Welcome to the Deep Dive. Today we are strapping
in and taking you straight to the heart of how
modern stand -up comedy was professionalized,
monetized, and, well, frankly, militarized sometimes.
Yeah, it's quite a story. We're talking about
one venue, the Comedy Store in West Hollywood,
and the really complex figures who ran it. Starting
with the showman Sammy Shore, but, you know,
ultimately defined by the legendary, maybe infamous,
demanding gatekeeper, Mitzi Shore. Right. And
it's vital, I think, to frame this accurately
for you listening. This wasn't just another club
where comedians performed. It was. More like
the crucible, the college of comedy, as she called
it. Our source today, it's a powerful stack of
biographical bits, historical excerpts about
both Mitzi and Sammy Short. They really force
us to look beyond just the punchlines. We're
going to examine the volatile economic and cultural
environment that produced these global superstars.
So our mission here is to dissect the central
kind of incredible paradox of this institution.
How did this chaotic high pressure venue, which,
you know, famously refused. to pay its performers
for years. Yeah, that's the kicker. How did that
place become the single most important launching
pad for the careers of basically every major
name? We're talking Jay Leno, David Letterman,
Robin Williams, Joe Rogan. The list goes on and
on. How did a no pay showcase become the institution
that defined professional comedy? OK, let's let's
unpack this history. Right. So to really get
the rise of the comedy store, we actually have
to start not with Minty, but with her husband
at the time, Sammy Shore, his co -founder. OK.
The club opened its doors April 1972. 8433 West
Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood. A legendary
address. Oh, absolutely. Yeah. And Sammy opened
it with Rudy DeLuca, who was a screenwriter and
actor. Yeah. But really, it was Sammy's status
as a working, pretty high -level comic himself
that was the immediate draw. But what's so fascinating
to me here is that the address itself, 8433 Sunset,
it already carried this immense weight of Hollywood
history. It lent this strange kind of immediate,
maybe borrowed glamour to this new comedy venture.
Totally. It wasn't just any storefront. It was
moving into a piece of entertainment royalty,
wasn't it? Yeah, exactly. And if we connect this
to the bigger picture of the Sunset Strip, this
building had a serious reputation long before
stand -up was even the main thing there. Like
what? What was there before? Well, back in 1935,
the location housed Club Seville. And Club Seville
was known for this utterly crystal marine room.
Can you imagine this? Go on. A dance floor made
of actual crystal. And underneath it, you could
see like subsurface fish swimming around in fountains.
It was the absolute definition of high end 1930s
Hollywood excess. Oh, wow. OK, so it was already
associated with serious opulence and spectacle.
Totally. Then in 1940, it became Ciro's. And
Ciro's was the quintessential Hollywood nightclub
for almost two decades, running right up until
1957. Every big star. went there presumably every
major movie star every power player the era if
you were someone you were seen at cirrus then
the building transitioned you know in the early
1960s into cirrus la disc ah the rock and roll
era exactly shifted focus to rock became incredibly
influential in its own right that's actually
where the birds were famously discovered in 1964.
that's amazing so when sammy shore leased or
bought this space in 72 he wasn't just getting
a room he was inheriting decades of legendary
very like A -list electricity. That's a great
way to put it. This wasn't some random hole in
the wall. It had serious pedigree, even if he
was turning it into a very different kind of
venue focused on comedy. And that pedigree sort
of popped back up, didn't it? Just two years
later in 74. Yeah, there's this perfect anecdote.
It really speaks to the continuity of Hollywood
history there. The Comedy Store hosted the wedding
reception for Liza Minnelli and Jack Haley Jr.
Wow. Liza Minnelli's wedding reception at the
Comedy Store. Well, sort of. And the detail that
really sticks with me, from the sources, is that
the club actually had to cover up its own Comedy
Store signage for the evening. No way. Yeah,
they put up signs that just read Zeros, specifically
to, you know, invoke the building's glamorous
past and suit the occasion. Who was there? It
must have been packed with stars. Oh, it's a
total who's who event. Massive figures like Elizabeth
Taylor, Johnny Carson, Bob Foss, Cher, Sammy
Davis Jr., another Sammy, and dozens more. It
really cemented the club's position early on
as a place where show business at its highest
level. still happened. That context is so crucial
because it demonstrates that Sammy Shore, you
know, he wasn't some newcomer just trying to
scratch out a living. He was established. He
moved in those circles. Definitely. Let's delve
into his background a bit more. Where did this
professional showman come from? Well, Sammy started
his career doing stand up. with Shecky Green,
actually, way back in the Catskill Mountains.
The classic Borscht Belt training ground. Exactly.
That was the traditional proving ground, especially
for Jewish comedians in the 40s and 50s. And
that history, I think, gave him a really deep
appreciation for the craft, but also for the
need for a relentless work ethic. But his biggest
professional break, the one that probably gave
him the capital and the connections he needed
to even think about launching Comedy Store, that
was tied to the king himself, right? Precisely.
His huge pivotal moment came in 1969. Sammy was
chosen to open for Elvis Presley's massive comeback
performance at the International Hotel in Las
Vegas. That's monumental. Elvis's return was
like global news. Absolutely huge. And he didn't
just get a one -off gig out of it. He became
a regular fixture for the king. Right. He kept
opening for Elvis's road shows right up until
1972, which is tellingly the exact same year
he opened the club. Interesting timing. Yeah.
And he was a professional success story beyond
Elvis, too. He opened for other massive headliners.
Tony Orlando, Tony Bennett. Barbra Streisand,
Sammy Davis Jr. again. He really understood the
economics and the demands of being a top tier
working comic. That's important context for later
when we discuss the club's philosophy. And he
wasn't just a comic. Our sources mentioned he
had other layers, too. He served in the U .S.
Navy during World War II. Right. Brings a certain
discipline, maybe. And he later appeared in films,
including some classic Mel Brooks movies like
Life Stinks and History of the World Part One.
Yeah, he was around. So Sammy seems like the
perfect guy to launch this club. Seasoned, incredibly
well -connected, disciplined from his service.
He absolutely was. However, the story of a comedy
store as we really know it, the institution it
became, that story truly begins the moment he
steps away. Sammy might have launched the club,
but it was Mitzi Shore, his wife, who became
its living, breathing, and frankly, sometimes
terrifying identity. Okay, so here's where the
narrative takes a hard pivot. Sammy was the successful
opener, the established name, but Mitzi -born
Lillian Sadal, she became the essential gatekeeper,
didn't she? Completely, yeah. She was born in
1930 in Marinette, Wisconsin. Quite a journey
from there to the Sunset Strip. Definitely. She
studied art, actually, at the University of Wisconsin
-Madison, a field that feels, you know, worlds
away from the cutthroat entertainment business.
Very different vibe. But she dropped out of university
after meeting Sammy Shore, and they got married
in 1950. So they were married for quite a while.
Yeah, 24 years. Raised four children together.
But their divorce in 1974, which was two years
after the club opened. That's the absolute critical
hinge point. That's what gave birth to the modern
comedy store. And the divorce settlement. This
is the part that's always seemed kind of wild
to me. Mitzi acquired complete total ownership
of the comedy store as part of that agreement.
That's right. But wait, I need clarification
here. So Sammy Shore, this guy opening for Elvis,
presumably making good money, he valued the club
so little that he basically traded it to lower
his alimony payments. Was the club actually like...
Losing money then? Or was the valuation just
low because of the no pay model for comics? That
is the million dollar question, isn't it? And
the sources are pretty explicit on this. Sammy
himself stated, this was in a 2003 interview,
that he, quote, relinquished control of the club
to lower his alimony payments. Wow. So if we
look at the economics of 74, the club was still
a new venture, right? Still finding its footing.
And its entire structure was built around paying
zero dollars to its main talent. The comedians.
Right. Meaning the overhead on talent was nonexistent,
but the potential revenue wasn't fully realized
yet. So the business probably looked more like
an operational headache than a guaranteed goldmine,
especially compared to, you know, hard cash alimony
payments he wouldn't have to make. Precisely.
For a working comedian like Sammy, who was still
touring, the stability of a lower fixed alimony
payment was likely way preferable to the daily
headaches and the financial uncertainty of running
a brand new nightclub venture on Sunset. It really
speaks volumes about how the club was perceived
in those very early days. Sammy wanted out. He
did. And Mitzi clearly saw the potential that
maybe he didn't fully grasp or didn't want the
hassle of realizing. And Mitzi, right away, she
proved she was a pretty shrewd operator. didn't
she? She didn't have Sammy's headline or cash
flow, so how did she even keep the doors open
initially? Well, the sources reveal that almost
immediately after taking full control, Mitzi
went straight to her network. She secured a significant
cash loan from none other than comedian Shecky
Green. Sammy's old Catskills partner. The very
same. That loan was crucial to ensure operations
could continue smoothly. It was a savvy move.
Shochi understood the business side right away.
Leverage your relationships, maintain cash flow,
whatever it takes. And she wasn't content just
keeping the lights on. She expanded aggressively.
Oh, yeah. She completely transformed the venue
from, you know, a modest showcase room into a
comedy behemoth. In 1976, she didn't just renew
the lease on the space. She bought the whole
building. Bought the entire building. and immediately
started renovations, expanded that initial 99
-seat theater into a massive 450 -seat main room.
That's a huge leap. Huge. This wasn't just minor
structural work. This signaled her ambition loud
and clear. She was creating a venue designed
for profit, designed for mass consumption of
comedy. And her role was never just like manager
in the back office, right? She became the arbiter
of taste. She was one deciding who got stage
time, who developed, who failed. Absolutely.
She was deeply involved, not just in the day
-to -day management, but crucially in the recruitment
and maybe most importantly, the development of
talent. She didn't just book acts. She molded
them. And the list of names she either launched
or seriously nurtured there. It's basically a
who's who of American stand up for the next 30
years. It really is. You've got the titans of
television and arena comedy. David Letterman,
Jay Leno, Robin Williams, Jerry Seinfeld. Just
mass. The edgier guys, the character comics.
Right. People like Roseanne Barr, Jim Carrey,
Whoopi Goldberg, Andrew Dice Clay. And then even
the modern generation, the podcasters who came
up through her system, like Joe Rogan and Marc
Maron, Gary Shandling, too. Pauly Shore, her
son, obviously. It was like she created this
intense environment where if you could survive
Mitzi's system, her boot camp, you were ready
for primetime anywhere in the world. But that
very intensity combined with the fact that this
huge 450. seat room was now filling her pockets.
That's what created the inescapable tension,
isn't it? The thing that boiled over into that
defining labor dispute. Exactly. The comedians
eventually realized they were building her empire
night after night for free, and they decided
they'd had enough. Yeah, this is the era where
the club really transcends just being an entertainment
venue. It becomes a pivotal piece of, believe
or not, American labor history. And it all hinged
on Mitzi's famous or maybe infamous College of
Comedy philosophy. That was her line, yeah. Let's
break that down a bit. She insisted the venue
was purely a training ground, right? Yeah. A
place where aspiring comics learned their craft.
And the payment wasn't cash. It was exposure
to casting agents, talent scouts. Stage time
was the currency. Mm -hmm. Was this like a genuinely
held artistic philosophy on her part? Or was
it just a really cynical business model designed
to maximize her profit? You know, I think the
truth is it was probably both. And that's what
makes Mitzi such a fascinating, complicated figure.
How so? On one hand, she seemed to genuinely
believe that if you got paid, you wouldn't be
hungry enough. You wouldn't push yourself to
innovate. She saw herself as running this rigorous,
demanding artistic academy. But? The business
reality was just inescapable, wasn't it? It allowed
her to run a major expanding nightclub on the
Sunset Strip without having a payroll for her
core product, the performers. So connecting that
to the bigger picture of labor, she was essentially
arguing that artistic passion somehow negated
the need for actual wages. Pretty much. Yeah.
And here's the detail that really highlights
the maybe the cynicism or at least the business
calculation involved. Shore did pay her entire
operational staff. Right. The bartenders, the
waitresses, the door guys, the coat check people,
they were all getting paid. Everyone else was
on payroll. It was only the talent, the people
actually generating the revenue by bringing in
the crowds who worked entirely for free, for
exposure. So the resentment must have been building
for years. What was the final trigger? It really
reached a breaking point after 1976. That's when
Mitzi bought the whole building and finished
that big expansion to the 450 -seat main room.
The comics saw the place packed. Night after
night, they saw the significant profits coming
in and they just felt understandably that they
were being exploited. They were the engine and
they deserved a piece of the action. Their work
justified payment. So in 1979, they decided to
organize. To unionize. Yeah. They formed this
short -lived labor union called Comedians for
Compensation. Their demand was simple, get paid
for performing sets. And Mitzi refused. Flat
out refused, which led directly to a bitter,
pretty grueling six -week picket line that kicked
off in March 1979. Now, this wasn't just some
minor disagreement. This was an existential battle,
wasn't it? It split the entire L .A. comedy community
right down the middle, pitted friends against
each other. Oh, absolutely. Deep divisions. Who
were the major figures leading the picket line?
Who was willing to risk Mitzi's wrath? Well,
the leadership included some guys who would become
future giants. Jay Leno was a big voice, already
known for his incredible work ethic. Tom Driesen
was a really powerful organizer behind the scenes.
And David Letterman, incredibly, served as the
emcee for the picketers, leading chants, holding
rallies right outside the club. Wow, Letterman
as a picket captain. Yeah. They were highly visible,
and they were absolutely risking their careers
by standing outside that club door every night.
And on the other side, who crossed the line?
Because that decision, I imagine, haunted some
comics for years afterwards. It did. Comics who
famously crossed the picket line included Gary
Shandling and Yakov Smirnoff. It highlights just
how incredibly difficult that personal choice
was. Why cross? Well, for many working comics,
especially those not yet established, the Comedy
Store was basically the only game in town. Their
entire livelihood, their chance at getting seen,
depended on staying in Mitzi's good graces. Crossing
that line was seen by some as a sign of loyalty
to the institution, even if it meant betraying
their striking peers. Huge pressure. And the
sources are also really clear on the legal footing
of this whole dispute, which is crucial for understanding
why Mitzi maybe felt she had the upper hand for
so long. Yeah, what's really fascinating here,
legally speaking, is that this job action. it
wasn't technically considered a strike under
labor law. Why not? Because Mitzi's business
model classified all the comedians as independent
contractors, not as employees under any kind
of contract. Ah, the contractor loophole. Exactly.
She didn't issue traditional paychecks or W -2s.
She offered stage time. So she could basically
evade traditional labor laws because the performers
were classified as freelancers receiving a showcase
opportunity rather than as workers providing
a paid service. So the Comedians for Compensation
Union had a really tough legal battle. Incredibly
difficult. They were fighting not just a powerful
club owner, but also this fundamental technicality
in labor law that totally favored the owner in
this specific setup. And that six week picket
line. It wasn't just people holding signs peacefully,
was it? Things got heated. Jay Leno was famously
injured. That's right. Lena was actually hit
by a car that was attempting to, like, rush through
the picket line. That highlights the physical
danger involved and just the raw, escalating
emotion of the dispute. Both sides felt completely
justified, you imagine. Absolutely. Mitzi felt
justified in her artistic ideal of exposure and
running her college. The comics felt justified
in their basic economic right to be paid for
work that was clearly generating huge profits
for the club. But the conflict took a truly,
truly tragic turn, one that cemented the human
cost of that no -pay philosophy forever. We have
to pause here, I think, and talk about Steve
Libetkin. Yes, this is the really dark moment.
The turning point was tragically real. A comedian
named Steve Lubetkin, who was reportedly struggling
both financially and emotionally, he committed
suicide. He jumped off the roof of the adjacent
Continental Hyatt house. The infamous riot house.
The very same, which significantly overlooked
the comedy store. Oh, my God. That's incredibly
heavy. What was the impact of his death on the
ongoing dispute? Did it change things? It had
to. His suicide note was explicit. It directly
cited Mitzi Shore and his inability to work at
the store as contributing factors. The most heartbreaking
line read, My name is Steve Lubetkin. I used
to work at the comedy store. He apparently hoped
his death would serve as the ultimate resolution
to the struggle. And the sources suggest this
tragedy just profoundly shocked and destabilized
the entire community. It forced both sides, I
think, to recognize the real severity of the
economic desperation that Mitzi's system could
foster for struggling artists. So did Mitzi Shore
finally relent then? Did she give in after that?
She did relent, but importantly, only after she
lost her competitive advantage. It wasn't purely
out of sorrow or immediate legal pressure, it
seems. What do you mean? She only folded once.
Her main competitor in L .A. Bud Friedman, who
owned the Improv Club, announced that he would
start paying his comics. Ah, market forces. Exactly.
Once the L .A. market standard shifted, Mitzi
really had no choice if she wanted to retain
any top talent. So she finally agreed to pay
the comics. The amount agreed upon was $15 per
set. $15, which sounds like almost nothing today.
But if we put that into economic context, what
was $15 worth back in 1979? Yeah, sounds tiny.
But our sources indicate that $15 per set in
79 is roughly the equivalent of about $65 today.
Okay, so not life -changing money, but... Not
life -changing, but it was a crucial foundational
step. It marked the definitive end of unpaid
labor as the standard model at the store. It
was symbolic and practically important. And that
settlement hammered out through this intense,
sometimes tragic labor action in Los Angeles.
It immediately set a new national standard, didn't
it? It absolutely did. It forced the New York
City clubs, places like Catch a Rising Star,
and other major comedy venues across the U .S.
to start compensating their stand -up talent
as well. So this six -week standoff, born from
the success and the policies of the comedy store,
irrevocably changed the entire economic structure
of professional stand -up comedy. Yeah, it really
helped turn... it from what was often seen as
a hobbyist's pursuit or something you did for
exposure on the side into a potentially paid
career path right from the club level. A huge
shift. What's so remarkable about Missy Shore,
though, is that despite her incredible stubbornness
on the compensation issue, she showed surprising
foresight. maybe even institutional bravery,
when it came to diversity and inclusion within
the club itself. That's another layer to her
complexity, absolutely. She seemed to recognize
that talent wasn't monolithic, and she created
these necessary institutional spaces for voices
that were often routinely excluded elsewhere.
Right. The boys club environment of professional
comedy back then was notorious, wasn't it? Oh,
incredibly so. And Mitzi... perhaps recognizing
that a huge pool of talent was being overlooked
or maybe wasn't comfortable in the main room,
deliberately broke that mold right there within
her own club on the Sunset Strip. And the most
famous example of this has to be the Belly Room.
Tell us about that space. Why was it so revolutionary,
especially for female comics? So Mitzi converted
the upstairs section of the club into the Belly
Room. This was as early as 1978, even before
the strike fully resolved. It was a really tight,
intimate space, only held about 50 seats. And
for a significant period, Mitzi ran it with a
pretty radical policy. She booked female comedians
exclusively. Exclusively women? Why was that
necessary? Couldn't women just perform on the
main stage downstairs? Well, they could, and
some did, but they often faced an immediate disadvantage.
The sources suggest the main room, often dominated
by established male comics and catering to a
predominantly male audience sensibility at the
time, just didn't always provide the same supportive
environment. Especially not for women trying
to develop edgier, riskier, more personal material.
So the belly room was like an incubator. Exactly.
It provided this almost unheard of opportunity
for female comedians to really find their voice,
to bomb safely, refine their material, build
a following. all without the immediate pressure
and maybe judgment of the main room's expectations.
It was crucial for women who would later define
comedy, like Roseanne Barr and Whoopi Goldberg
definitely came through there. And her commitment
to inclusion, it didn't stop with the belly room,
right? She kept creating these specialized nights
for decades. Yeah, she did. As the club matured,
Mitzi seemed to understand that variety wasn't
just fair, it was good business. It kept things
fresh. So in the 1990s, she created specific
specialty nights dedicated to Latino performers,
gay performers, lesbian performers groups that
often struggled to get consistent quality stage
time in more traditional venues. And we absolutely
have to highlight Fat Tuesdays. That became legendary.
Fat Tuesdays was immense. Yeah. It ran for years
and became this essential foundational staple
for the black comedy scene in Los Angeles. She
provided the infrastructure, the room, the staff,
the promotion, the platform necessary. for that
community to really grow and thrive within the
store. It launched so many careers. A whole generation
of black comics got crucial developmental stage
time there that they might never have gotten
otherwise. It really shows Mitzi was focused
not just on who was funny right now, but who
could be funny next, regardless of their background.
She had an eye for raw talent. So it's this incredible
contradiction again. On one hand, she's running
this tight... arguably exploited a business model
that leads to a tragic strike. But on the other
hand, she's this champion of marginalized talent,
providing them with institutional support that
was basically unmatched anywhere else in the
industry at the time. It's baffling. And yeah,
kind of beautiful in its complexity. And that
contradiction, that mix of support and chaos,
it extended directly into the living arrangements
of her comics, too, didn't it? We absolutely
have to talk about the most legendary, most chaotic
comedy incubator maybe in history. The Crest
Hill House. Oh, the Crest Hill House. Yes. The
comedy frat house, as it's often called. The
sheer level of talent and, frankly, debauchery
that was concentrated in that one single 5 ,000
square foot house. It's just staggering to think
about. So Mitzi owned this house. Where was it?
Yeah, she bought this house nearby. The address
was 8420 Crest Hill Road. She actually bought
it at the same time she bought the club building
itself back in 1976. But it wasn't until 1979,
interestingly, right around the time the strike
was happening or just ending, that she essentially
just gave the place over to the working comics,
let them crash there, sleep there, live there,
basically rent free. Wow. Why would she do that?
Was it like an economic tool to keep them loyal
and around after the strike? Or was it more a
genuine attempt to foster some kind of, you know,
24 -7 comedy community? I suspect it was likely
a bit of both. But primarily, I think she wanted
to foster that intense, hyper -competitive, always
-on atmosphere, keep the comics immersed. And
it worked. Oh, yeah. The house became legendary
for these all night writing sessions that would
immediately devolve into all night parties. Fueled
very heavily, according to our sources, by cocaine
and alcohol. It was a nonstop pressure cooker
designed to test and refine material. Basically
247. The list of residents. It's just astonishing.
And it wasn't just the young up and coming talent
living there, right? No, not at all. It attracted
some of the biggest names, too, people drawn
in by the creative energy, the chaos. Residents
included Andrew Dice Clay, Mark Maron, Richard
Pryor dropped in, Robin Williams hung out there.
These were already stars living side by side
with younger comics. Bill Hicks, the iconic counterculture
comic, actually moved into the house when he
was just 18 years old. I cannot even imagine
the atmosphere in that house. The sources suggest
it was just this environment of constant, brutal,
creative competition. It was like the ultimate
unscheduled high -stakes masterclass. Jim Carrey,
who stayed there for a period, is specifically
noted in our sources for having, quote, turned
his act around in this house. Wow. Imagine being
surrounded constantly by those kinds of minds
prior. William Kinison later on. Knowing your
next joke, your next line, had to be killer just
to earn respect at the breakfast table. The chaos
was maybe productive in a weird way. It forced
them to be incredibly sharp. Mitzi even tried
to capture some of that crazy energy on film,
didn't she? She did, yeah. Around 1987, she actually
shot a 12 -minute pilot presentation there, trying
to somehow commercialize the wild atmosphere.
But ultimately, the debauchery just became unsustainable.
Too much even for Mitzi. Apparently so. The sheer
chaos, the nonstop parties, the rampant drug
and alcohol consumption, it just became too much
for even her to manage or condone long term.
The place was reportedly falling apart. So the
architect of this incredible, chaotic college
of comedy finally had to intervene in her own
creation. Yeah. By 1988, Mitzi Shore had clearly
had enough. She cleaned house, literally and
figuratively, kicked everybody out. And then
what happened to the house? And then, in a move
that speaks volumes about the intensity of the
environment she'd fostered there for nearly a
decade, she actually transformed the house into
a sober living facility, a recovery house for
comics. Wow, from party house to recovery house.
Quite the turnaround. She eventually sold the
property by the late 1990s, but... Cresthill
House remains just one of the most legendary,
high risk, high reward comedy incubation sites
in American history. Just mythic. And, you know,
the structure and the influence that Mitzi built
at the store, it continued long after the strike
was settled and the Cresthill House was cleaned
out. For many years, the comedy store served
as the official host location for the annual
HBO Young Comedian specials. Right. which was
huge. That meant getting significant stage time
at the Comedy Store wasn't just about impressing
agents or managers who happened to be in the
room that night. No, it was much bigger. It was
basically the national confirmation broadcast
on HBO that you were officially next. It really
solidified the club's role as the primary arbiter
of taste and the main gatekeeper to mainstream
national success for a whole generation. And
this brings us back in a way to Mitzi's original
maybe self -serving argument about the value
of exposure. Yeah. While the comics absolutely
deserve to be paid for their labor, the specific
stage time Mitzi provided, especially once those
HBO specials were involved, actually did translate
directly into national television deals, movie
roles, arena tours for many. She really understood
the power of the platform she controlled, even
if she initially distorted the economics of it.
And Mitzi didn't just limit the Comedy Store
brand to that one iconic building on Sunset,
did she? She attempted to replicate the model
elsewhere. That's right. She successfully expanded
the Comedy Store brand over the years. She opened
other venues in Westwood, La Jolla down near
San Diego, Universal City at the City Walk, and
even had a Vegas outpost for a while, notably
at the Dunes Hotel. It really helped establish
the brand's national presence and reputation.
And the institution kind of remarkably continues
to operate today, doesn't it? Which really demonstrates
the strength of the foundation that Sammy and
then Mitzi built. It does. The main club on Sunset
is still very much operational, though the ownership
has transitioned now to the next generation.
Peter H. Shore, who is Mitzi and Sammy's son,
is the current owner. He serves as the trustee
of the Mitzi S. Shore Trust. So it's still a
family business, maybe the only family business
in America built primarily on competitive insults
and neurotic observations. Huh. Probably true.
It's quite a legacy to inherit. And just to conclude
their personal stories, Mitzi Shore passed away
on April 11th, 2018. She was 87 years old in
West Hollywood. The sources mentioned she was
suffering from Parkinson's disease and also an
undisclosed neurological disorder. Yeah. And
Sammy Shore, her ex -husband and the club's co
-founder, he passed away just over a year later
on May 18, 2019. He was 92, living in Las Vegas,
died of natural causes. So the separation that
happened in their careers back in 74 was clear,
but their joint legacy really remains completely
inseparable from the history of that club, doesn't
it? Absolutely. You can't tell the story of one
without the other, ultimately. And their story,
Mitzi's story in particular, is so powerful,
so iconic, that it has seeped directly into popular
culture. It's kind of defined the modern myth
of the struggling comedian and the powerful gatekeeper.
For sure. The character Goldie, played by Melissa
Leo on the Showtime series, I'm Dying Up Here.
That character is famously very loosely based
on Mitzi Shore. Right. Captures that tough, sometimes
seemingly cruel, but maybe ultimately necessary
gatekeeper persona. Yeah, the character really
embodies that constant tension between art and
commerce, passion and payment that Mitzi represented
so vividly. And there's also the 2020 docuseries,
which is excellent, also just titled The Comedy
Store. It breaks down the club's really complex
history beautifully, era by era, and significantly
it dedicates an entire episode specifically to
that defining struggle we detailed. The episode
is titled The Comedy Strike. Yeah, it's essential
viewing if you're interested in this history.
And finally, just to show the complexity of the
relationships forged there, we have the dedication
from Joe Rogan. Ah, yeah. Rogan, whose career
was absolutely defined by his years performing
at the Comedy Store, he dedicated his 2018 Netflix
special Strange Times to Mitzi right after her
death. That's really telling. It is. It feels
like a perfect little microcosm of the relationship
Mitzi seemed to have with so many of her comics.
Intense conflict at times, maybe resentment,
but ultimately this deep, lasting respect for
the incredibly high standards she enforced and
the unique environment she created. Hashtag tag
outro. So what does all this history mean for
you listening right now? We've spent this time
looking at this single location. a former glamorous
nightclub turned comedy crucible, and explored
how Mitzi Shore, driven by this potent mix of
artistic rigor and, let's face it, shrewd economic
efficiency, how she transformed it into the high
-pressure, make -or -break system that really
catalyzed the careers of arguably every major
American comic from the late 70s onward. Yeah,
and if we try to connect this to the bigger picture
for you, Mitzi Shore really embodies the central
paradox of the arts, doesn't she? She was the
woman who initially stubbornly refused to pay
comics, clinging to that belief that exposure
alone was sufficient compensation. Yet her exacting,
unconventional, undeniably demanding system,
combined with the vital institutional spaces
she intentionally created, like the Billy Room
for Women, Fat Tuesdays for Black Comics, that
whole package is exactly what refined stand -up,
professionalized it, and helped turn it into
the massive, diverse, and highly marketable global
industry it is today. She was the ultimate gatekeeper.
Her rules, however unfair they sometimes seemed,
somehow ended up establishing the modern standards
of comedic excellence. You really had to survive
the comedy store system. Whether that meant navigating
the fraught politics of the strike, the unique
intensity of the belly room, or just the sheer
chaos of the Cresthill House, you had to get
through that to prove you were truly ready for
the national stage. It was a truly Darwinian
proving ground for jokes. Yeah. So this raises,
I think, an important question for you to consider
today. That core tension we saw between commerce
and art represented so vividly by the 1979 strike.
Isn't it still reflected in how comedy is consumed
and maybe how it's paid for right now? How so?
Well, think about it. Stand -ups today rely so
heavily on streaming specials, on viral YouTube
clips, on TikTok, on short -form content. Are
today's digital platforms maybe the new exposure
model? Demanding constant free or low paid content
up front for the promise of maybe getting that
big special down the line. Does it mirror Mitzi's
initial philosophy in a new form? That's a really
interesting and slightly uncomfortable parallel
to draw. Yeah. Worth thinking about. And also
consider how those necessary institutional spaces
that Mitzi created, the belly room, Fat Tuesdays,
how they fundamentally shaped what we find funny
today simply by providing dedicated platforms
for voices and perspectives that the mainstream.
It's a legacy built on glamour, grit, debt, genius,
exploitation, and the relentless lifelong pursuit
of the perfect maybe eventually paid joke. A
perfect deep dive into the often messy business
of funny. Couldn't have said it better. Thanks
for diving deep with us today. We'll see you
next time.