, came in and promptly wiped out anything that might remind people of Brandon or any other fond memory of how we used to make entertainment at NBC. Littlefield and all the other new suits stalking the hallways were much less approachable than we had become accustomed to. There was definitely a pervasive new sense of fear and awkwardness. I recall thinking, “I hope I say the right thing. This dude can snap his fingers and end my show, or, at the very least, cut my role.” The carefree days of strolling aimlessly into Brandon’s office and flopping down into a chair had come to an end.

  MEET THE CAST

  ST.PETER

  No one wants to get caught saying something bad about the boss. We may have been working at a television studio instead of standing around the water cooler in some office complex downtown, but in most regards, every job is basically the same. We all have a guy who signs our checks and can paint over our parking space if we rub him the wrong way. And everybody likes to bitch about their job and dig up dirt about the boss. The cast, crew, and writing staff for SBTB were no different when it came to our executive producer, Peter Engel.

  When SBTB first began I used to like hanging out with the writers, especially the writing team of Ron Solomon and Brett Dewey. I would bring around my Yorkshire terrier, Scooby, and Ron would help me train him. I was way into comic books, too, but I didn’t like the little kids comics, I liked Marvel comics a lot but wanted to read something even more hardcore. When I’d visit with Ron and Brett in the writers’ room they’d always have a cache of graphic novels and hard-to-find titles. They hooked me up with this one comic, Boris the Bear. Boris was a vulgar, violent, aggressive bear, and the series was a
cult favorite, really hard to get, but those guys helped me complete the collection. I was around them a lot.

  I remember sitting around one day with Ron, Brett, and the other writers listening to stories about Peter Engel’s party days. I was stunned. Peter was a renowned born-again Christian and consummate straight arrow. His vision of SBTB was to create an idealized, goody-goody high school that “we all wished we went to.” Saint Peter had been a party animal? Apparently so. It was one of those situations where someone offers a little tidbit, a morsel of scandal, and then, with a wink and a knowing nod, everyone agrees it’s all true—but best to keep it under wraps, unless you’re in a big hurry to get shit-canned from the show. It was all news to me, but apparently it was common knowledge that Peter, in his former life, had done a ton of blow and even nearly suffered an overdose. It was that experience that supposedly set him straight and on the path to finding God and salvation.

  Many years later I made a comment to Peter, face to face, about his party-boy past. He turned red and didn’t deny it. He simply acknowledged that “those days were gone.” Which was basically an admission confirming that the stories were true. Must be nice to be born all over again. I’ll keep that in the back of my mind as a possible option down the road. For now though, I’ve still got some partying left to do.

  Every year, the cast and crew would be invited to St. Peter’s Cathedral (that is, his house) in Bel-Air—which, for those who don’t know, is the rich section of Beverly Hills—for a pool party and barbeque. Peter’s house was swank, complete with a tennis court in back. I mean, a full-on Wimbledon tennis court, not some cracked-pavement parking lot with a shabby net stretched across it like you find down at your local rec field. The Engels had a daughter and two sons. I liked his sons, and they liked me and my character, Screech. Peter was enormously proud of them (SBTB trivia: They drew the heart logo for Peter Engel Productions). I felt a twang of sympathy though when I first saw them descend the stairs dressed in ascots, blue blazers, and short pants. I was, like, Damn, St. Peter, let the kids be kids. They invited me upstairs to see their toys, and I followed. After them, I was the next youngest person in the house. I was expecting to be led into a full planetarium complete with NASA telescope and real brontosaurus fossils. But no, it was just Legos. I was shocked and pleased. Plus, they had constructed a life-sized Lego statue of Screech. Just kidding.