Confessions of a TV Junkie: Night 9

Nearing the end of this gonzo press tour, the bigwig networks continue filing past us caffeine-propped critics, making for what can sometimes be a 19-hour day – like the one I experienced yesterday.

Rather than partake in the feeding frenzy of runny scrambled eggs and flat bacon, I began my day in my suite with some coffee, catching up on some writing and attempting to communicate with Montreal when my email locked me out. By the time I was up and running, I threw on some heels and clip-clopped across the hotel, narrowly making the first session of NBC day.

The sessions passed in a blur, with a notable lunch break where two teams of three former Top Chefs competed against one another in a quick-fire challenge to promote the upcoming season on Bravo! I sampled a forgettable halibut dish and a fish carpaccio with onion seed and pistachio puree, which ended up being the clear winner. The only disappointment was that each table of 10 only got one plate to share. Then it was back to sessions for the rest of the afternoon.

Halibut and Fish Carpaccio, made by Top Chefs in only 20 minutes

When I finally packed up my laptop at 6:30, I had half an hour to get ready and make an appearance at the NBC All-Star party. But when I got back to my room, the turndown service had been through — not only were my sheets folded back in an inviting way, but soft classical music was playing on the night table radio. Deciding to give in for 10 minutes, I shut my eyes. Almost immediately my alarm went off, so I switched the radio to some local hip-hop station, threw on a dress, gulped back a sugar-free Red Bull, touched up my hair and makeup. and headed out the door to the sprawling lawns on which the party was being held.

On the way I passed The Office’s Mindy Kaling (Kelly), craning my neck to make sure it was her as she passed with a friend or publicist. You’re used to seeing these guys at the parties by now, but surprise run-ins always throw you, just a little.

As I descended the stairs to the lawn, I noted a bar on both sides and BBQ pits where slabs of Korean-style kalbi beef and shrimp skewers were grilling. As I started my rounds, I knew there was only one person on my must-talk-to list: Kathy Griffin from My Life on the D-List.

When D-List came to The Comedy Network a couple of years ago, I interviewed Griffin about her series and the conversation went down like this, straight from the archives:

TVGuide.ca: I’ve read that you didn’t want to shoot the second season, it was hard for you—
Kathy Griffin: Yes.

TVG: Was the third season any easier, or has it become even more difficult for you to open yourself up?
KG: No, they’re trying to kill me on that show. I’m not even kidding, if they pick up a fourth season I’m gonna stick a fork in each eye, and just bleed out. It’s horrible. Doing the show blows, I hate it. It’s hard having all your asshole moments on TV. It’s embarrassing. I got divorced during the show, I cried, my dad died during the show, I had to keep working. I don’t mean to be all Paula Abdul, but it’s a tough gig.

TVG: But you would do a fourth season?
KG: No, I won’t. Mark my words. If I do a fourth season, I will write you a cheque for a thousand bucks.

That interview was published on July 10, 2007. Any time I’ve requested an interview with Ms. Griffin since I’ve been told her schedule is too busy. So when I saw her standing on the lawn with her publicist, holding up an oversized sign with her name and show title on it, I marched over. Unfortunately, I was going to have to do this scrum-style, since I wasn’t the only one trying to talk to her.

“Fire it up,” she nodded to me as I took out my recorder, joining the others. “Kathy you’re not going to remember this,” I started, pausing when the other journalists thrust their respective recorders in my face. “But I interviewed you a couple of years ago, and you swore to me up and down, you even bet me a thousand dollars that you would never do your show again. So what the heck happened? Why did you continue?” “Ohhhhhh! I owe this girl a thousand dollars,” she screeched, waving around and flagging her publicist, probably to get me the hell away from her. “You guys are all my witnesses.” She turned to me. “Do you want that in cash or coke?”

I laughed, but before I could remind her of the second part of my question (which is what I really cared about), another TV writer (whose name I will omit) interrupted and asked a completely unrelated question. Realizing that after waiting over two years that was the best answer I was going to get, I stomped off in search of some comfort food: meat.

I lined up for some moist smoked pork, but for some reason the carver kept pushing the pieces aside. “It’s OK,” I said, realizing why. “I’ll take the fatty piece.” He looked up at me.

“Really? Wow, you’re the first one!”

“I’ll take some of that cornbread too,” I replied, wondering why no one in L.A. eats. As if validating that train of thought, a guy behind me laughed to his friend.

“Geez, they actually do serve carbs here, who knew?”

I spun around and he was smiling at me, but all I could think was, "Crap, which new show is this dude from?" Turns out his name was Diego Klattenhoff from Mercy (and Men in Trees and 24 and The Listener and Whistler and … well, you get the point), and his colleague was his manager, who spent a few minutes at dinner trying to convince me I should be in front of the camera. I laughed, because anyone who knows me realizes what a bad idea that is. If there’s an insert foot in mouth sign, I’m probably carrying it.

Klattenhoff and I chatted for the rest of the meal, and at one point Hayden Panettiere from Heroes came over to say hello to him. She looked as gorgeous as always, but I had had an earlier conversation with a put-off journalist who has tried three times now to interview her and always got attitude. So I simply told her she looked stunning, and decided to circle the lawn some more to see what I could find.

The Office benchers were all there, Phyllis Smith, Oscar Nunez and even B.J. Novak, but they were chatting amongst themselves and not particularly looking very interested in external company.

Meanwhile, Jay Leno couldn’t even eat his meal in piece, not only having to deal with  people continuously interrupt him, but a nasally woman from some show called Naughty Kitchen was giving a demonstration, and NBC had the bright idea to equip her with a mic.

Yvonne Strahovsky from Chuck was just as surrounded, and I was physically pushed back when I tried to get in there to chat. It was at this pivotal moment that I learned a key lesson: never wear pumps to a lawn party. My right heel wedged into the grass and wouldn’t come up, so I bent over and yanked it as hard as I could, teetering in the process in front of about 20 laughing partygoers.

Red-faced and tired, I sought solace with some of the Canadian crowd, who were by the posh version of a beer tent, run by two former female bartenders on a mission to introduce women to beer that tastes like cocktails. Up for anything at that point, I sipped on an apple-flavoured concoction from Canada that, unfortunately, wasn’t my favourite thing in the world, and a beer that tasted like banana bread.

“Which one are you drinking?” Lou Diamond Phillips asked behind me, being a beer man himself. I mentally kicked myself for never watching I’m a Celebrity… Get me Out of Here or Stargate to at least touch on his new show, but another critic came up at that point and started gushing about his work anyhow, so I let the bosom buddies be.

I was surprised to see the party was winding down, but learned of a Glee after-party, so I headed to the balcony where even more food was simmering and booze was flowing. I met several Fox contacts I had been emailing for months, and encountered a very drunk (and again, nameless) critic who decided that was the perfect time to bring me a shot of pure vodka (ugh) that I definitely didn’t ask for. I can only imagine what Fox thinks of me now.

Thankfully I was saved by a departing friend, who rounded me up and told me there were some people meeting on another patio and we needed to go. We actually did go to the patio, where my friend got into a deep conversation with someone else, so I chatted with a man named Luke, who had just flown in that night and was sitting by himself. He knew someone who lives right by me in Ontario, so we had a nice flow of conversation going when my friend returned. “Hey, you’re the guy from More to Love, right?” he asked.

Luke affirmed. Turns out he got on the show by answering an ad in the paper. Who knew? “Did you find love?” I asked. He smiled at me in an undecipherable way. “You’ll have to find out.” It was at this point I decided to go to bed. I couldn’t figure out if he was flirting with me or patronizing me – or both. Somehow, it was 1:30 a.m. and I had to be up at the crack of dawn for another non-stop day.

So I stumbled back to my room and fell into bed. The sheets embraced me and I was out cold.

Up next: One Foxy party

amber@tvguide.ca

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