The Mysterious Publicist with the Bug up her Ass

The Mysterious Publicist with the Bug Up Her Ass
My Visit to Politically Incorrect
Another True Story
by Michael Dare

    It starts out pretty casual. I show a stack of my Polaroids to a neighbor, Joanne Dearing, who has been a guest on one of my favorite TV shows, Politically Incorrect. The show is coming to L.A. for a week, and she is going to attend several of the tapings. She says she will try to get me backstage to take a picture of the host, Bill Maher. I want to watch the show from the audience, so just to be sure, I call for tickets, which magically arrive. So far so good.
     The night of the taping, it turns out the guests include Roseanne Barr, Garry Shandling, and Kato Kaelin, in the height of his glory, hounded by the international press. A reporter from a Japanese television station gets in by pretending to be with me. Backstage is a madhouse, and Joanne is having trouble getting there herself. Besides, security has taken my camera at the door. I write off the whole idea of taking pictures and simply enjoy the show. Shandling saying "Knock knock" to Kato Kaelin is a milestone in comedy history.
     But Saville is along, and he has ulterior motives. He wants to meet Bill Maher. He wants to meet Roseanne. He is upset that we are in the audience. He wants to be in the greenroom where he normally hangs out. He has a project he wants to talk to Roseanne about. He keeps telling people that we are personal guests of Bill Maher, trying to shmooze his way backstage, as though it were an outrage that we should be denied access to the stars. He is not low key. I am embarrassed and want out of there. I get what I want.
     The next night, I am baby-sitting with my seven-year-old son Buster and his eight-year-old friend Jeremiah. Separately, they spend their lives imitating cyclones. Together, their rambunctiousness multiplies logarithmically. There is not a moment when they are not poking or chasing each other. Baby-sitting them is a futile exercise in mediation and intimidation.
     Saville calls at a quarter to eight with a big surprise. He has arranged the whole thing. Bill Maher will be backstage at 8:30. There will be passes for all of us, and I will be allowed to bring my camera and both children. He'll be by to pick me up in fifteen minutes. Just bring some of my business cards.
     I tell him this is a bad idea, to try to go backstage to take pictures with two kids in tow. He tells me not to worry, that he's great with kids, that everything will be fine.
     The kids want to bring their toys. I shake them down for their Ninja turtles, rubber balls, squirt guns, and hand buzzers before the car arrives.
     At this point, it might be fun to try to pinpoint the exact moment when things go wrong. Could it be the very instant Saville shows up with two extra people in the car? I'm introduced to Simon, driving the car, fresh from Germany, pitching a couple of musician/fashion designers from Stuttgart that he represents, practitioners of the latest fad sweeping Europe, electronic music with outrageous clothing, “Cybaroque!” Simon flashes color postcards of two flamers who look like they're auditioning for a local Moliere production. I'm very impressed.
     In the back seat is Henry. Henry is 79 and is introduced to me as the man who produced the Lawrence Welk show. I don't know what he is doing there and, as it turns out, neither does Henry. He does not look pleased to be shoved in the back seat with Saville and my son, and I'm not too happy in front with Jeremiah in my lap.
     We troddle off for Television City, cultural icon, the CBS eye, the Farmer's Market, tonight's home of Politically Incorrect. It is a show uniquely matched to my art, which is about as politically incorrect as you can get. I moosh people's faces around. I'm sure Maher will dig my stuff.
     There's trouble right away at the door. The guard tells me that I can bring in the two adolescent holy terrors whose only goal in life is to wreak havoc, but I must leave my camera behind.
     Saville springs to my rescue, in his best Arthur Treacher. “No, no, you don't understand, this man is from Daily Variety, we're the personal guests of Bill Maher, this has already been cleared.” The guard looks at the publicist and she shrugs as she leads us down the hall.
     It already doesn't feel right. I'm not Bill Maher's personal guest and I'm certainly not on assignment from Daily Variety. I'm just here to snap some shots that I might be able to sell. I was going to use a personal introduction from one of Maher's friends to achieve this, thereby avoiding the official publicists, who are never any help. But now I'm stuck playing the regular game because Saville is using me to get backstage.
     Henry holds on to my arm and says “what are we doing here?” I tell him we're here to see a television show. Buster and Jeremiah are chasing each other down the hall. Saville proves he's good with kids by pinching Buster and telling him to behave. Buster wimpers on the elevator up to the third floor, grabbing at his butt in pain.
     Once upstairs, the kids bound down the hallway as we follow the publicist. Once again, Henry grabs my arm. “Where are we going?” he politely asks. “Backstage” I tell him. I start to worry about Henry. He may have produced Lawrence Welk, but tonight his brain is the only thing blowing bubbles. Nobody else is paying attention to him, so I try to guide him through reality. He seems to know he's on a sound stage and I get the feeling he thinks he's on his way to work on some long forgotten project that has now reached fruition.
     We're led to an empty hallway that was packed and impassable last night when Kato brought out the hounds. Here we are at the green room, at make-up, and at Bill Maher's personal dressing room. The halls are vacant, and so are the rooms except for the green room, which is packed with people in hysterics watching the show. The guests are Jay Leno, Daryl Gates, and someone from Beverly Hills 90210.
     Leno's got a face born for distortion, and I can already picture what I'm going to do to his chin. I'm sure he'll laugh and I picture us getting along. Gates scares the shit out of me. I simply can't imagine what conversation we could have. I decide that if I end up taking his picture, I will add a mustache and make him look like Adolph Hitler.
     Uptight people bustle about. Most get on with their business, but once in a while someone looks and wonders who we are, what the hell we're doing here, and whether we actually belong. Tough questions under any circumstances. Who am I? What am I doing here? Do I actually belong? Beats me.
     One woman who describes herself as Mr. Maher's personal publicist is adamant that she ask Mr. Maher's permission before I take any pictures. She asks me exactly what I want. I tell her I'm a freelance writer and photographer for a lot of publications. I tell her that all I need is for him to stand still for a few seconds while I snap off some shots, then I will quickly leave. No problemo.
     Saville and I find a place to stick the kids, an empty room down the hall with a television. Saville sticks Henry there too. Henry sits down and watches the television, which is showing the live feed from Politically Incorrect. “What's this?” he asks.
     I tell him it's Politically Incorrect.
     “Are we going on the show?” he asks.
     “No,” I explain, “we're just hanging out backstage.”
     “I don't understand what we're doing here!” he complains a little bit more loudly.
     Luckily, the only person who hears him is Saville, who is positioned near the door as lookout. “We're here to make some very important business contacts,” he explains to Henry. “We spent the entire day preparing just for the next five minutes,” he goes on, “ and I don't want anything to go wrong. So just relax, sit here, and we'll meet all these people as soon as the show is over.”
     Henry doesn't look like he wants to meet Daryl Gates. He doesn't seem to recognize Jay Leno. The very thought of trying to introduce him to one of the stars of Beverly Hills 90210 sends shivers down my spine. “I still don't understand what we're doing here! I don't need to kiss anyone's ass!” he enlightens me when Saville leaves the room. It all becomes very clear. Either Saville lied to Henry about what we were doing tonight, or Henry has joined Ronald Reagan on the rugged road to la la land. Once again he points to the TV set and says “What is this?”
     “It's called color,” I explain. “It came in sometime in the sixties and they've been using it ever since.”
     The final theme starts and it's clear the show is over. Soon the stars will be walking down the hallway, so I stand in the doorway.
     Maher's personal publicist shows up at the door and Saville asks her how he can get in contact with Maher in New York. This is precisely the wrong question to ask a publicist, clueing her in to the fact that you have more than journalism on your mind. She switches from her “granting favors” mode to her “protect the client at all costs” mode, at least around this guy who acts like he is expecting to get Maher's home phone number, the guy that I brought with me.
     She eyes Saville up and down. “You can contact him through me,” she explains, which is precisely what all publicists are trained to say when they are trying to get rid of you. But Saville is tenacious and stands in the doorway hoping to bypass her and get directly to the star of the show.
     It is clear that this woman is trouble, which means I have to take my shots and get out of there.
     I know I have some difficult artistic decisions coming up. To do what I do to Polaroids, I have to get to work on them as soon as they leave the camera, and not stop for ten minutes. Some effects can only be achieved in a very narrow window of time. Timing is everything in more ways than one. Most photographers use 35mm film. They can just snap away hundreds of shots, then take them back to the darkroom in order to do their magic. They’ve got all the time in the world. I don't have that luxury.
     I use Polaroid film that develops instantly, which means I've only got 5-10 minutes to do my magic. I can't wait till I get home, or even to the car. As soon as the film leaves the camera, I'm working on it. Why? You can see the results for yourself. I fuck with the film. What can I say? I've got emulsional problems.
     The way I normally work is I take about four quick shots, then duck away for ten minutes to work on them. If anyone gets a glimpse of what I'm doing, they usually become fascinated and call others to look at what I'm doing. I'm used to working in front of a crowd. Once the distortions are complete, if the subject is still around, I show them what I have done to their face, and they usually crack up and sign the picture for me. Then I snap another bunch of quick shots and sit and work on them for another ten minutes.

     It's a big problem when I'm working a crowd of celebrities, and tonight is no exception. If I hang out and take everyone's picture, by the time I get to work on them, it will be too late. Suddenly, standing in front of me is Daryl Gates, someone whose picture I wouldn't mind taking, but not as much as Jay Leno, who is further down the hall.
     Someone comes up to Gates from the show with a stack of contracts that he has to sign before they pay him. I consider getting a shot of Daryl Gates signing a contract, knowing that if I take his picture, I will have to bow out and start working on it immediately, and I might miss Leno. The only way I will be able to get everyone's picture is if I quickly get them all at once and then run away to work on ten pictures simultaneously, which is just about my limit. In this crowded room, it doesn't look physically possible.
     I generally only take pictures of people I dig anyway. My pictures are more than commerce, they are a personal documentation of my views of the subject. I make people look goofy, which only works in the most delicate of circumstances. When confronted with someone like Daryl Gates, whom I consider to be the personification of all evil, or an actress from 90210 whom I consider to be the personification of all vapidity, I close up. I don't need them in my collection, especially if they're not exactly eager to pose. Its not a process I can hide either. As soon as I take a picture, I'm working on it, and they can see what I'm doing. These are not the type of people who will enjoy having their faces moved around, and I like to keep things friendly.
     Saville tries to chat up Gates, making jokes like “up against the wall and spread 'em” or “This is a man who wants to get paid” while Gates signs his contracts. No one is laughing, especially Gates. “Why haven't you taken a picture of him?” Saville asks. The actress from 90210 walks past. “There she is. Shoot her, shoot her. She's a big star. What's the matter with you? Don't you know how to do this? Do you want me to introduce you?”

I try to explain that I know precisely what I am doing and to leave me alone. He looks at me like I've embarrassed him. I ignore him, bide my time, lay low, wait for the perfect moment. Leno is close, so I ask a publicist if I can take his picture. She gladly complies, leads me to Leno, and asks him if I can take his picture. He says sure, shakes my hand, and I introduce myself.
I ask him to do one of my favorite tricks with comedians or actors. I ask him to quickly make four different faces in row (a trick that worked particularly well with John Cleese). He giggles and says sure. I call out “one,” he makes a face. Two, another, then three and four. He's having a terrific time and I get four great shots. I ask him if he knows that you can move the emulsion around on Polaroids and he says “No, but I get the feeling I'm going to find out.” I tell him I'll show them when they're done, and I quickly hustle off to a dressing room to get to work.

     I find an empty table with a lamp and spread my four shots across it under the light. I whip out my trusty tool and start distorting like crazy. I consider adding a Hitler mustache to Daryl Gates. I consider turning Jay Leno's chin into a penis. Instead, I just start making designs behind everyone’s heads.
     People come into the room but I ignore them, concentrating on my work. As usual, someone says “What are you doing?” I'm used to it, and start explaining while I work. They seem fascinated and compliment my work.
     Suddenly, the publicist enters with Bill Maher and tells me he's ready. I'm hard at work on the Leno shots and would like to take five minutes to finish, but this is obviously my one chance. I ask Bill Maher to do the same thing Jay Leno did.

     “No, why should I” he says. I search his face for a trace of sarcasm but it isn't there. He's serious. I've never seen such a rapid change in the personality of an individual. I thought that the “genial host on stage, pissed off grouch off stage” was just a cliché invented by Garry Shandling. But one minute ago, Maher was a nice guy on camera, and now he's acting extremely put out by having to do absolutely nothing but stand there for a few seconds, which is something he's doing anyway. This is already not going well.
     “Well, I think I'll be able to create something interesting if you do” I try explaining.
     “Is that a Polaroid?” he asks.
     “Yes.”
     “And you're a professional photographer?”

     “Yes, there are things you can do with Polaroids you can't do with other film.” I show him two shots I did of Bette Midler and John Travolta that are very funny. He doesn't laugh. He looks at me and says “Well, okay.” I call out “one” and he doesn't make a face. Two, and he says “are these actually it?” Yeah, three and he manages a half smile. Four, and he finally flashes me that grin. I thank him and leave the room.
     Saville sticks around and tries to work the room but is ushered out after me. I'm done taking pictures and could leave, but I've got to get to work on the shots. I go to the kids room, position all eight pictures under the lamp, and start manipulating. “I still don't understand what we're doing here,” comes a lonely voice from the corner.
     Saville comes into the room and says “Why are you doing this now?”
     “Because this is the only time I can do it” I explain.
     “You shouldn't do this in front of other people,” he advises. I keep working, and soon the usual small crowd of gawkers gathers. No problem, I just keep doodling away, concentrating on the work, improvising like crazy, making the pictures look better and better, waiting for that perfect moment to start moving the faces.
     “What are you doing?” someone asks. I hand them a small group of 10 pictures I carry around for just such occasions. It usually mollifies people for at least a few seconds so I can keep working.
     “What are these for?” someone else asks. I don't even see who it is and I don't turn around to look. I’m busy.
     “Posterity” I say and keep working.
     “I don't mean to interrupt you,” someone interrupts, “but where are these going to be published.”
     “Could be any number of places,” I say.
     “You mean these aren't an assignment?” they ask.
     Why is this person bothering me? I don't know how to answer this question. I'm a freelance photographer and writer. Sometimes I get assignments, sometimes I dig up stories or snap pictures on my own and try to sell them. Sometimes I end up with a major story, sometimes nothing and the whole thing turns out to be a waste of time. It’s called freelance journalism. I actually say nothing.
     “I don't think you belong here” she mysteriously decrees. She leaves the room. I work for another few seconds, and she re-enters, this time with her thoughts together. “I think you got in here under false pretenses,” she proudly announces. I don't think you're a real journalist. I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”
     Being asked to leave is one of the first signs that you're not wanted. I start gathering my pictures when she grabs at them saying “and we want those pictures.”
     “What are you talking about? I had permission to take these pictures. They're mine.”
     “Call security” she yells. She’s serious. She’s making a scene. I look around the room and no one else can comprehend why this woman is getting upset. They were enjoying watching me work. My mind is boggled. Most publicists consider the primary objective of their job to be to generate good publicity. Try though I might, I cannot even hypothesize a scenario in which throwing a journalist out of the building for simply sitting in a corner not bothering anybody could ever generate good publicity.
     Did I take pictures of THE BIG BOARD, exposing all the dirty little secrets of the upcoming CBS fall schedule? Did I threaten to take the pictures to ABC? Did I insult anybody or act obnoxious? No, I took pictures of two TV hosts, walked away, and doodled little cobwebs around their faces. Call the militia.
“I still don't know what we're doing here,” comes a voice from the corner.
     Neither do I. Shooting first and asking questions later is precisely what Daryl Gates was nailed for. I would have hoped that a little bit of Politically Incorrect might have rubbed off on Daryl Gates, but instead a little bit of Daryl Gates rubbed off on Politically Incorrect. This is the one show on earth where I would never expect such an attitude. I decide to leave, and ask Simon to gather the kids. I head down the hallway, knowing that I will run into security somewhere before I reach the front door. They've been alerted.

     Coming towards me, down the long hallway, I believe it is, yes, it is Tom Snyder. I ask him if I can take his picture. He says sure, I press the shutter, but nothing happens. I'm out of film. Snyder agrees to wait while I change film. He tells me he's got the same camera. I ask him if he knows that you can play with the pictures. He has no idea what I'm talking about, so I show him some shots while I change film. He cracks up at my work.
     “So you understand that I will be moving your face around,” I explain, “and I have your permission to do that?”
     “Why not,” Snyder laughs, “plenty of other people have.”
     I look around, hoping that security will show up, demanding the other pictures back, trying to explain to Tom Snyder that I am a renegade photographer without permission and not a real journalist, seconds after Snyder has just personally given me permission to shoot him. No guards show up, so I snap Snyder and we part company. I feel my bases are somewhat covered. I showed him what I was going to do to him and he approved. What excuse will they have to try to take away my picture of Tom Snyder?
     I walk towards the elevator when there she is, the mysterious publicist with the bug up her ass, surrounded by embarrassed colleagues who can't comprehend why she's making such a fuss.
     She demands that I give her the pictures. I refuse. Other people are waiting by the elevator. They are embarrassed to be part of this. The elevator is taking too long. “Let's take the stairs,” one of them says.
     “Good idea,” I reply.
     “Not you!” he quips.
     He waits by the elevator and I open the door to the stairs. Coming up is a guard. “Stop him” screams the deranged public nuisance from publicity hell.
     I somehow don't see the real story while it is happening. I have a camera, I have film, and I don't snap a shot of the puffed-up self-impressed art Nazi fuming at the top of the stairs. I also don't immortalize the guard below me, the picture of puzzlement, wondering if it's his job on the line since he let me through the entrance in the first place.
     “Make him give us the pictures back,” the wicked witch of the east demands.
     “Give me the pictures,” the guard demands.
     “No,” I reply. “Arrest me.”
     Two seven-year-olds burst into the stairway along with Saville, who asks what's going on. I tell him.
     “Well, give them back the pictures” he recommends. Big help.
     “What seems to be the problem?” the guard asks the raging PMS poster child.
     “This man is not a real journalist,” she shouts. “He got in here under false pretenses.”
     Before, I was amused. Now I'm pissed off. This frenzied advertisement for hormone imbalance has just insulted me in front of my son. “Excuse me, I've sold more than 2,000 pieces of journalism in the LA Weekly, Daily Variety, Billboard, Movieline, National Lampoon, Vanity Fair (yeah, right). Don't tell me I'm not a journalist.”
     “Why didn't you say so before?” she replies.
     “I don't carry my clippings around with me when I’m at work. I told you I wanted to take some pictures. I took my pictures and now I'm done. Just because you don't understand my method is no reason to question my legitimacy, especially in front of my son. Where did you get your publicists license, Bosnia?” I point to the guard. “I'm with him, what the hell is your problem?”
     “Mr. Leno wants his pictures back.” she improvises.
     “That's ridiculous,” I say. “Bring me to Mr. Leno and I'm sure we can straighten this out.”
     She is obviously lying. Having to confront Mr. Leno with me is her worst nightmare. Good. I am proud to be this moron's worst nightmare. She’s not even doing her job. This is when her client needs her the most after a show. Maher could presently be buggered and beaten in his dressing room, but she's here in the stairway hassling someone who is leaving anyway.
     The kids get obnoxious and Cunt Dracula asks what they are doing there. “They're mine,” I say.
     She decides to give it one last shot. “Look, we just want those pictures back.”
     "You can't have them," I repeat. “That's why it's called taking pictures, because I take them. If I left them, I wouldn’t be taking pictures, I would be leaving pictures. That’s not what I do.” My Polaroids are like my negatives. Nobody gets them, especially not flaming bitches with pitchforks.
     Finally, she gives up and says “Just leave,” which she does.
     On my way down the stairs, I show the pictures to the guard. He likes them.
     By the time I get outside, it is too late to do my best work on the pictures. When I try to move the faces around to get my perfect caricatures, I end up ruining the picture. The ones I don't ruin look just fine with my arty backgrounds. They’re not unusable, but they’re not my best.
     And writing about the incident seems futile. It’s extremely unlikely that Daily Variety will print my little piece about how I got thrown out of Politically Incorrect, but I write about it anyway in a letter to Bill Maher. I send him copies of the pictures, and leave it up to him to remedy the situation. I give him six choices.
1. Tie Miss Moneypenny spread-eagled to a bed, blindfold her, and let me fuck her. She'll be stirred, not shaken.
2. Give her a “Get Over Yourself” Award.
3. Autograph the picture and send it back to me.
4. Give me permission to publish it.
5. Better yet, promise that sometime in the future when the obstruction has been removed from the publicist's sigmoid colon, let me take a better picture.
6. Next time, bring a publicist who is a little bit more user friendly. Say, Quasimodo.

Bill Maher's Response
Michael -

Sorry about your episode in L.A. I still don’t know who you’re talking about who gave you such grief: I don’t think she’s one of mine. We were guests in L.A., had very little control and much chaos - if you want to blame me, I’ve been skewered in the press for less.

Thanks for your compliments about the show, and print the pictures anywhere you want. I like them and want one.

- Bill -

Emulsional Problems