Prologue (December 2002)
Feet-fatigued in Paris Christmas week, Erin and I decide to take our rest in a movie theater. Our choices are the new James Bond and something called Ali G Indahouse. We are told that Ali G is a character who does put-on interviews with unsuspecting celebrities for BBC and is hilarious. Unfortunately, the showing is sold-out, so we see Bond. I sleep blissfully through the special effects.
The Seduction (January 2004)
I get a voicemail from Jenny Hunter, who says she is with “a British-based television company called Somerford Brooke, working on a series called The Making of Modern America.” For a segment on creative writing they are looking for a “distinguished teacher in his fifties” (the first clue), and she has heard, “You are the man!”
I may not be the man, but I do indeed fit that bill: I am in my fifties, chair of Columbia’s MFA Writing Program, and author of books on creative writing that have sold fairly well. I call back and say I’ll do it.
Weaving the Web (February 2004)
The idea is for me to teach a mock workshop in a Writing Program classroom. I am to recruit an “older” (second clue) student, who will join the production company’s “presenter” (British for host), whom Jenny describes as “a young, hip-hop kind of guy” (third clue). When I mention that I love British television, Jenny grills me a bit aggressively on which shows I watch. She seems relieved when I mention Monty Python and Benny Hill—shows that people in their fifties tend to watch (fourth clue).
On a subsequent call, Jenny asks for biographical details about the student I have selected, and I mention that she has worked in the film business and will not be fazed by the cameras. A couple of days later Jenny emails to say, “I hate to do this, but I think we’ll be better off to do a one-on-one session with just you and our presenter. I'm a bit concerned that we'll run long if we include another person. Sorry for the change of heart. I just think it makes more sense to keep the setting as intimate as possible” (fifth clue).
Next, we discuss the curriculum. “I've heard of some beginner exercises like ‘describe the room.’ Do you happen to have any exercises like this one that you use, and if so, could you describe them for me?”
The first couple of exercises I propose are too complicated; Jenny prefers something “very simple, as basic as possible.” We settle on one of my favorites, “Who Would March In Your Parade”: Visualize looking out your window and seeing a parade go by. But instead of Thanksgiving or the Rose Bowl, it is “Your Day.” People, objects, places, foods, and words that are meaningful to you march by. Write what you see marching in your parade. What is the band playing?”
The shoot is scheduled for February 11. On February 10, Jenny has another change of heart: “We don't want to bother you with retakes because of audio mishaps, so there’s a chance we may take the interview off campus. We want to avoid as many distractions as possible. We're thinking of booking a nearby location, perhaps a hotel room (sixth clue).
The next morning I am told that I should take a cab (at their expense) to the Wales Hotel on the East Side (confirmation of the sixth clue). I jokingly tell a friend, “If I don’t return, make sure that Law & Order does a good job ripping it from the headlines.”
On the way over, I imagine opening my Writer as Teacher seminar that evening with: “You have to be prepared to teach any extreme; I once did a writing class with 150 college students in an auditorium, and today I taught a workshop with a single hip-hop British broadcaster in a hotel room with cameras rolling.”
Tightening the Web
I get to the Wales Hotel right on time, make my way to the Madison Room, and find myself alone. Just as I start to think that Briscoe and Green might be needed after all, my cell phone rings. Jenny is calling from California to say that due to union lunch rules, they are running late, and I should take a walk and come back in an hour. They will pay for my lunch, and still get me back in time for class. Jenny is insistent that I shouldn’t hang out in the room (seventh clue).
When I return, I am met in the lobby by a field producer, who says we can save time by “taking care of business” now. He hands me two hundred-dollar bills ($150 for my fee, and the rest for expenses) and asks me to sign a standard release. I scan through and notice a sentence promising not to sue if I am made to look foolish (eighth clue). I say, “Well, I’d be rich if I could sue every time I looked foolish.” The producer seems a bit concerned, so I assure him, “Don’t worry, I won’t ruin your segment by looking foolish.” He doesn’t have a copy of the release for me (ninth clue).
The producer escorts me back to the makeshift studio, which is impressively equipped. Somerford Brooke might be a fly-by-night company (I couldn’t find any trace of them), but they are flying first class. We have to wait a bit more because the presenter “went for a walk” (tenth clue). I am led to a chair, where an assistant applies light make-up and tethers me to a microphone.
The Presenter
He enters with a flourish, decked out in a gold jumpsuit, adorned with enough bling to accessorize an entourage. His first word to me, accompanied by a fist-bump, is “Respect!” I feel like I have seen him before.
The Workshop
I start the session by asking the presenter to write a couple of his impressions of New York City. He hunches over a pad and writes quickly. My adrenalin kicks in—this could be fun. But when I read his piece, I recognize the words verbatim from a popular song. I point this out, and he insists that he did exactly what I asked: “I wrote that.” We get into a discussion of what constitutes “writing,” and I remember where I might have seen the presenter before: on the movie poster in Paris.
I doubt my memory because the odds against this seem so enormous, and who am I to warrant such attention? I plow ahead with the “Parade” exercise. “Imagine there’s a parade outside the window,” I start, and he bolts out of his chair and strides to the window overlooking Madison Avenue. “There’s no parade out there!” he announces. I try to explain the concept of "the mind's eye," but he is fixated on the indisputable fact that there is no parade in his honor marching down Madison Avenue .
I am aware that the cameras are rolling and any reaction I have can be edited to make me look "foolish" if indeed this is the guy from the movie. And, if it's not, they'll think I'm a paranoid professor who has become unhinged. I risk calling for a timeout to talk to the producer. He leans over before I can get out of the chair, and explains in a whisper—while the presenter continues searching out the window—that they had high hopes for this guy but might have made a mistake in hiring him, but maybe he’s just nervous and it will get better, so please continue.
I decide the only viable plan is to teach the best workshop I can under the circumstances. We resume, and the presenter has a question for me: “How many letters of the alphabet should a writer use?”
I toss my plan out the window, right onto the unseen parade, and reply firmly: “Six. At first. You start with six, go to seven, then work your way up and eventually you are using the whole alphabet.”
He then asks, “Why the letter Q is in the alphabet?” and I reply, “Actually, you’ll be reading about this soon, but we had a meeting and decided to take the letter Q out of the alphabet.”
“Why are you pissing on my questions?” he says, looking seriously annoyed.
Soon it’s over. The producer tells me there’s a “waiting cab” and hustles me down the stairs.
“Now that you have the footage," I say, “are you going to tell me what just happened?”
The producer sticks to his story, jammering on about how they had done market research and hired this guy thinking he could draw a young audience, but it was a big mistake. He shoos me into the waiting cab. As we pull out, the driver says, “You must be pretty important. They said you're needed at Columbia University. Usually I don’t wait for a fare, but he was such a nice guy.”
I call Jenny and leave a message on her voicemail: “Either that was Ali G or the dumbest guy on earth.”
My phone rings shortly after, and I hope for elaboration and reassurance from my new friend Jenny, but it’s my real friend, asking if she needs to call in Briscoe and Green.
The Aftermath
I don’t say anything to my class about my afternoon as the man. When I get home I look up Ali G. Yes, that’s the guy, and he’s brought his show to HBO—American television—where six episodes have already run. I am a jumble of anger and humiliation, concerned about my image in the academic and literary worlds.
The first episode airs in July with Sam Donaldson getting hoodwinked by Sacha Baron Cohen (the brilliant actor behind Ali G and others). No me. And no me week after week, as Pat Buchanan, Christine Todd Whitman, Gore Vidal, and Andy Rooney fall prey.
The closest they get to a segment like mine is a songwriting lesson (in the guise of Borat) with country-music veteran Porter Wagoner. Borat asks, “Please Mr. Wagoner can you teach me how to write country song.”
“I’ll tell you some tips,” Mr. Wagoner replies sweetly. He stays nice throughout the segment; the humor comes from Borat. Now that’s how to play it.
For the first several weeks, I am relieved when I don’t appear. Then I start half-hoping I will, and, when the six-episode series is over, I am damn pissed that I didn’t make the cut. They could have billed it as “Ali G meets his match," and done a follow-up segment with him actually visiting my class at Columbia. Sacha Baron Cohen and I could have become friends.
The Epilogue
In July, I write to Jenny: “I would like to chat with you. Can we talk directly or should I go through HBO? Also, could you let me know the disposition of the segment we taped.”
The man gets no response.