My Time on "Real Time"

Desperately seeking an opinion.

It's Friday, June 20, and I'm in my dressing room, getting ready to go on the HBO show Real Time with Bill Maher, and I'm nervous.

I'm not usually nervous about being on TV. I've been on hundreds of TV shows in my capacity as an author prostituting himself to sell books. My role on these shows, always, is to yuk it up or engage in hijinks such as using a Barbie doll to set fire to a pair of men's underpants (I have done this on TV). I am never informative. If anything I lower the collective IQ of the viewing audience.

Which is why I'm nervous about appearing on Real Time. This is a topical show featuring guests who are knowledgeable about current events. Usually there's one guest from Side A and one from Side B; they argue for a half-hour or so, sometimes heatedly, and at the end of the show one of them admits that the other one is right and agrees to change sides.

Ha ha! That's a joke, of course. Nobody EVER changes sides. This is a bedrock principle of our democracy.

I've been on Real Time before, but I've never had to discuss current events. Usually Bill Maher brings me out alone, and we engage in a few minutes of lighthearted banter about non-topical topics such as my hairstyle, which Bill finds amusing. Then I leave so that the show can become informative. Sometimes at the end of the show I'll come back out and join the knowledgeable guests for a few minutes, but I don't say much. Mainly I sit there grinning like an idiot to indicate that I am comic relief.

But on this particular day some major current events are occurring, mainly involving Iran. I note, when I get to my dressing room, that the TV is on and tuned to CNN; this feels like a hint that I should be paying attention to the news. Which worries me. What if Bill Maher asks me about my views on Iran? My main view on Iran is that I'm glad it's not located anywhere near Miami. Beyond that I have nothing meaningful to contribute.

It doesn't help that right outside my dressing room is the green room, which is a room that gets its name from the fact that it is not green. It's full of people (green rooms are always full of people, and I never know who they are) talking about current events, and they all sound way more knowledgeable than I am. I consider going out there and asking if they'd be willing to lend me some of their views on Iran, in case Bill asks.

While I'm pondering this Jack Cygan, a Real Time staff person, comes into my dressing room. He emailed me a few days ago asking for some information he needed for the show's legal paperwork, and I responded immediately, which prompted him to send me an email that said:

"Dave, you've set the Real Time record for quickest response. I hope the certificate we'll be printing out for you earns a spot on your wall of accolades."

I thought Jack was joking about the certificate, but in the dressing room he presents me with this:

Note that this certificate has been signed by the entire starting five of the Miami Heat teams that won the 2012 and 2013 NBA championships. All of the names are spelled correctly — including Dwyane Wade's, which is tricky — so we know it's legit. This makes me feel a little better about Iran.

A few minutes later it's time to have my hair and makeup done. The person who does this at Real Time is Brenda Rippee, who according to her website "has over 50,000 production hours in television, film, print and press. She has been working professionally in her artistic craft for over 25 years. Brenda is vetted by the United States Secret Service to work amongst High Profile Diplomats and Presidents of foreign countries, to our own Current and Former Presidents of the USA."

Brenda is obviously way more qualified than I am to discuss current events. But for now she's focused on my hair. She decides it needs product. A LOT of product. She circles my head repeatedly, spraying it. Here's a photo I took of her in action:

(Yes, there is a disco ball in the hair-and-makeup room. No, I don't know why.)

After Brenda has subdued my hair with product and covered my face with makeup, I go back to my dressing room to resume being nervous. The one thing I'm confident about is my pants. They're black. Here's an important tip for men appearing on television: Never wear light-colored pants. Because if you need to use the bathroom right before you go on, and you experience (as men do) dribblage, you will wind up facing the viewing audience with a wet spot on your khakis that is visible at a range of 600 yards. Don't ask me how I know this.

Finally the show starts. I'm led to the edge of the stage to watch Bill deliver his opening monologue. I'm still trying to formulate some informed views on Iran, but nothing is coming. Now Bill is introducing me. I walk out, we shake hands and sit down, and the first thing he says is: "77 years old, and you still have the Dennis the Menace haircut."

Whew.

We wind up not discussing current events at all, although we do cover a range of topics. At one point I turn to the studio audience, raise my right fist and shout: "Blowjobs!" This makes sense in context, but as soon as I do it, I'm thinking: My mother-in-law is going to see this.

At least I wore black pants.

In a few minutes my segment is over, and I leave the set so the informative part of the show can start. The guests from the two opposing sides are Paul Begala, a longtime Democratic consultant and commentator; and Wesley Hunt, a Republican congressman from Texas. For most of the rest of the show they argue about current events with each other and Bill, sometimes semi-heatedly, but it's basically friendly. I return to the set for a post-show online segment called Overtime, but am not called upon to say anything intelligent.

Afterward we all pose for an official photo. Notice how my hair has broken completely free of Brenda's product.

So that's my behind-the-scenes report on my experience on Real Time. I now turn the Substack over to the real stars of the show, you paying subscribers.