I squeeze by the heavyset men in their pinstripe shirts who simper down at me and lunge toward the producer.
“When is he on?”
“15!” she chips, a delighted answer from someone who may or may not have a soul.
I creep back towards my editor and we drown our $20 vodka tonics and tell jokes. I quiz him; his answers resemble complicated Jerry Seinfeld stand-up routines ripe with New York contempt. Eventually, he emerges on-set all miked up and his wit is just cool and dry enough. I swig the drink and thumbs up the camera man.
National television should always be this drunk and uncomplicated. Everything else is just a bother.