See This Photo? That’s About as Lively as I Get on TV

Our argument began, as they often do, as a friendly discussion over lunch. I was polishing off the last of my potato chips when my boss asked if I’d do him a favor.

“Sure,” I chirped, “just name it.”

“I want you to go on TV.”

I set down my chip and began pushing away from the table.

“I don’t do TV. I think you know that.”

I tried to make it sound like a statement of principle, as if he had just asked me to distribute crack cocaine at an elementary school.

“I know,” he said, “but would you please just do it this one time? If you do, I’ll never ask you for anything again.”

Well, when his eyes get all misty like that and his lower lip begins to quiver, what can I do?

That’s where we left things. I thanked him for ruining my lunch and told him I’d think about it.

I already know I’m holding a losing hand. Television is so much a part of our lives that people think appearing on it is no big deal. I’m sure my boss thinks I’m posturing. And when you look around, it does seem like everyone is on the tube. As the defining medium in our culture, who wouldn’t want to be on TV?

You’re looking at him, pal.

When it comes to TV performance, I’m Boffo’s younger brother, Stinko.

While working for a newspaper in Denver in the early 1980s, a couple different local news programs asked me to appear. Neither invited me back a second time, possibly because in both instances my on-air demeanor gave the impression that someone off camera was pointing a gun at my head.

That was years ago, you say. Surely, you say, I’m more relaxed now.

I wish. Six months ago, I made my third and final TV appearance. Someone from the Fox network telephoned from New York and said they were coming to Los Angeles to film a segment of “The O’Reilly Report” with host Bill O’Reilly.

The show had a news-magazine format and the booking agent wanted me to discuss the controversy over Disneyland’s Pirates of the Caribbean ride. I would only be on for a few minutes and it would be light-hearted, the Fox official said. Oh, by the way, she said, the segment will be shot in a hotel room in Westwood and would be live.

That made the decision a no-brainer: Of course, I wouldn’t do it.

Over the next few days, the inner voice started up.

Do you want to be afraid all your life?

On your deathbed, do you want to say you passed up a chance to be on national TV?

I caved in and eventually told the Fox person I’d do it, but warned her of my TV past. She’s probably heard a thousand people pooh-pooh themselves and then do fine. She assured me all would be well.

All would not be well.

A limousine driver named Milan picked me up outside the office in Costa Mesa and drove me to the hotel on Wilshire Boulevard. Milan was a part-time actor and lounge singer and told me not to worry about being nervous. I told him it would be my first live TV appearance, and he seemed to grow more silent, as if he knew a big, bad secret he didn’t want to tell me.

At the hotel, the Fox people couldn’t have been nicer. A fruit plate and complimentary beverages were available. Fox had rented a two-room suite and I was one of six guests, with the others being a young woman who’d been shot in a Hollywood robbery, an Ebonics supporter, the daughter of the late actor Gig Young, a former drug-addict drummer with a rock band and Ed McMahon. One by one during the hour, the guests would go into the adjoining room, sit in a chair next to O’Reilly and talk about our segment.

The wounded woman went first. I followed the former addict. Just before I went in, McMahon said, “Don’t make the rest of us look bad.”

No problem, Ed.

I was on for five minutes. O’Reilly couldn’t have been more pleasant or set me up better, but I never loosened up. I imagined millions of people watching the show and, as it became clear I was dying, a Fox producer in an unseen control room yelling into Bill’s ear: “Get this stiff off the air! Just get him off!”

The woman who booked me phoned later that afternoon from New York and left a message. She thanked me and said I was fine, but I knew she was just being gracious.

I might have believed her, though, had she not sent me a tape of the show. It confirmed my worst fears. Throughout, I looked like someone who had just been subpoenaed. For me, it was painful to watch, like being forced to look continuously at the worst photo you’ve ever seen of yourself.

The show didn’t air locally, but relatives saw it in Denver. My sister-in-law questioned my clothing selection. My brother said I did OK, “but you looked kind of old.” I knew I had done horribly when my mother said I was “great.”

I told myself that was fini for me and TV. Never again. No way, no how.

And now this favor for the boss.

Let the sweating begin.

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by calling (714) 966-7821 or by writing to him at the Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92626, or by e-mail to dana.parsons@latimes.com