My Appearance

I was sorting through an old box of videotapes the other night and came across an unmarked VHS cassette with no case. I popped it in the VCR, hit play, and for the next half hour, marveled at the human animal’s capacity for selective memory.

1993. I was a barista in an espresso bar downtown. At night, I’d perform standup comedy at the local clubs. I had wild showbiz hopes. The kind of hopes that are exhilarating but doomed, because they have no planning behind them, only unfocused energy. Because my monkey-with-a-typewriter approach is a fairly commonplace phenomenon in the performing arts world, it came as no surprise when I was offered a guest spot on a national television show. I would fly to New York and do five minutes of my choice, then an interview with the host.

My bosses at the coffee shop were delighted to have a burgeoning star in their midst, and they insisted on taking me shopping for a dress and makeup. This was my Cinderella moment. Every girl has one, you know. Sometimes it’s prom, or a wedding. Mine was walking through Dayton’s with someone else’s credit card.

I flew to JFK and was greeted by a limousine driver who had my name on a sign. As a minimum wage worker, I had budgeted carefully for my trip. The limo driver’s tip cost a whole day’s food allowance, but it was worth it.

The hotel was a luxurious midtown tower. During my two-day stay, every time I passed through the lobby, I grabbed an apple from the continuously replenished bowl on the coffee table. I rounded out my diet with hoarded peanuts from the flight. That way, I was able to tip the driver on the way back to the airport.

The producer of the show knew that this was my first television appearance, and he promised me that as soon as a “rough cut” of footage was assembled, he’d FedEx me a copy. Two weeks later, an envelope arrived at the coffee shop. I pulled the zip-strip and out popped an unmarked, untitled VHS tape with no case.

I immediately invited my bosses over to my apartment for dinner and a viewing. I made spaghetti, they brought the wine. They also heaped my plate with compliments, which I ate like a prize pig.

After dinner, we settled in front of the TV. I put the tape in and pushed play. When I walked onscreen, I didn’t recognize myself. (Such is the transformative power of a good dress.) My set was solid, and the audience laughed. The TV Me thanked them and strolled confidently to the host’s couch for an interview.

The camera focused on the host asking a question, and then shot to me, answering. Then it pulled out to include both of us in the frame.

When I wasn’t speaking, I was listening to the host, which is appropriate. However, I was listening with my mouth agape, just hanging wide open, as if for catching flies. This tends to make one look like Barney Fife. My guests laughed nervously at first but, as the tape rolled on, it dawned on all of us that my mouth wasn’t going to close. And it didn’t, for the entirety of a twenty-five minute interview.
Halfway through the tape, my dinner guests began offering solace, saying things like, “Oh, that show is on very late, probably no one will see it.” And, “Maybe people will think you made that face on purpose.”

As the interview drew to an end, the camera pulled out for a long shot. My legs were visible, since the hemline of the dress was fairly high. I am a sturdy person, so I tend to sit with knees apart, which is fine if you’re wearing jeans, but not so good if you’re flashing an entire national television audience, Sharon Stone style. What saved me from giving the money shot? Thigh fat.

Andy Warhol famously said that everyone would one day have fifteen minutes of fame. I achieved thirty minutes of shame my first time at bat. Too bad the “upskirt” video market wasn’t invented yet. I might have attained a kind of enduring Bettie Page niche appeal.

Despite the poor archival quality of VHS, I will not have the tape transferred to DVD. That would ruin its sentimental value. I put it back in the box of old tapes, where I will forget about it again. It will sit there, not so much a time capsule as a ticking time bomb. Why don’t I throw it away? What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. What embarrasses the hell out of me will only make future embarrassments less embarrassing. And if past experience is any guide, there will be many.