Conan & Me

I went to a taping of Late Nite with Conan O'Brien yesterday.

I did not get discovered.

Also: Fuck Canada.

I watch the show a lot. Mostly in my apartment. By myself. In bed. It seemed like it would be a waste if I didn't go down to Rockefeller Center at least once (since I live so close to it) to see the show live. You know. The nuts and bolts. In the flesh. All that shit.

So I go.

I have to go standby, since I never bothered to call for tickets and failed to get any from my friend who used to work at NBC before she got laid off. Don't worry, she gave me some tips. The show tapes at 5:30. She said get there at 3:00 or so. She used 3-ish in her message, I think, but I am not a fan. Of "ishes," that is.

I get to the GE Building (where the show is taped) ten after three. There was already a line. Fuckers.

I'm told by some tall, scraggly fucker in the line that this line is for ticket-holders. Doesn't know where the standbys go. Oh, just no idea whatsoever. He didn't say it like that. But he meant it like that. This is the first person I speak to all day? Great start.

Anyway, I hunt down a page or some shit. Real dullard. Says he knows of no other line, but much less succinctly.

I see another guy who's clean-cut and carrying a clipboard. Usually a good sign. He gives me a standby ticket and tells me to come back in 20 minutes or so. The standby area will be set up (set up?) by then. First come, first served, but nobody will be here for at least another half hour, he says. His hair is too short and gel-ly. He's wearing jeans – the sign of authority in TV. I think. He says I got a decent shot at getting on.

Decent. I can relate to that.

I grab a slice and a Hi-C at some shit hole on 49th Street. God, I love Hi-C. Fruit Punch this time. It's sweet. Some Long Island hussy is making a scene. Fuck knows about what. Put some fucking clothes on. Heh.

My dad used to watch Conan all the time. A real night owl. Loved Andy Richter. Doesn't watch it much anymore, though. He just can't stay up that late. Getting older must suck. A simple, mediocre pleasure like watching Conan O'Brien is now too much of a hassle. Jesus.

I saw Andy on a promo a while ago for Just Shoot Me. Must have been what he was thinking.

I get back to the mezzanine at the GE building ten minutes later. There is a fuckload of people. Some in the original line. Some in a new line. It has to be the standby line. What the fuck.

I see my buddy. Clipboard still in hand. I ask him what the fuck happened here. In those words. He gives me some bullshit about everybody showing up all at once. I say "fuck" a couple more times in front of him. But not at him. I still want to get in and all.

I take my place in this line. They're all fucking kids. High school kids. It's a goddamn tour group. The leader is a thirty-something gay male. Aside from age, totally indistinguishable from his little pack. I peer up to the front, not even bothering to count.

Oh, man. That scraggly fucker is up there. What a cunt. Rewarded for his stupidity.

I call a friend on my cell and explain these developments. Profanely. I must've looked like a real cock. Swearing into my cell phone, bitching about getting fucked over in the Conan O'Brien standby line by a bunch of high school kids-right in front of them. Among them. Really.

My clipboard buddy comes back. I shoot him a grimace-a hybrid of ironic outrage I've been working on lately. He tells me I still have a decent shot. How decent of him.

I am worried. There are a lot of these fucking kids. Loud, too. I spot a few maple leaf emblems. Canadians! Ugh! Fuckers.

The leader of this "Maple Leaf Posse" is trying to make small talk with one of the pages (a smug fucker who looks like he just rolled off mom and dad's million-dollar sofa without a shower-real Westchester County). Asking him if he's open to a bribe from a group of kids from Toronto. How utterly Canadian. This isn't France, dickhead. You're better off in New York if you are mistaken for ugly Americans. I hate this asshole. I really don't care where he puts his dick. I just hate him because he's loud and obnoxious. Is that still allowed?

A VIP line is added to the mix, making three lines total. Things aren't looking good.

This new line is filled with old people. What the fuck do they care about Conan O'Brien? I can just see how a foul-mouthed talking-dog puppet is right up their alley. And jokes about the bandleader's pederasty. Great call, Gramps.

Oh, the justice of it all. Me walking home while these AARP refugees get the shit offended out of them by the show I watch and enjoy every fucking night.

Quarter to five. Getting close to show time.

A couple of middle-aged women join the VIP line. They're heavily painted and perfumed. One is wearing black leather pants. Looking to score, ladies? I'm sure some stagehand would be glad to step up and straighten your shit out. Heh.

These old bags – the middle-aged hoochies, that is – are bitching about something. C'mon. This whole scene looks like the end of the earth. Hoochies. Old farts. Dumb-ass kids. Pages. Is this New York City or Branson, Missouri? If the musical act is a hillbilly band, I'm out of here.

Ha. Turns out these cut-rate hookers don't have tickets. They've been standing in the wrong line. They beg the page. One has her hand on his chest. It's wrinkly–like somebody put makeup on one of those cellophane gloves you get with a woman's hair dye kit. Don't offer him a hand job, honey. Not with that nasty claw.

End of the line.

Finally, things get moving. The other two lines are in, and now ours is streaming toward the door. The page actually cuts the flow off at me, then says he's just joking. Please.

I'm in.

Show's OK. Matt Lauer tells a story about getting soaked with lion cum at Zigfried and Roy's place. George Carlin mails in his interview. Some dude from the '70s or something plays a number with the band. I watch half of it on the monitors. Seems more real up there.

Applause. Music. Lights. It's over and we shuffle out. With that out of the way, I go the hell home.

Maybe I'll look for myself tonight on TV.