On the road to Politically Incorrect (in more ways than one)

My story in four parts

PART ONE

I was a 32-year-old single woman, living alone in Los Angeles. I’d never been much for “dating,” but after three years of being single, it was time to start doing things differently. As nice as it was to spend evenings alone in my apartment, it wasn’t exactly going to create circumstances for meeting new people.

“What’s your problem with dating?” my friends would ask.

“I just never have,” I would reply.

When I was in high school, we did everything in groups. The only dates I’d been on (ever) were with two guys who became long-term boyfriends. I figured I’d only “date” someone if they sparked some kind of flame. When I told this to my friends, they countered that if nothing else, a date gets you out for a little adventure. Nothing wrong with a change of pace. I couldn’t argue with that, and I did like adventure, so I decided I would try a new approach: the next time I was asked out, I would say yes, no matter how inclined I was to say no or to spend a comfortable evening at home alone.

It was July, 1996. I made my living as an actress and sidelined as a script analyst for producers and screenwriters. One day, after going to an audition in Santa Monica, I decided to go to a local coffee house to review a script for a report due at the end of week. When I sat down and took out the script, I noticed a guy looking at me from another table. He, too, seemed to be reading a script. (So very L.A.) I sipped my coffee while writing occasional notes. A few minutes later, he directed his voice my way.

“Are you an actor?” he asked.

I looked up and nodded yes. He was kind of nondescript; a white guy, maybe in his late thirties, with straight brown hair. He had a slightly smarmy vibe, but he was being pleasant enough.

“Do you like the part?” he asked.

“Well, I’m actually reading this as a story analyst for a production company, but it’s pretty bad, as usual,” I replied.

He laughed. “Yeah, I’m a producer and I have the same experience. This one is pretty bad, too.”

I liked his casual manner. We talked a bit longer and he said his office was around the corner and that he sometimes came to the coffee house for a change of scenery. He bragged a little about his recent production, a film with a name I’d never heard. Then he asked if I wanted to see his office. I wasn’t sure about how to read this guy, but it was possible that he was a professional, legitimate producer, and at the very least, as an actress and script analyst, this was a connection worth checking out. Plus, there was that adventure thing.

He had a very nice office on the fifth floor of a bank building, complete with a reception desk and several suites. I was both impressed and surprised. A few minutes later, when I told him I had to get going, he asked if I’d like to meet him for drinks one night. I had zero attraction to this guy, that’s the fact, but I thought about my new resolution, so I agreed. We decided to meet for drinks later that week.

We met at a bar of his choosing. It was a seedy and nondescript little bar, dark and empty. I arrived first and there were only two other people there, both drunk and one with missing teeth. I sat on a stool at the other end of the bar. Producer Man arrived a few minutes later and ordered our drinks. We began to talk about scripts, and then television programs, and he asked me what types of shows I liked to watch. I told him that I was enjoying Politically Incorrect, particularly during the recent Republican convention. He reacted with a wide grin and asked me why. I explained that I liked Bill Maher’s wit and that I enjoyed the political, animated, and intelligent discussions.

“You like Bill Maher,” he said suggestively.

“I do. I like his show a lot, but I don’t like the way he regards women,” I responded.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“His comments on dating and relationships are cliché and sexist. He seems to respect women in the professional world, but can’t seem to respect them otherwise.”

Producer Man laughed again. “My best friend is a producer on the show,” he said. “If you wanted to go watch the show live at the Democratic Convention in Chicago, I could get us backstage.”

I had to catch my breath. I watched Politically Incorrect every night and had regular conversations with people about the guests, discussions, and topics. I’d also recently seen Bill Maher’s standup at a comedy club in Sherman Oaks.

I paused, taking it in. “Are you serious?” I asked.

“Totally.”

What a prospect. But still, I wasn’t attracted to Producer Man. It didn’t seem right.

“We just met,” I said.

“So? It’s an adventure!” That word.

“It’s next week,” I said.

“I know. We’ll have to get on it fast.”

“I don’t even know you,” I emphasized.

“I’m not suggesting anything. There are no clauses. We can get two rooms at a hotel and we’ll go just because we can. To have an adventure.”

That word again! Shit. He was speaking my language.

“Okay,” I said, as if in a dare to myself.

“Okay??” he repeated.

“Yeah. Two rooms.”

He smiled. “Fine. We can split it.”

“I’d prefer that,” I said.

That’s the only way I would do it. I didn’t want any sense of obligation. We decided I’d look into the plane tickets and he’d get the rooms and call his producer friend.

Two days after that, I attended a friend’s party and met a guy I really liked. His name was John. We hit it off right away. He was an environmentalist and a passionate person with strong political views. He also, as it turned out, loved Politically Incorrect. We talked about why we enjoyed the show and I told him about the upcoming plan. He cheered me on. I told him I wasn’t interested in the guy who invited me. He seemed to get it. “Go for the adventure!” he said.

PART TWO

A few days later, I picked up Producer Man and we headed to LAX. He was pissy from the moment I pulled up. He complained about my driving. He was hungry. He didn’t like that I took a different route than he did to the airport. He was, in essence, a total pain in the ass . . . and we hadn’t even arrived at the airport yet. I thought, ‘Oh my God, what have I gotten into?’ But I remembered why I was going. It had nothing to do with him and everything to do with Politically Incorrect. I decided I wouldn’t play nice. I let him know that I thought he was being pissy and he just got pissier. We decided to simply cut conversation off for a while. That seemed like the best idea.

When we arrived in Chicago, he informed me that the hotel was by the airport. It was the only one he could find at such a late date that had any available rooms. I was slightly taken aback, because I knew the convention was at the Hilton and a haul from that location, but I also figured it made sense. When we arrived at the airport hotel, he told the desk attendant his name. The attendant said, “Yes, for one room.”

I interrupted. “No. Two rooms.”

Producer Man looked uncomfortable as the desk attendant looked at his notes again. “I only have one room here. I’m sorry. It’s all that is available.”

I could’ve screamed. I was livid. Producer Man didn’t seem taken aback. “I asked for two rooms,” he said to both me and the attendant, not entirely convincingly.

The attendant quickly chimed in, “we have a cot that can be used if you want two beds.”

“It’s a room with only one bed???” I asked.

‘Yes ma’am.”

GREAT. “Are there any other hotels we could check that might have rooms available?” I asked. Producer Man was saying nothing.

“You can check ma’am, but with the convention in town, it’ll be hard to get any rooms now. Including at the airport. Everything is booked solid.”

I took a deep breath. This was not the adventure I’d been craving, but I asked for one and here I was! Lovely. I told myself, ‘Okay, just think adventure, think college days.’ What else could I do?

The room was small, with a queen bed taking up the entire space. The aforementioned cot was clearly meant for children and even when folded, barely fit in the corner.

“I’ll sleep on the cot,” Producer Man said. I said nothing.

We had plans to meet up with his producer friend and some others involved in the show, so I went into the bathroom and changed into my clothes for dinner that evening.

We took the El train into the city. I had never been to Chicago before, except at O’Hare Airport. which is hardly any way to assess a city. I’d been stuck overnight at O’Hare once too, so my association with it was headaches, delays, crowds, and bad weather. Now, as I looked out the window, I liked everything I saw. This seemed like a cool city with a lot of character.

We met up with his friend and three others in the lobby of the Hilton. They’d just finished a day of pre-production at Second City, home of the famous improv group, and where Politically Incorrect would be taped each day that week. We walked to a nearby restaurant and sat at a large round table. I felt relaxed and content. Midway through the meal, one of the group turned to another and said, “I’ll have to call the Guild and see about getting local actors. Maybe we should call an agency.” My ears perked up.

“Are you looking for union actors?” I asked.

“Yeah, for a skit on the show. It’s a last minute idea so we have to get on it.”

I had to say something. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, but in case you’re interested, I’m a union actor,” I said. They raised their eyebrows and looked at each other. They looked delighted and relieved.

“You’re in the guild?”

“Yeah. SAG and AFTRA. I have TV credits. Guest starring, commercials.”

They looked at each other as if a light bulb had gone off. “Would you be interested in being in a skit on the show tomorrow? It’s under-5 lines so it won’t pay a lot.”

(Are you kidding?) “Sure! I love the show. It would be a blast.”

“Great. Let’s do it.”

All I could think about was calling John to tell him I was going to be on the show. I couldn’t get to a payphone quickly enough. I found one near the El station on the way back to our airport hotel. I excused myself for a minute to make the call. John was thrilled to hear from me and very excited at the news. He’d watch for sure, he said, and tell our mutual friends to do the same.

We got back to the hotel and I felt that sinking feeling, envisioning what would be in store. The cot didn’t work at all. It wouldn’t even stand. Producer Man apologized for the situation. I said nothing. He promised he would stay on his side of the bed. I wanted to stay excited about the next day, so I chose not to make it a big issue, and nodded okay. I had sweats in my bag, fortunately, so I got into my side of the bed and moved as far to the edge of it as possible, turning my back. After a long period of silence, when I heard his breath turn into a slight snore and realized he was asleep, I relaxed my body. The snoring got louder, and I was annoyed, but more, I was relieved that he was asleep. Finally, I fell into slumber.

I was to go to the Second City theatre the next afternoon for rehearsals. The show would air live that night. Producer Man and I walked around the city that morning and got along pretty well. He redeemed himself by not making any moves and being a generally nice guy. We walked everywhere and the more I saw, the more I liked. It was surprisingly clean too. A very inviting city.

At 4:00 p.m., I found my way to Second City and introduced myself to the person at the door. “Come on in,” he said, and showed me the way to the green room. As he led me down a small corridor, Arianna Huffington walked past us and we smiled hellos. I had physically entered the world of Politically Incorrect. Arianna Huffington! Who next? Al Franken? I got to the green room and signed the union form. Four other actors were also there.

A crew member, maybe the Assistant Director, I wasn’t sure, came in to explain the skit to us. It was a parody of what had happened during the Republican convention, when Elizabeth Dole interviewed select people in the audience who knew her husband, the Republican candidate Robert Dole. She walked up to each one with a microphone and asked about their experience. In the parody, Bill Maher would do the same, interviewing various people in Bill Clinton’s life. I was to play Hilary Clinton’s “lesbian girlfriend from college”. I would simply stand and smile as Bill Maher pointed me out and told a little story about who I was. Then I would answer a question with a scripted line. That was it. Easy. I was going to play Hilary Clinton’s lesbian girlfriend in a skit on Politically Incorrect, filming live from Chicago. This was unbelievable.

We were led to our respective seats to rehearse the skit. Each actor sat in a different section of the theatre, so we were equally dispersed. We’d remain in our seats during the show, so fellow audience members wouldn’t know we were part of the production. That would come as a surprise. I liked that I not only got to be part of the show, but that I actually got to sit with the audience to watch it. Best of all worlds!

The crew in the theatre had been humming along, taking care of business, but then a frenetic energy started buzzing. We actors all noticed, looking at each other, wondering what was going on. “Bill’s coming! Bill’s coming!” crew members yelled. They seemed anxious and panicked, like it was a warning. What could this mean?

Bill Maher entered the house. The crew scattered and the theatre went absolutely silent upon his arrival. SILENT. He talked directly to someone who responded to him via loud speakers, like God. We were to go through the skit and rehearse it one time. When he walked over to my seat, he looked at me and said, “This woman is too young. She can’t be Hilary’s lover.” After a few minutes, it was decided that I would switch with an older actress in the skit who had been cast to play Bill Clinton’s dietician. She would become the lover, and I would become the dietician (no dialog). Fine by me.

Once that was cleared up, Bill walked into the row from the aisle so he could point his microphone in my direction. “I can’t possibly stand here,” he said angrily. “I need elevation. Get me something to stand on. I need something to stand on!” Crew members frantically hustled, saying nothing, and someone brought a piece of wood for him to stand on. There was not a smile on his face, no acknowledgement of any other soul in the vast theatre. On the show, he was funny, engaged, witty, feisty. He wasn’t what I expected in person.

A few minutes after our rehearsal, everyone cleared the theatre, leaving a few camera operators and us five actors in our seats. Front doors opened and audience members spilled in. I smiled at my seat mates as they sat down, and then, just like that, the program started. It was such fun. Only a week ago, I’d been talking about how much I liked Politically Incorrect while sitting in a dingy bar in Santa Monica. Today, I was in Chicago, playing a small role in the show. I felt literally beside myself, watching the situation while also in it. It was surreal.

A screenshot from my clip, taken from John’s VHS recording of the show.

They taped two shows that night and wrapped shortly after 11:00 p.m.. I and the other actors had to sign some paperwork for the Guild, so we were the last to leave.

PART THREE

By the time I walked out of the theatre doors, the city street was very dark, quiet, and empty. I had planned to catch a taxi, but no cars were going by. It had been a fairly busy street that afternoon, but now, nothing. No cars at all. I’d have to find a busier street, but where? Which way should I go? There was a gas station at the far corner. No cars or people save one black limousine, parked on the street. The limo driver, wearing his black suit, walked out of the gas station mart as I walked in. I asked the attendant where I might find a cab. He said that at this late hour, one was less likely to come by and I’d have better luck if I walked several blocks.

I wasn’t feeling secure about walking alone on these empty, dark city streets, since I didn’t know my way around. I decided I’d wait five minutes in case a cab came by. If not, maybe I’d pay the attendant to call one for me. The limo was still parked on the street, so I stood near it to feel safer. As I looked both ways, the limo driver poked his head out. “You need a ride?” he asked.

“I’m looking for a cab,” I replied.

“I’ll be happy to drive you,” he said, “where are you going?”

“I’m heading to a hotel near the airport, but I can’t afford a limo,” I laughed.

“Well, you can pay the same as you would for a cab. I don’t mind. It’s on the way for me, anyway, and I will make a little money.” Was he serious?

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Absolutely. Seriously. It’s on the way. It’s no big deal.”

I was feeling a bit desperate. My day had been outrageous enough, but this was taking it further. A limo! I said okay and got inside.

“What kind of music do you like?” he asked through the little window in the partition.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m fine without music.”

As he drove, he was friendly and professional, asking me about why I was in town. Then we entered an area that was all trees and no lights. I looked out the window and felt slightly nervous. I had only taken the El train to town and wasn’t sure what would be considered “off the tracks.” As if he could sense my uncertainty, he offered, “it’s right up this street.” Phew. There it was. I could see the hotel’s parking lot up the dark road, in the distance.

As we got closer to the parking lot, the driver turned to the partition, “would you mind if I kissed you?”

What?! A surge of panic kicked in, but I tried keeping a cool demeanor, knowing the hotel was a minute away. I had to get out of the car. I had to get to the hotel.

I laughed, stalling for time. “I don’t think so.”

He approached the empty parking lot. “Aw, c’mon. Just a little kiss. Why not?”

He turned into a parking spot as far from the hotel entrance as possible. Nothing but about a block’s worth of empty spaces between us and the hotel. I was scared.

“I have a boyfriend,” I lied, as if that would even mean anything.

“He won’t know,” he said, turning off the ignition and leaning his head on the partition window.

I handed him the money we agreed on, and opened the door. “Thanks so much,” I said.

I got out as fast as I could while trying to keep my composure on the outside. He opened his own door, and I started to walk faster toward the hotel.

“C’monnn, “ he moaned, starting to follow me. I walked faster and faster and could hear his footsteps behind me. I saw a side door to the hotel, which I grasped open. Thank God it worked. I quickly slipped in. As soon as I was inside, I broke into a full run down the hall. After rounding the corner, I heard the same door open and shut. I took out my room key, jammed it into the slot in my room door, and ran inside, slamming the door shut behind me. Adrenaline was surging through my veins. I turned to face the room and there was Producer Man, totally naked, sitting on top of the bed. “I was waiting for you,” he said with a slimy grin.

Oh my God. Could this be real? Was this really happening? I was still breathing hard, my heart racing. I told him to put his clothes on. He didn’t move, he just stayed in his position, as if this was my husband of twenty years, watching the television screen in front of him. I was too filled with adrenaline to feel passive or victimized by him. He just looked like an idiot and I found it pathetic. Compared with the limo driver, he was no threat. I went to the chair in the corner of the room and sat with my back to him. He stayed there, splayed naked on the bed. I told him again to put his clothes on. “Nothing is going to happen,” I said like a stern, dismissive mother scolding a child.

“C’monnn,” he said, “we came all this way and nothing is going to happen?”

Sometimes, I had to wonder, how men can function at all.

“That was never the deal,” I spewed. “I made that very clear.”

“Well, a guy can hope, can’t he?” he moaned like a little kid.

“Hope is up to you, but expectation is another story. It was never suggested that I would sleep with you. I wanted my own room, as you recall.”

He was peeved. “If you’d told me there was no chance of us sleeping together, I wouldn’t have gone on this trip. You let me believe there was a chance.”

He was being ludicrous. “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. I have been perfectly honest since the beginning. And we both know there’s no romance here. We started getting on each other’s nerves before we even left L.A!”

I actually laughed at the situation. It had become utterly ridiculous.

He said nothing, but didn’t move. “I’m sleeping this way,” he declared like a child.

It was clear there was no way he’d do otherwise at this point.

“Stay on your side of the bed. I’m sleeping fully clothed,” I replied.

I went into the bathroom and put on my sweats, socks, tee shirt, and sweat shirt. I could hear the TV. I felt like I was in some kind of farce. When I came out, he was under the covers, eyes focused on the television screen, pretending to ignore me. Great, I thought. That’s perfect. Keep ignoring me.

I got into my side of the bed and lay right at the edge of it, my back to him. After a few minutes, the TV was turned off. I lay fully alert, fully awake, braced for an approach. He started to slip over to my side. I turned around and smacked his face. We’d known each other all of two days and this was our relationship. Whack! He grumbled, turned around, and laid on the opposite side. Minutes later, snoring.

The next morning, I got up and went straight to the lobby for coffee. I stayed there a while. Producer Man came out, fully dressed, and collected a cup. It was as if nothing had happened.

“Shall we go?” he asked.

We took the El back to the Hilton to meet with his producer friend. We would spend the afternoon with him and his wife. They were sweet, quiet, lovely people. Producer Man behaved well. When his friend asked me about my experience on the show, I noted what I’d observed during the rehearsal. He shook his head in acknowledgment.

“Everyone is scared of Bill,” he said with a slight sigh. “He fires people every day and no one knows it’s coming, so everybody worries they’ll be next. Honestly, I don’t know from one day to the next if I’ll stay on the show, but I don’t deal with the creative side, so I’m safer. There are new people on the show all the time, and they’re all very eager to please him.”

When his friend offered us a backstage pass for the taping of the show that evening, Producer Man said he didn’t want to go, but suggested I take it. He said he’d be happy doing his own thing. I was disillusioned with Bill Maher, but I still wanted to watch the show. Producer Man said he would meet me outside when the taping finished. After last night’s disaster getting back to the hotel, that sounded fine. “It’s our last night in Chicago,” he said. “We’ll go out and celebrate somewhere.”

PART FOUR

Whatever Bill Maher was like personally, he continued to be a top-notch host, a smart interviewer, and a hilarious commentator. I sat in the green room for a little while and saw Al Franken and Arianna Huffington, along with Maher’s guests, documentary producer Michael Moore and Congresswoman Maxine Waters. I also watched the show on a monitor backstage. It was cool to see it from that perspective.

After the taping ended, I walked outside to look for Producer Man. There he was, standing with a distinguished looking man with salt and pepper hair, wearing a tailored blue suit. Producer Man was already drunk. His face red, his words sloppy.

“Meet my new fren. We juss met tonight and we’re the best of frens. This guy is a multi-millonare. He’s gonna envess in my next movie.”

His new friend seemed debonair. “How was it?” he asked with a big smile and a slight accent. Was he South American? He was lean, with clear olive skin. Maybe in his forties? Clearly took care of himself. He seemed very sober by comparison.

“It was fun,” I replied.

“Well, let’s take you out. Let’s go celebrate!”

Next thing I know, I’m drinking martinis in a crowded and hip urban bar, loud music thumping in the background. I am thoroughly enjoying myself, talking about the convention, the show, politics, Chicago, our lives. Mr. Millionaire in his fancy suit keeps handing me free drinks and I keep sipping them. I am caught up in the energy of the place, the spirited conversations, paying no attention to the number of drinks I’m consuming. Producer Man is working it, angling for movie investors, talking with curious strangers. After a while, Mr. Millionaire motions me to two empty stools by a small table. We sit and he leans over to confess that he’s unhappy, despite being rich and having access to anything he wants. He feels a sense of emptiness, he says, and is longing for spiritual connection, some kind of deeper meaning to his life. He is considering a major change in lifestyle. I am fascinated by this guy. I’m not sure he’s being sincere, but he seems genuinely wistful. I offer all kinds of feedback. I am drunk.

It’s all good fun until the three of us step outside the bar and the street starts to spin. I have no choice but to pronounce my disorientation before I fall down. I stand and Mr. Millionaire lets me lean on his arm. He offers me the extra bed in his hotel room at the Hilton, which is only one block away. I feel really sick, so I ask him to lead the way. We part ways with Producer Man, who heads off to the airport hotel. He’ll be back to meet us in the morning.

It is almost 3:00 a.m. and I am drunk and being led to a strange man’s hotel room in Chicago. This girl has always been the sober one. This girl has always been the sensible one. How am I doing now?

Mr. Millionaire leads me into his luxurious room with a view of the city. He walks me to the door of the bathroom, opens it for me to go in, and shuts it behind me. I immediately lock the door. I have only been sick once from alcohol, and that was when I was a senior in high school, drinking a lot of cheap white wine. Now, here I am, I’m 32-years-old throwing up martinis and lack of dinner. The room is swirling around me, so I proceed to lie down on the cool bathroom tiles to soothe myself a little. I like it there. After what seems like ten minutes, but is probably more like an hour, I hear a knock on the door.

“Are you okay?” asks Mr. Millionaire.

I manage to move and open the door, because I have enough sense amidst the whoosh of alcohol to know that I can’t hog the bathroom. He leads me by the hand to one of the two beds; the covers opened for me. I get in. He covers me up and turns the light down. He gets into the other bed. He is in his boxer shorts. He lies facing me and asks how I’m doing. I mutter something back. We talk like this a while so I can get my bearings. It helps. Then, finally, I fall asleep.

It is morning. Or is it? My head is pounding and thick with fog. I open my eyes and see Mr. Millionaire in the next bed, lying on his side, looking at me. It’s as if he hasn’t moved.

He smiles. “How do you feel?”

Aw geez. I must look like a train wreck. What a horrible view. “Like a train wreck,” I answer. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

He’s a totally respectable man. “You are welcome,” he says.

The phone rings and it is Producer Man calling to ask if I want him to bring my clothes. That would be great. An hour later, he arrives at the room with my suitcase. I go into the bathroom and change to new clothes while they converse. They talk about being hungover and it occurs to me that they’re feeling it too, though not to the same degree. Somehow, this morning, it feels like we’ve known each other for ages, the three of us. I feel and look like shit, but I really don’t care about how I look today.

We head out to get strong coffee. We’re a gang of three. We have several cups of strong coffee and proceed to Little Italy to get ourselves some rich Chicago style pizza. The perfect hangover fare. We buy cigarettes on the way. We order a pitcher of beer with the pizzas and then finish our meal with a smoke. It’s noon. We’re finding our equilibrium and having a great time.

Mr. Millionaire is still talking about his quest for spiritual connection and his desire to disconnect from his possessions. He owns a private plane and many extravagant homes around the world. It only now occurs to me that I have no idea what he does for a living. I am not sure why that never came up. I wonder if he’s mafia. He says his wife will be very upset when he tells her of his plans to live more simply, to connect with the Earth, to go on retreats. She won’t understand it.

“You’re married?” I ask, not having had a clue until now.

“Yes. But that doesn’t mean I’m not interested in you,” he smiles.

Oh my goodness. And this after last night? These guys are seeing me at my most base. And they like it?

That evening, Producer Man and I are on the plane heading back to L.A. I do a crossword puzzle. He hums and looks around the plane. A blonde girl is sitting in the row on the other side of us, and he strikes up a conversation. She’s friendly and smiling. He and I both want to make sure she knows that we aren’t “together.”

He introduces me to her, “This is my sister.”

I smile and nod a hello. He asks her, “Do you mind if I sit with you?”

She nods as if whatever, go ahead. He moves over and they continue to chat. Every so often, I catch him looking over at me. I look up from the crossword and we smile at each other. He winks and goes back to the girl.

Later, when he gets out of my car and grabs his suitcase, he says, “that was fun, wasn’t it?”

I say, “It was a real adventure.”

He laughs and I drive away.

We never talked to each other again. I have no idea what became of Mr. Millionaire either. I never got his full name. But I did get together with John and we watched Politically Incorrect together for the next four years.