The Road Warrior
Diary: Live Free or Die! Part One
Sunday, January 30th, 2000: 1:06 P.M. Teterboro Airport
After three years experiencing the luxury of traveling by private jet, I find that the
only things I miss about commercial airlines are those Sky mall catalogues. Oh, what happy
in-flight hours I have spent, wantonly ordering hundreds of dollars worth of
"Illuminated World Time Wall Clocks", "Fortune Telling Golf Ball
Paperweights", "Regal Monogrammed Dish Towels" and "Soothing, Battery
Operated Sinus Massagers". There is nothing more deadly than the combination of a
long, boring flight, a seat-back Air Phone, and the 12 or 13 free cocktails afforded by
the frequent flier upgrade to First Class. I don’t know if there’s ever been
scientific studies on the subject, but somehow, when these three eventualities occur
simultaneously, it somehow brings out an insatiable, primal instinct in human beings to
purchase "Handy Solar Powered Nose Hair Trimmers" through mail order.
1:35 P.M. 12998 Ft.
Although there are no such catalogues on
board this craft, I amuse myself by procuring Imus’ Platinum American Express Card
from his Coach Attaché, copy down the number, and return it while he’s still in the
lavatory ‘Watering his lizard’. It will come in handy later during the many
boring hours in the hotel, when I use it to unlock a few hundred Internet Porno sites
while I’m online uploading this diary entry.
We are off to Claremont and Concord, New Hampshire for the Primary, where we will stay in
either the most elegant accommodation available in the area, or merely the one joint in
town where the radio station could trade out free rooms. I don’t care, as my
requirements are somewhat less stringent than those of the I-Man. He demands nothing less
than The Presidential Suite, appointed with buckwheat pillows, sound machines, organic
cotton bedding, cases of mineral water, platters of crudités, and 24 hour, White Glove
Butler Service. Me? I only care that there’s a mini bar in the room, and Titty Movies
on the Spectravision. I reflect, once again, on the timing of our visit. New Hampshire in
February? where will we be going in August? The Third Ring of Hell?
There is something about a state whose motto is "live Free Or Die’ that I find
to be particularly disturbing. Although I believe that living free, in theory, is an
important concept, I just don’t know if I’d be so zealously ardent about it to
commit suicide were it not provided. I surmise the cold weather is responsible for making
these folks so on the edge.
2:15 P.M. Lebanon Airport
We are met at the airport by Ted Bilodeaux, the Program Director, and Tom Hoyt, the board
operator, from our Claremont Affiliate, WHDQ. I like Ted, in that he is fatter than me,
and has less hair than Bernie. Tom is quite a celebrity in this area, as he is also the
meteorologist for the local NBC station. During the trip to the Hanover Inn, he is
recognized 57 separate times by excited fans...56 times more frequently than any of us, a
fact not lost on Imus, who responds by standing on Tom’s windpipe during check in.
Although Tom’s a great guy, who I love dearly despite the fact that he has a real
problem with caffeine, I find his level of recognition somehow out of proportion to his
position in the business. I mean, I was on Broadway, dammit, and this yucklebuck’s a
freakin’ weatherman...in a state, by the way, where the weather isn’t all that
unpredictable. I mean, what do you need to know about the atmospheric conditions in New
Hampshire, other than it starts snowing in September, and doesn’t stop until Summer,
when it actually gets above 60 degrees for twenty minutes. It’s a classic case of
delusions of grandeur. I don’t know why they call them meteorologists in the first
place, they don’t study meteors. But I suppose ‘weatherologist’ doesn’t
sound as cool. One thing’s for sure, it would be a helluva lot easier a word for Tom
Brokaw to pronounce.
3:17 P.M. Hanover Inn, Room 3222
There’s a Super Bowl party being held at the Sports Club where we did our first
Claremont remote, a client heavy event, where, no doubt, I will be the only one lame
enough to attend. What can I say? I’m a sucker for free nachos and microbrew. I
decide to spend a couple of hours strolling the lovely town of Hanover, availing myself to
all its charm.
3:19 P.M.
Back in my room.
3:25 P.M.
I order ‘Shaving Ryan’s Privates’ from the Pay Per View and open a 12
dollar bag of M&M’s from the Mini Bar.
3:47 P.M.
Unimpressed with the storyline of the film, not to mention the big breasted woman cast in
the Tom Hanks role, I open a 95 dollar can of salted peanuts and make prank calls to my
traveling companion’s rooms. They’ve all turned off their phones.
3:52 P.M.
Still bored, I attempt to see how many of the little bottles of liquor I can get into my
mouth at once. I manage to tip back 12 of them simultaneously, quite surprised y the fact
that Stolichinaya, Jack Daniels, Gordon’s, Cutty Sark, and Grand Marnier don’t
taste all that bad when sampled together...I finish a forty nine dollar stack of Pringles
and decide to shave my own privates.
4:32 P.M. Hotel Lobby
Tom and his lovely wife Kim arrive to take me to the Super Bowl Party. I ask that we stop
briefly at the Emergency Room, as I have cut myself shaving. Severely. Tom offers to get
me a styptic pencil, which I decline, unable to admit that I have very nearly "Lorena
Bobbited" myself. I wonder if there’s a Moil in town who could offer me some
advice. It’s going to be a long night.
Road Warrior Diary:
Live Free or Die Pt. 2
Monday, January 31st, 4: 36 A.M.:
Wakeup call. Big decision. Get up, groom, and go down to the lobby for the 15 minute limo
ride to the Lebanon Opera House? Or blow off the shower and shave and get another 3
minutes of sleep. I opt for the latter. Good thing I slept in my clothes.
5:12. A.M.
Depsite the fact that it’s snowing like a bastard, the theatre is almost three
quarters filled. I thank God once again for depriving these people of lives so that our
presence may be of such paramount importance to them. Unfortunately, Ambassador Dr. Alan
Keyes will not be attending in person, and will be a phone guest. I can’t decide if
his due to the weather, or the fact that, unlike the listeners of WHDQ, he obviously DOES
have a life.
7:38 A.M.
Blind Mississippi White Boy Pig’s Feet Dupris, a supposedly venerable and authentic
blues singer makes an appearance, and I am somewhat flabbergasted, as he is one, not from
Mississippi and two, not blind. I don’t ask him to take off his socks to see if at
least that part of his cognomen is based in reality, as he gives me the impression that
he, too, slept in his clothes and hasn’t showered in quite some time himself. He
sings the ‘Itty Bitty Petey Blues’, dedicated to the president’s
uh...shortcomings. The crowd loves him. I find him to be annoying. He leaves, but not
after borrowing 20 bucks from me for ‘cab fare’ which he promises to return to
me by Tuesday. Yah. And Gary Bauer really has a shot at being elected president.
8:34 A.M.
Maybe it’s because I’m the perceptive type, but I suspect that the I-Man is not
feeling all that well. He’s not his usual, jovial, gregarious self, and has only
called me a ‘Fat Bastard’ twelve times since 5:00 this morning. I think he may
have the flu, which considering the weather up here, could prove to be somewhat dangerous
to him. He complains of being ‘hot’. I spill some mineral water on him and
attempt to procure a table fan. Anything I can do to help.
10:03 A.M.
The show goes well, and now all the sad lemmings, who have spent the past four hours
savoring every moment of the broadcast, approach the stage to retrieve autographs. After
five minutes, when it becomes way too apparent that Tom Hoyt is signing them at a rate of
six to one compared to us, he is escorted into the alley by some big, frightening looking
man named, interestingly enough, ‘Courtney’. On his way out, Tom beseeches me to
call his wife Kim, and ‘Tell her I love her.’ I nod in agreement, knowing full
well that this will never happen...as I think she’s sweet and nice and all, but a
strong liking for her as a friend is about as far as I am willing to go. It’s not
until much later that I realize he wanted me to tell her HE loved her. Oh well. Kim, if
you’re reading this, those really were Tom’s last words. You were quite a lucky
gal. Now that it looks like you’re going to be free, I take back all that stuff about
liking you just ‘as a friend’. Gimme a call.
11:20 A.M.
We check out of the Hanover Inn and board stretch white limos for the hour long drive to
Concord. I feel like I’ve just gotten married..not due to the limo, but the fact that
I have begun wearing secondhand Bridal Gowns during the daylight hours as I find they make
me feel ‘pretty’. Bernard asks Larry, me and Mark Chernoff if we want to stop
for a six pack for the trip. We all decline, and decide to do Tequila Shooters instead, a
pastime that proves to be all that more difficult when we hit the potholes on I-93. We
pass by a McCain Rally, and Bernard and I stick our heads out of the moon roof to offer
our support. We are pelted by snowballs thrown by the Gore supporters across the street. I
ask the limo driver if Senator Bill Bradley is making any outdoor appearances...thinking
that if we can somehow cruise by quietly, and then honk our horn really loud, we will once
and for all find out of this ‘heart thing’ of his really poses much of a
problem. Sadly, he is not. He is to be a live guest tomorrow morning, so maybe I can pop a
paper bag or something.
Live Free or Die! PART THREE
Monday, January 31st. Concord, New Hampshire, 3:00
P.M.
We check into the Holiday Inn, the finest hotel in all of Concord,
although not quite as classy as the Hanover Inn, for alas, there is no
mini bar. At least there's a different set of dirty movies on the Pay
Per View. There's an option available in which you can view an
unlimited number of them between noon and noon, but I decide against it,
as I've already lost three precious hours, and chances are we'll be
leaving way before 12 tomorrow. I hate not getting the most for my
money.
Then again, I'm not paying for it.
I select a brilliant piece of work about an anally fixated idiot savant
named 'Forrest Rump'. I find it movingly poignant.
Britt Johnson, one of the owners of the Concord station, says we are to
have dinner together at the best restaurant in town. I agree to be seen
in public with him, but only because I find it difficult to turn down an
invitation for free food.
6:15 P.M.
Meet Britt and Larry in the lobby. We attempt to call Bernard and
Charles to invite them, but Bernard's either turned off his phone, just
refusing to answer it, or out at a local militia meeting. Charles
cannot join us, as Imus has chained him to the bedpost in the room, and
forced him to write a 'Patton' bit. We go to 'Harry's Steakhouse', an
establishment located directly across from the Capitol Center for the
Arts, the venue from which we will broadcast in the morning. I assume
that Britt has chosen this particular joint because it is one of the few
places in town where you can smoke cigars, and that's where the station
can trade out meals. I either have a lovely 16 ounce prime rib eye and
4 beers, or vice versa, I can't seem to recall...the one thing I do
remember is Britt picking pieces of steak off my plate as I cut them,
and before I can get them into my mouth.
We are harassed throughout the meal by a group of very enthusiastic
fans, who, apparently, don't speak English, as I find their banter
unintelligible, and they seem to be oblivious to all our requests to
'Leave us the fuck alone.'
7:35 P.M. Harry's Steakhouse South Main Street, Concord
A group of rather attractive college students arrive to participate in
their weekly dart league tournament. We move, as our table is in their
way, and I grow tired of pulling wayward shots from the back of my
head. Britt suggests I 'schmooze' Harry, the proprietor of this fine
establishment as, one, he is a fan, and two, it will insure that our
meals are 'comped'. After forty-five of the most tedious and painful
minutes of my life, in which our host provides me with the most
microscopic details of the spackling job he did on the place, we are
given a check and expected to pay up. Britt has neglected to stop at a
cash machine and Larry bought lunch, so I reluctantly pay up. I attempt
to figure out why the Caribbean Chicken Wing Appetizers, although quite
tasty, cost 185 bucks per dozen. Had I known they were so pricey, I
probably would have only ordered that last gross.
10:07 P.M. South Main Street
On the way back to the hotel, Larry regales me with some old radio
stories. Sleep comes blissfully and quickly. I probably shouldn't have
dozed off before at least arriving in the hotel parking lot....let alone
offer to drive. Thankfully, The New Hampshire State Policeman who was
the first to arrive on the accident scene, was quite helpful, making me
feel a little less guilty about the busload of senior citizens I
apparently ran off the road. His words bring me comfort, especially the
ones about how 'Those poor old bastards probably never even knew what
hit 'em.' Turns out he's a huge fan of the show, and lets me off
without a ticket or breathalyzer test, because he loves 'That Cardinal
O'Connor bit (I) do...it cracks me up.' He asks for an autograph. I
sign Bernie's name, and hail a cab to drive the three of us the
remaining two blocks to the hotel.
Tuesday, February 1st, 2000. Capitol Center for the Arts
Incredible show. Dan Rather and Tim Russert are live guests, and they
are both charming, gregarious individuals, although Mr. Rather is
somewhat bemused by my striking him about the face and screaming
'What's the frequency Kenneth?' The highlight of the morning, however,
is the appearance of John McCain and his lovely wife Cindy, who get a
reaction from the crowd like I haven't heard since the Beatles did Ed
Sullivan. I'm privileged to speak with the Senator backstage before his
entrance, and he asks how the tour is going, and if I'll be returning to
Broadway any time soon. I am touched that he knows so much about my
hideous little career, although a little put off he had to bring up the
Broadway thing. Still, I am completely enamored with him, and vow to do
whatever I can to get him elected president. He thanks me profusely for
the support, but declines my offer to have the rest of his competition
'taken care of'. I think he also finds my hugging him every two seconds
a little uncomfortable, but I can't help myself with all the love I feel
for this man.
Before I know it, and all too soon, we airborne once again on 'I-Force
One', headed back to Teterboro with nothing left of our trip but the
memories. It's been quite an exhilarating two days. I begin to doze
off until Imus notices his Platinum American Express Card is not in the
exact same position in which he left it the last time he used it. He
speaks to Dayna from the airphone, and instructs her to call the credit
card company to find out what his number has been used for during the
past 48 hours. She calls back a few moments later, questioning a charge
of 29.95 for 'Sin City Cyber Sluts'. Imus turns around in his seat to
glare at me.
It's only 41 minutes, but I realize this will be the longest flight of
my life.