Everybody Curses, I Swear!

by Carrie Keagan

  The big reveal is that truth is in the dead space, the breathing, and the pauses, not in the questions and answers. So many of us journalists walk into interviews with the questions we need to ask and the answers we want to get, and if we don’t come out with both then it’s a failure. For me, after Heath, neither has ever mattered; it was about the space between, which is where truth lives. I no longer feel any pressure to drown a conversation with phatic expressions or to justify my presence with endless aizuchi. The silence is where the magic happens. That’s where the real person emerges and the deluge of media treatment and bullshit disappears. Even when the interviews are sparse, awkward, or uncomfortable, the celebrities are still being more true to themselves than at any other time.

  I’ve learned that more often than not, it’s not about what is said, but rather what is not said and what’s left hanging in limbo. The true penetrating thought is not found in the din of an exchange but in the repose, a gentle glance, and a short breath that pierces the soul and fills the heart. In that moment, everything we are and hope to be surrenders into an oblivion of choices never made and intentions unfulfilled. The greatest of artists, orators, and statesmen and -women across time are not purely defined by what they said or did but by the very nature of their hesitations. It is in these sculptures of their negative space that we are given a brief glimpse of their truth. It is only there that we connect with the full measure of who they were and ever hoped to be.

  It makes me really proud that so many of the most intimate and honest moments you’ll ever see with stars are in interviews with NGTV. We may fuck around and curse and act ridiculous sometimes, but we also do so much that means something to a lot of people. That’s the main reason why we started doing this in the first place. And the times we do it the best are when we are obviously doing it for the people who feel the exact same way we do. You, the fans.

  PAID BY THE FUCK

  Of all the stars I’ve ever interviewed, there’s one guy who always lived up to his legendary status. An artist I revered equally for his brilliance and his generosity. A rare combination for a man who made his bones as a stand-up comic: a profession that relishes a healthy ego and a taste for selective savagery. He always brought out the best in me as an interviewer because facing him meant I had to have my fluency on fleek! The man had oral skills that would make your head spin.

  He’d appreciate me saying that. Come to think of it, we’d probably end up in a lengthy conversation about his other aural skills as well. I can just see him riffing on how comedy was basically an exercise in fucking your ears or making love to them, depending on the quality of the stand-up. A good comic would pick you up, give you flowers, open doors, and take you to a five-star restaurant on your way to a penthouse suite at the W, where you’d find a bottle of bubbly on ice. On the flip side, a shitty comic would have you meet him at the St. Marks Hotel, foreplay would be you watching him shave his taint, then he’d throw you against the wall for the best three minutes of his life and afterward offer you a wet rag to squeeze into your mouth if you’re thirsty. Then we’d laugh about how the good comedians can’t find steady work while the shitty ones all seem to have development deals with Comedy Central. I miss doing that with him.

  Now, I’m not going to pretend that he and I were close and that I have some incredible insight about him to add to his collective mythology. No, this is not that kind of book. When you touch as many lives as he did during his career, it’s impossible to ever really know the depths of your impact. Because of my career, I got to experience his spark in a way most people could never imagine, and for that I’m grateful. So this is my story, about a little girl who saw a bright shooting star flying closely over her head, reached up as high as she could, and somehow touched its tail before it disappeared into the night and found herself dancing in a rain of its sparkle. That was my Robin Williams.

  To me, he was the Bruce Lee of verbal kung fu, who disposed of his opponents with such precision, style, and bravado that they left better for it. Going toe-to-toe with him were the great privileges of my life. The anticipation would get my blood pumping and my mind battle-ready as if I were entering the lexiconic Hunger Games. And without fail, each time, I would find myself front row, center at a livestock auction facing the full force and magnificence of his ferocious comedy cattle rattle. But no matter what combination of vocal Jeet Kune Do theories I employed, including timing, trapping, rhythm, distance control, and the element of surprise, I would find myself helplessly outmatched against the master. Much like a sexy and hairy-chested Chuck Norris in the climactic fight to the death against the smooth and glistening Little Phoenix in The Way of the Dragon, I fought well and earned a respectful nod, but there was no way I was going to survive the close-up shot of the kitten!

  The first time I interviewed Robin, I was petrified that I was going to get swallowed up. I’d seen him on talk shows a million times, where he’d go off on one of his signature manic monologues. Very few hosts could keep up with him. Even the late Johnny Carson, who had him as a guest on his penultimate Tonight Show episode, just sat there giggling while Robin made jokes about abortion, his baby boy’s giant balls, and the Rodney King riot looters. “We’re outta here tomorrow night, what do I care?” Carson said, doubled over with laughter. But the truth was that if you were brave enough to step into the eye of the tornado with Robin, you’d be surprised to discover just how much he embraced you and welcomed you into the fray. When you’re that good, the only person you’re ever competing with is yourself.

  Robin had this uncanny ability to grab a silly thought from midair and smack you around with it ’til you were laughing so hard you didn’t know your head from your ass. He was a genius at being a satirical asshole, or as I prefer to call it, a sass-hole. And he was my kinda sass-hole! A charismatic and sarcastic lyrical gangster that made you want to dedicate your life to becoming a sass-hole. Unfortunately, the movie he was promoting for my first interview with him, The Night Listener, was one of his serious roles, about a gay radio host who forms a friendship with a sexually abused teenager with AIDS. I wasn’t expecting a raucous interview, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure what the hell to talk to him about. When we sat down, I started the way I always start, by saying:

  Me: We’re uncensored.

  Robin: You’re uncensored? (Eyebrows raised hopefully.)

  The darkness of the shooting suite seemed to brighten as I saw those oh-so-familiar crescent-shaped eyes and that big cheeky smile take over his face. Little did I know that the tiny turn of phrase from my twisted mind would ignite the spark in an unexpected relationship with my idol that would last for years and change my life. Not to mention the fact that we turned an incredibly serious press day into nothing short of an all-out bathhouse tickle fight.

  Me: Yeah, I get paid by the fuck. (Ad-libbing.)

  And that’s all it took—Robin proceeded to go off on a fuck-filled verbal jamboree, the likes of which I’ve never seen again. I got to play straight man in one of his legendary rapid-fire riffs. He was having a grand ol’ time, and I couldn’t help but join in and instigate.

  Robin: New game show: Paid by the Fuck!

  Me: You just won the ten-thousand-dollar prize!

  Robin: That’s right; it’s a really expensive fuck!

  Me: Yes, but can you spell it, sir?

  Robin: Expensive or fuck? In the south, F-U-C. FUK. FAA-KU, F-A-Q-U-E. FAA-KU!

  Me: FAA-KU!

  Robin: Faqui!

  Me: Faqui!

  Robin: (French accent) Or French, FAA-KOO.

  Me: (French accent) Fo-Quoi.

  Robin: (French accent) Faquerr! Which is someone who makes something. A petite faquerr. A little faquerr like this, come on. They say le facteur. Le facteur?… No, no, a petite faquerr, a little guy who doesn’t get paid by the fuck who works for free.

  Me: Can you do it in Russian?

  Robin: (Russian accent) Nostrovia soukha! Yovinaya soukha. That fucking hooker! Yo vinaya betinki manah deko
naya. These fucking shoes are killing me! Yop ti pollodura. Fuck you, halfass! Let’s learn some more phrase. Yopt viyamot. That’s easy. One word is mother. Do the math. Yop ti. Fuck you! Now people at home in Russia are going, “So, American TV is changing!”

  Me: A little bit!

  Robin: (Russian accent) Yeh, Nipnoshkeh Tgovanoh. It’s total shit! Tolkeh Gavnoh. No Good Television goes unnoticed. Watch No Good. Why? It’s NO GOOD!! Why? We’re SHIT!

  That interview was the beginning of a beautiful relationship. I interviewed him about eight times total, and each time was better than the last. I’d show up and he’d instantly pep up. “Woo! Let’s go!” he’d bellow with that knowing gleam in his neon-blue eyes. Even though Robin was an A-list superstar who did family-friendly movies like Mrs. Doubtfire and Night at the Museum, when I walked into the room, the gloves were always off. I could never get over that! He would always remember me and assume the position for our semiannual game of Turn Your Head and Cough.

  Now that I think about it, our liaisons were a lot like seventies porn. We’d always rendezvous in upscale hotel rooms in LA or New York, performing in front of hand-crafted sets designed with an eye toward the exotic. We’d both be wearing the same amount of makeup and dressed to impress because we were there, after all, to give face and get down! Our bodies awash in forgivingly soft lighting that left our faces with a suggestive glisten in the way only the life-threatening heat of quartz lamps and no ventilation can create. All the action took place only when the cameras were rolling, and we left nothing on the table except … what we left on the table.

  The intensity of our performances never betrayed the false illusion of intimacy created in spite of being surrounded by far too many people crowded into far too small a space. Sorta like triple anal or flying coach on Lufthansa. Our illicit encounters were typically intense one-on-one sessions but for the occasional ménage à trois because … well … whatever’s clever, baby! Our engagements were all about sophisticated decadence, relentless teasing, and erotic symbolism, both lusty and ironic. Our exchanges were filthy but authentic and not a banal collection of the ins and outs of cliché sexual stereotypes. Okay, maybe a little. And if you happened to be standing outside the door listening, the moans, groans, gasps, indiscriminate yelling, and waves of laughter ending in a climactic plaintiff howl would lead you to conclude that we ended with one hell of a money shot! Like I said, Robin and I could well have been the John Holmes and Seka of the junket world. I think you get where I’m going with this. Although I did just throw up in my mouth again!

  When I showed up to interview him for the film License to Wed, in which his character was a pious reverend who counsels couples, it didn’t stop him from shouting “Nice tits!” like a rowdy sports fan the minute the cameras started rolling. And all I remember thinking was, Oh, I see, Robin. Game on! That was the nature of our relationship. We were comfortable and familiar—enough to get into trouble but not enough to need lawyers.

  Me: I’m trying to get sex advice from a man who’s never had sex before?

  Robin: Well, good luck, it’s like getting a facial from Ray Charles. (He launches into full-on Ray Charles character, squinting his eyes, waving his head back and forth, and holding out his hands as if grasping for a face. But he aims lower, toward said tits.) I think everything’s looking good.

  Me: That’s not my face, Ray.

  Robin: (Doing Ray Charles impression) Oh! I was saying, boy, your eyelids were pouty. You put a lot of collagen in your eyes, and I must say, you got two things stuck on your eyeballs. And you’re cryin’, ’cause it’s all over my hands. HA HA! LAWWRDD, love a woman!… Mmmmhmmm, Geoooorgiaaa, mmm, it’s all good, all good. Have you been married, my dear?

  Me: (Joining him in character:) Um, um, I’m getting married in six months.

  Robin: So, it’s your future husband?

  Me: Yes!

  Robin: Oh, I sense a certain … a certain trepidation. Do you live together now?

  Me: We haven’t had sex yet. It’s gonna be the first time.

  Robin: Lyin’ bitch! You dress like that and go, “We’ve had sex in the butt. We haven’t had sex.”

  Me: Ha! How did you know?

  Robin: Well, you’re Catholic!

  (Did it show?)

  (We give each other a solid high five.)

  Robin: In some states … (He switches into high gear, mimicking a priest from the South.) I’m from Georgia! That’s a crime! Unless of course you slip. I’m SORRY, BABY! I was driving toward the back and something got lost! Next thing you know I’m like WOW, DAMN! BOY, DO YOU HAVE A TIGHT BOX! DAMN, WHAT SMELLS? (He immediately snaps out of character and looks back at me.) So, you haven’t had sex? Okay, we’ll go with that premise … We’re here with Mrs. Pinocchio!

  Down the road, during our interview for World’s Greatest Dad, we talked about chili-dogging (shitting on your sex partner’s chest) and his nickname for himself, “Tiny Vagina.”

  Robin: Sounds like a great new dog. This fall, Tiny Vagina! She’s just a little friend.

  Me: And she comes in a little box!

  Robin: If you’re lucky! Tiny Giny, pull her string and hear her sing, oh!

  Robin really enjoyed my line, “She comes in a little box.” He laughed so hard about it and even repeated it twice. Damn, that felt great. There was something about making him laugh that made me feel like I had accomplished something. Fortunately for me, it didn’t go unnoticed. It caught the eye of a producer at The Tonight Show, which resulted in one of the most amazing opportunities to have ever come my way.

  So, my reputation as “the Naughty Critic” was making a mark, and the media was taking notice and giving me some attention, good and bad, each of which was exhilarating in its own way. In one corner, The Hollywood Reporter was hailing me as the movie studios’ new secret weapon to attract a younger demo. In the other corner, the master of ceremonies for those who can’t think for themselves, Mr. Bill O’Reilly, seemed convinced that I was Lucifer’s disciple, hell-bent on bringing down the walls of society. Either way, I was getting a reputation for doing something … something worth talking about … although what that was I had no fucking idea at the time.

  I did learn something very funny about human nature as a result of all this crazy rhetoric. There’s no question that when decent, open-minded people embrace you and dig what you do, it’s an incredible feeling, but man, does it pale in comparison to when the fascists are yelling and screaming about you because they’re uncomfortable. For some reason, that’s the only validation that matters.

  So there I was, getting some pretty kick-ass coverage—in national publications, no less—and my friends and family were thrilled for me, and everyone at work was, you know, politely congratulatory. But when the O’Reilly shit-piece hit, the place lit up like a meth lab on Good Friday. I started getting calls from all over the country. Strangers I hadn’t spoken to in ten years were in a pant-filling frenzy and dying to tell me about the bashing I had just taken at the hands of the official rape whistle of the GOP. It was crazy, even the energy at NGTV was so palpable you could almost feel the building shaking as if all one hundred employees were leaning against the walls and furiously masturbating in unison.

  In fact, the whole company stopped to go and find the piece online and then proceeded to watch in amazement and disbelief as Billy the O-ring plated his own hot carl and served it with a light garnish. What the fuck!! The whole segment was Mr. Inside Edition and some ignorant Internet chick taking the longest group poop all over NGTV and me. Droning on and on about how lowbrow, unprofessional, inappropriate, filthy, and disrespectful it was and how it was yet another example of how showbiz is the really painfully sharp ridges on the devil’s cock. Of course, Bill’s been riding that same hog for forty years, so I suppose he would know. But the whole time these two flibbertigibbets were yapping away, the producer had cut together the most amazing montage of my interviews featuring a nonstop roster of A-list talent with every one of them just laughing an
d being bleeped. It was the single greatest commercial for NGTV ever, and featured front and center was none other than the amazing Robin Williams.

  Anyway, so all this commotion eventually reached the people at The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, and one of the producers reached out to talk about having me come on. I was spinning with joy. I couldn’t believe it was happening, but that wasn’t even the best part. Anytime you go on talk shows, there’s a fair amount of preparation and planning that goes into it. It starts with the pre-interview and ends with what they hope will be a killer segment. In my case, the producer had a big idea.

  She had done her research on me and watched a ton of my interviews. In particular, she had seen several of my interviews with Robin and had noticed the chemistry we’d had in interview after interview. Of course, he was a legend and I was, well … YouTube famous, which at that time was cutting edge and risky but didn’t carry the majesty and respect that it does today, where only true artists and poets gather to connect with other true artists and poets. Back then, it was just a place for desperate people with uniquely unmarketable talents and severely lacking social skills to court fame and fortune by showcasing their vulnerabilities and insecurities to a racist, bigoted, homophobic, and violently intolerant audience. And those were just the YouTube premium partners. Good times.

  So the producer came back with the most amazing plan. They thought it would be a riot to have me on as the second guest on the same night Robin was going to be on so we could recreate the chemistry that our interviews had become famous for. Fuckin’ brilliant! Of course, it hadn’t occurred to them that when Robin and I got going, it inevitably would take a noticeable left turn into the gutter. But as the old Polish proverb goes, “Not my circus, not my monkeys!” I was beyond floored. Not only was it the first time in my career that I was asked to appear on one of the biggie late-night network shows, but I was going to have the chance to joke around with the legend himself on national television. Well, fuck me senseless!!