"Hey Keith, wanna be on TV?"

It was Brett, my old roommate who’d gone to Hollywood to achieve his dream of being a starving actor. He’d failed horribly at the starving part and was getting gigs regularly, so I knew he was serious.

"I’m there, what’s the gig."

"A woman named Sara is gonna call you and ask you about a conflict you would like to resolve on a courtroom TV show. You tell her about the conflict. She loves it. She brings you to Hollywood."

"Great, what’s the conflict?"

"You’ll think of something. I gotta go."

And with a click, I was back in the land of Earnest who was feeding his Guinea pig a chocolate bar. I was horrified for the sake of the varmint, but touched to see Earnest willing to share something so dear to him.

Brett had previously set me up with a gig pretending to be a series of weird characters who call in to morning D.J.s. I’d always wondered where they found such bizarre people and was a bit disillusioned to know they were just big fakers like me, getting up at 4 in the morning for a quick fifty dollar phone call.

I tightened the screws on my thinking cap as I cleaned up various species of fecal matter and sold many animals, soem of which were to be fed to other animals. Interesting that I got into this line of work for my love of animals. No conflicts were coming to my mind.

The phone rang again. "Pet Hut. Keith speaking."

"Hi Keith this I Sara Branagon, with CDC productions."

"Hey Sara. Brett said you’d be calling to make me a big TV star."

"Well great! So does anyone have a conflict with you that you’d like to sort out on TV?"

"Well, lot’s of folks have conflicts with me Sara. I’m that kind of guy."

"Well why don’t you pick one and tell me about it?"

O.K. here it goes, I thought to myself. I had to think fast. OK, I’d gone to a record store with my roommate Patrick and he found a rare partridge Family album that some idiot had marked fifty cents. Patrick didn’t have any money so I bought the record and we shared it. I now had an opportunity to sell the album for two grand but Pat’s furious that I’d even consider selling it and is now not speaking to me.

"Oh, this is perfect, so you stopped living together over this conflict?"

"Um, yeah, he moved out."

Talk about leading the witness.

"Are you sure the record would sell for that much?"

"I can bring you appraisals."

I was praying the record really was worth something. The story was fake of course, all but the record and Patrick’s passion for it. The record had a great gimmick in that it came with a plastic Partridge Family shopping bag, the name of the record being, "A Bagful of Hits." Patrick’s copy was in mint condition and included the shopping bag.

I knew she was making the decision right there on weather we were Television Worthy and I had to give one final push.

"You’d love Patrick. He’ll be great on the show. He dresses like a cowboy, and does cowboy rope trips and loves the Partridge Family."

"He dresses like a cowboy?!"

"Yes he does."

"Keith, I’d love to have you on."

Yes!

Sara transferred me to her producer where I retold the whole story going into extra detail regarding Patrick and his cowboy outfits.

"Can we fly you and Patrick down tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir."

Patrick had not as of yet been informed of his pending fame. I got off the phone with the producer and dialed Patrick frantically, leaving my customers and critters to fend for themselves.

"Kitchen."

"Patrick, we’re going to Hollywood to be on TV."

"Have you been smoking the fish food again?"

Quickly, I spilled all the details, down to the last bit of cleverness:

"Uh, hey Pat."

"Yah?"

"I told them you’d dress like a cowboy."

"You what?!?"

"I had to make you sound interesting. I told ‘em you dress like a cowboy all the time."

"I'M the cowboy? What the hell did you tell them you dressed like? An Indian chief? A construction worker?"

"A regular guy. They already knew I was interesting. Besides you do dress like a cowboy."

"Not all the time. Not on national TV."

I was laughing hysterically as I hung up, so as to better attend to a kid whose hand was being engulfed by a hungry python.

Patrick and I got together to get our stories straight and to make arrangements to be driven to the airport. We flew coach; this didn’t help to make us feel like big stars at all. However, when we got to the airport and the driver holding the sign with our names and the name of the studio was there to meet us we felt a definite twinkle. From twenty feet away, we announced proudly—partially for the driver's benefit, and partially for the sake of the really hot blonde who had flown in Business: "Why, yes, We’re Keith and Patrick, fere for our television debut."

The driver looked unimpressed and led us to a nice black four-door sedan. I don’t know much about cars, make or model, but this was not a limo. It wasn’t too many notches down though, and we were pleased. We asked the driver a million and one questions about famous people he may have driven and he told us a million and one stories about how bad traffic was in L.A. He seemed more impressed with his shortcuts and coping strategies for L.A. traffic then with his experiences with famous folk. L.A. was at the time in the midst of a public transit strike and supposedly traffic had been made worse than usual by it. I was embarrassed to have no idea what to tip the driver, and so I decided, hell with it, I’ll just ask him. "Say, is there any standard scale for tipping you guys?"

"Yeah, but that’s O.K. Whatever you want."

"Well, what would be the norm?"

"About ten dollars if I treated you O.K."

We gave him ten dollars.

We were staying at the Hollywood Holiday Inn, which is not an impressive hotel at all. The only exciting features it had for us were that it was free and walking distance from Mans Chinese Theatre, the Walk of Stars, and Johnny Legends Hollywood Book and Poster shop. We took off to see the sights immediately. Alas, this part of L.A. seemed to roll up its sidewalks at night just like any other town. The only thing open were the sex shops and the doughnut shops. (Of course, if you have sex and you have doughnuts what else do you need?) Fortunately, the stars in the sidewalk that we most wanted to see—Groucho Marx, Will Rogers, Steve Allen, and Dave Bruebeck—hadn't been rolled up yet, so we paid homage to them, got some doughnuts (no sex, alas) and headed back to the hotel to try to sleep despite our excitement and sugar highs.

The next morning I called Sara to tell her we’d arrived safely and ask her how much you tip the drivers."

"You don’t tip them," she said very slowly, as if talking to a child or waitress in a foreign restauraunt. "We take care of them, why?"

"Oh, no reason."

It was official: I’m a rube.

Patrick got into his cowboy outfit. I must do Patrick justice by explaining this is no mall country and western store cowboy gear. We are talking super deluxe vintage cowboy gear that would’ve done Hank Williams proud. His shirt on this occasion featured a hand of playing cards equaling a royal flush on each shoulder piece. The boy was in rare form. I myself could’ve passed for Keith Partridge's stunt double with my long, flared-out greasy hair and super 70s shirt. We had heart burn breakfast and terrible coffee at the H.I. lobby café, and waited for our driver to pick us up at eight. We didn’t normally see so much of this side of noon voluntarily but there was no hope for sleep, we were hyped.

The driver arrived. This time, he was a Middle Eastern man who’d just arrived back from his honeymoon. He had many great stories about famous people and never mentioned the traffic. Apparently, he’d driven the judge to the taping earlier that morning. He dropped us off at the studio and pointed us towards our set. The studio looked just like in the movies: Beige buildings with brown doors, and people moving about with great intent, one of whom led us to Sara.

On the way we passed the set of Soul Train. We could not resist stopping to bust a move on the stage. I did some old school break dancing moves I’d learned from Soul Train as a kid, Patrick did his rope tricks and we mustered up a few weak Don Cornelius impersonations.

Sara seemed to fall in love at first glance. She knew a cowboy when she saw one. "You must be Patrick and you must be Keith." Hands were shaken all around and then she led us to our separate dressing rooms where we’d be prepped individually for the taping.

My room was equipped with bottled water some snacks and a TV where I could watch the episode currently taping. A boy's mother, a hairdresser, was charging him with a lack of morals for cutting his own hair after he tired of her forcing him to wear a mullet. The audience sided with the young man and cheered and hissed accordingly. The judge agreed and not only awarded the kid cash, but asked his mom to please relinquish the grounding she had issued. She relented, just as a beautiful woman entered my room to see if I needed makeup. She said I didn’t, and while this was flattering, I wished I’d needed lots of make up. Not one to give up too easily, I pointed out some missing buttons on my shirt. She took the shirt to be mended. I got bored and snuck off to see Patrick. I found him receiving a full makeover. That bastard.

"Hey you, get the hell out of here," He hollered. "You’re the enemy."

"Yeah well I didn’t need any makeup on my pretty face."

"That’s ‘cause you’re a lost cause. Me and Johnny Depp, we get make up."

He’d beaten me, and in front of the pretty makeup girl no less. I went back to my room.

Sara came by and we discussed the taping. The conversation was very strange. She would actually suggest little details to the story, which she obviously knew was bullshit, but it was understood between us that this never be acknowledged. Things got stranger still when an intern brought me legal forms to sign, one of which stated that "Morality Tales" did not feature "made up" or "bogus" stories, and furthermore, anyone caught faking it, could be charged for the expense of one days taping. I signed away.

I was fitted for a cordless body microphone and it was explained to me that the mics on the podiums were as bogus as my story. As soon as I was wearing that mic. I had to go to the bathroom. I have a horribly shy bladder and doing my business with the mic. on was a little unnerving. I mean, how did I know the sound guy wasn't listening to me pee? Singing to myself helped: "If ya want my body, and you think I’m sexy, come on baby let me know." Ah, Rod Stewart has nothin' on me. He can't even control his bladder.

I washed my hands in the sink next to the plaintiff from the next case.

"So are you moral or immoral?" I inquired.

"Well that’s for the judge to decide. But I’m here ‘cause my former friend who once was a shining example to me has become a dull flicker."

He spoke like a preacher, and although I think his conflict with his friend was real, he was preparing to act pretty phony. They must have gotten him straightened out before taping however. I watched him perform and it was spellbinding. These two men appeared to really hate each other. I only hoped Patrick and I could be as entertaining.

My intro was recorded. As I entered the court, my voice would be heard announcing, "My name is Keith Lowell Jensen. I know how much this record means to Patrick, but I have a chance to make us two grand. He’s my best friend, but that’s just too much money to pass up."

I took a few takes before I got it just right. I was asked to say "two thousand" instead of two grand as not everyone knew what a grand was. I felt this was a bit ridiculous, but then agai,n this was daytime television.

One more trip to the bathroom (damn that free water) another chorus of "If you want my body," and then I was led to the door through which I would enter immortality. I stood waiting anxiously, having to go to the bathroom again. People were scurryin’ every which way with headsets on. The woman waiting to usher me in was told she was needed on the set. She walked in and they sang happy birthday to her. This relaxed me a bit. She came back looking unwillingly pleased, and shut the door. The music started, the door opened, I entered the set. I could hear my voice telling my tale of Partridge Family fanaticism and money to be made.

I reached the front with a sneer on my face. Patrick and I had agreed ahead of time: I was to play the jerk and he the sweet romantic. We were splittin’ the money either way.

Patrick entered while his voice told of his love for all things Partridge and this album in particular. The judge entered, a good-looking black man in his early forties. He opened by addressing Patrick.

"Patrick, do you know that you’re dressed like a cowboy?" he asked.

Patrick had not prepared to be picked on by the judge since I was to be the antagonist and I think this threw him a little.

"Yes, sir I am."

Patrick gave his story, with the judge interrupting when the Partridge family was mentioned to state that he was a Motown man himself. When it came time to question me, His Honor inquired as to where I was when Patrick found the album.

"Sir, I was in the Motown section."

I went on to make fun of the fact that Patrick dressed like a cowboy, was poor, and worked in the kitchen of an old folks' home all to great effect. The audience was hating me.

"Where do you work, Keith?" inquired the judge.

I flashed my best deer-in-headlights before responding:"At a pet store."

Well, I know how hip it isn’t to work in a pet store, but this one brought the house down more than I’d anticipated. The insulted look on my face was partially sincere. Patrick felt much better with everyone laughing at me, as I declared loudly, "But I’m the assistant manager!" in my own defense. This had the "but-I’m-the-head-burger-flipper" feel it was meant to have, and my rhythm fell neatly into place.

We dealt with the question and answer section, the majority of the audience attacking me and defending Patrick. The weirdest part was that everyone seemed to believe us and several people kept giving me advice even when the cameras were off. One man in particular kept calling for my attention, "Hey buddy, Hey. That’s your friend man. Friendship’s worth more than money."

I tried really hard to ignore this big bald ball of sweetness and was relieved when the cameras were back on and I could comfortably slip back into being a jerk. The judge issued his ruling.

My conduct was declared outrageous, Patrick was to receive one thousand dollars. The host of the show was fulfilling the head-full-of-air stereotype to the fullest. When she came to interview me regarding my feelings on the decision, I told her that I was happy that Patrick now had a thousand dollars and could buy my interest in the record from me.

"I don’t think you understand. You lost," she informed me. I looked at her, confused, having understood and responded accordingly to the fact that Patrick had been awarded a thousand dollars. Someone yelled cut and they retaped the interview. These seekers of truth then coached me on how I felt about the judgment. I was to say that Patrick and I were still friends and I was glad to see him have some money, and glad he got to keep his record.

Patrick then was interviewed and said, "Well, Keith, I guess you finally get your fifty cents back."

His closing interview was perfect, but I still felt mine was out of character and weak. Oh well, I had 500 dollars and a free trip to Hollywood. I wasn’t complaining.

I was on National TV.

The Aftermath

The same day they showed our episode on network television a clip of Patrick and I arguing was shown on "Talk Soup" on the E network. The show was seen by many of our friends, including one who is still angry with me over my mistreatment of poor Patrick. I still sell varmints to spoiled children, and Patrick still works in a kitchen, but like many fools before us we are planning our return to Hollywood, where we will await the spoils of fame we had oh-too-small a taste of.

This time, though, I get to dress as the cowboy.