Neil Patrick Harris

by Neil Patrick Harris

  You have no idea if he ever followed through on his pledge. It’s possible he did. It’s possible he didn’t. A quick glance through the most recently revised score of Sweeney Todd would reveal the answer. Which is why you never glance through it. Because as long as you don’t, last you heard, Stephen Sondheim changed his score because of you.1

  * * *

  To work with Stephen Sondheim again, go HERE.

  To continue your theater career in a less illustrious way, go HERE.

  To go to Ireland, ’cause why the hell not, go HERE.

  * * *

  1Years later, Stephen Sondheim will be gracious enough to contribute this verse to your memoir:

  Neil Patrick Harris,

  Who’s hard to embarrass,

  Can be found in your browser

  Under “See Doogie Howser.”

  Along with this explanatory note:

  It’s a clerihew, a form of personalized quatrain invented by E. C. Bentley, in which you use the subject’s name as the first line.

  Double squeal!

  Have courage, Neil. Don’t be scared. Life is an adventure.

  An opportunity like the one you have now may never come again, at least not in this book.

  Sure, you’re a little afraid right now. The thing/activity/career path you’re considering doing may seem a little frightening. But it’s also the path to growth and self-discovery.

  So pluck up your courage and take that risk! Add another story to the book of your life. Even if it doesn’t go the way you planned or wanted, you’ll still learn from it. Adventure elicits action, and through action comes change.

  And change forces new experience.

  And experience yields knowledge.

  Now go back HERE, HERE, or HERE where you were just on and say yes to adventure!

  Two of the most important people you meet in your post-Doogie life turn out to be a couple of stoner dudes from Jersey. Not that you set out to meet them. Or any dudes, for that matter. Because in the wake of your star-making four-season TV run, when you ask yourself, What’s the best way to capitalize on your medico-televisual fame? the answer is obvious to you and to anyone who knows Neil Patrick Harris: fuck as many women as humanly possible.

  So you spend the next few years hitting and quitting almost every cooch you come in contact with. Eventually, you pork your way through the entire LA snizz scene and start traveling the country in search of new vaginal adventures. One day you find yourself at a party on a movie set in New Jersey. You’re disappointed by the level of talent until your friend Charlie arrives with his new girlfriend. She’s a 9, easy, with the face of Ava Gardner and the tits of a Square Pegs–era Sarah Jessica Parker. Her intoxicating fragrance is redolent of lilacs, juniper berries, and cooze sweat. Your hard-on instantly becomes a harder-on. You desperately want to do her, but what about Charlie? How are you gonna bang his girlfriend when he’s standing right there?

  As you deliberate, Charlie asks if you want to bounce with him and the skirt to another party. Then he offers you ecstasy. You tend to be more of a Quaaludes/barbiturates kind of guy, but when it comes to drugs you’re willing to try anything because you, Neil Patrick Harris, love doing drugs.

  At first nothing seems to be happening, but then, just as you get in the limo and take off, the ecstasy starts kicking in. Your lust overpowers you. Your balls are about to explode. You wait until Charlie isn’t looking, then stick your hand under his girlfriend’s skirt and commence fingerbanging. Much to your delight, she is into it. But then, just as you take your fingers out so she can taste her own cooch cream, Charlie catches you, punches you in the face, opens the door, and pushes you out.

  You tumble onto the pavement and get up relatively unscathed, but now you’re stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere without a car. Luckily, you flag down a car and hop inside, and that’s when you meet them: the driver, an Asian dude in his twenties, and his passenger, another dude in his twenties who looks Indian or Pakistani or something. They say their names are Harold and Kumar, but you don’t care; all you want is for them to take you to the nearest strip club. But they insist on going to White Castle instead.

  This is the moment you realize they’re probably gay.

  You wait until they pull over at a convenience store, then hop into the driver’s seat and jack their car. Next stop: your favorite NJ strip club, Flaps, in Piscataway. Strippers always love it when cute, innocent Doogie walks in—and that’s how you lure them into leaving the club with you. You pack ’em into the H&Kmobile, pull out an eight ball, and keep the party going down the open road. Once you’re done giving them the business, you drop them off like the gentleman you are. You’re starving and White Castle is still fresh in your mind because of those gay dudes who kept talking about it so you go to one … and turns out they have a happy ending (but not the fun kind), ’cause there they are holding a whole bunch of meat (which they must love since they’re gay). You buy their meal, give them back their car, and walk off into the sunset, expecting your encounter never to have a sequel.

  But you’re wrong. Cut to a few days later. You get a call from another buddy throwing a wild rager down in New Orleans. Faster than a speeding penis you’re in a hotel room overlooking Bourbon Street. Within five minutes you’re banging some broad on the balcony, hard against the railing, NPH-style. Then you hear police sirens. Turns out all the ladies there are professionals and you’re getting raided. Your buddy tosses you the keys to his car and tells you to get the hell out of Dodge. You do exactly as told.

  But you didn’t finish your business, and your balls are bluer than a Smurf in a cloudless sky, so you decide to head to Madam Sally’s, the Texas whorehouse you used to frequent during the Doogie hiatuses of yesteryear. On the way you spot a couple of dudes hitchhiking on the side of the road. You remember that nice gay couple that picked you up in Jersey a few days earlier and decide to pay it forward. So you pull over and let them in. But wouldn’t you know it—the hitchhikers turn out to be those same gay dudes, Harold and Kumar! Them again! If this were a movie it would be Harold and Kumar 2!

  You all make your way to Madam Sally, who presents you with a glittering array of prostitutes. Naturally you pick the biggest-titted whore of the bunch (her name is literally Tits), then tell Sally to hook up Harold and Kumar with a couple of girls. Knowing them, you assume they’ll end up rubbing their dicks together or something, but that’s their problem. You and Tits get undressed in one of the private rooms, and dive into a typical Neil Patrick Harris fuck session, which consists of:

  1. Kissing.

  2. Super sloppy wet blowjobs (the more spitting the better).

  3. Tit slapping … first with your hand, then your dick.

  4. Golden showers.

  5. Chocolate hailstorms.

  6. A few minutes of cuddling (after she wipes off the remnants of your hailstorm).

  7. Branding her with your initials, officially making her your bitch.

  But alas—as Fredrick Douglass once said—“bitches always act like bitches.” The moment you brand Tits she runs out of the room and starts crying to Sally. Next thing you know, Sally’s pulling out a shotgun. You make a break for the car with H&K, but before you can get to them, she cocks her shotgun and blows a load right through your chest. You fall to the ground as everything around you fades away.…

  You’ve heard of people talk about near-death experiences before, but yours is the real deal. You actually go to heaven and meet Jesus. He’s a little Jewy for your taste, but he’s got a couple of hot medium-meloned angels around his arms. Naturally you make a move on them when Jesus isn’t looking. But before you can dip your wick, Jesus catches you and gets his dad to send you back down to Earth. Whatevs.

  With a new lease on life, you realize you need to change your ways. For the next eight months, you give up booze and broads. You score an audition for a CBS show entitled How I Met Your Mother, and soon you’re once again on every TV set across the country. Before long, you’re catchin
g a whiff of that sweet smell that can only come from a certain female orifice, and you’re sticking it to every chick on the show … even the unknown mother herself. But when your agent catches wind he reminds you you’re on a family network and shouldn’t do anything in the public eye that could hurt your chances of getting this show into syndication. That’s when you remember those two gay guys, Harold and Kumar. They were friendly. They were harmless. They were sweet. So you come up with a brilliant idea—convince the world you’re gay!

  You make the big announcement to the press and they buy it. It works like a charm. Now you can grab whatever snatch you want and no one will see it coming. True, now you have to pretend to be an advocate for gay rights, but you quickly learn that hot chicks show up to gay rights rallies. Still, when you bump into the boys for a third time—backstage at Radio City Music Hall—they start giving you slack for pretending to be gay. You assume they’re offended at how you have been portraying their lifestyle, so you appease them the only way you know how—by giving them a Christmas tree and a robot. They leave on good terms, and that’s the last you ever see of them.

  But in the years to come you will occasionally pause to reflect about them. Those two dudes, you will think, were there during some of your lowest lows and highest highs. In many ways, Harold and Kumar change your life. You wonder if you’ll ever meet up with them again. The odds are unlikely—but “randomly” bumping into them through the years has made you a believer in fate. Maybe the next time you’re on one of your awesome adventures, your paths will cross for a fourth time. Until then, here’s hoping they’re doing well.

  * * *

  Woohoo! To be the subject of a profile in Totally Straight Guy magazine ’cuz you’re so totally straight, go HERE.

  To go out on a date with the kind of hot chick a raging heterosexual man like you can get anytime he wants, go HERE.

  If all this adrenaline has you ready for a climactic car chase, go HERE. (It’s a gay car chase, though.)

  * * *

  To take a vacation with David, go HERE.

  To tell the world you love David, go HERE.

  To start a family with David, go HERE.

  To sing a song with lyrics by a different guy named David, go HERE.

  * * *

  *You have asked David to annotate this chapter with his own handwritten notes. He has graciously agreed. He better not have messed with this footnote, though. That would be way too meta.

  FRESH PASTA WITH BOLOGNESE SAUCE

  For most of his life, whenever David was feeling down in the dumps, sad, or bored, he cooked. He made homemade chicken soup when he didn’t get a job; he made chocolate cake after a fight with a friend. This love of food led him to go to cooking school and become a professional chef. At the start of his career he had a chance to work at the legendary restaurant Babbo in New York under the tutelage of the great Mario Batali, where he learned how to make Mario’s famous Bolognese. The recipe below is David’s personal take on the recipe. You’re addicted to this dish and it’s quite possibly your favorite thing David makes. Whenever he goes out of town he makes sure there’s plenty of this ragù stocked up in the freezer. David says this sauce is best with homemade pasta but in a pinch dry pasta will do just fine. You say, oh sweet Babbo, is this good.

  FRESH PASTA

  Although the sauce will work on any type of dried or fresh pasta, David likes to make his own. Yes, it can be time-consuming, but it’s totally worth it.

  Serves 4

  2 cups all-purpose flour, plus additional as needed

  2 eggs

  1 teaspoon olive oil

  Salt

  Water as needed

  Note: The ratio for pasta dough is always 1 cup of flour to 1 egg. You can increase the amount if desired.

  1. Place 2 cups of flour in a pile on counter. Use your fingers to make a hole in the center of the flour (a “well”).

  2. Break the eggs into the well; add olive oil and a pinch of salt.

  3. Break the yolks with a fork, and in a swirling motion beat them slowly to incorporate into the flour. You can swirl to your favorite late-’80s dance song—David prefers Technotronic’s “Pump Up the Jam.” Be careful not to break the walls of the well until the eggs are fully incorporated.

  4. Add a tiny amount of water and knead with your hands until a dough forms. (Note: Add only enough water to make the flour sticky, but not wet. If you add too much water and your hands get sticky, use a little more flour.)

  5. Continue kneading 5 to 10 minutes, until the dough is smooth and bounces back. (To test the dough: Press your finger into it to make an indent. If it bounces back, the dough is ready. If it screams in pain, something’s gone horribly awry.)

  6. Form a flat disk with the dough, cover in plastic wrap, and let rest for 30 minutes on the counter.

  7. Set up a pasta roller; place die setting to 1 (the widest setting).

  8. Take one-quarter of the dough (leave the rest covered) and flatten it out with the palm of your hand or a rolling pin to about ¼ to ½ inch thick. Place the dough on the pasta roller and crank through each setting twice, starting on the lowest setting. When you get to setting 6, pull through only once.

  9. Using a pastry wheel, cut 1 × 9-inch strips for pappardelle. Put the cut pasta in layers on a baking sheet with parchment between layers to keep them from sticking. Keep the pasta covered so it won’t dry out as you repeat step 8 with the remainder of the dough. Remember to turn the setting back to 1 with each new batch of dough.

  10. Store fresh pasta, covered, in the refrigerator until ready to use. Do not allow loved ones to snack on it. Use force if necessary.

  BOLOGNESE

  Serves 4 to 6

  2 ounces extra virgin olive oil

  1 cup onions, cut into very small dice

  ½ cup celery, cut into very small dice

  ½ cup carrot, cut into very small dice

  Salt

  3 cloves garlic, very thinly sliced

  ½ pound ground veal

  ½ pound ground pork

  4 ounces ground or finely diced pancetta

  4 ounces (²⁄³ can) tomato paste

  ½ cup dry white wine

  ½ cup whole milk

  ¼ cup chicken stock or broth

  ½ teaspoon fresh thyme leaves, minced

  ½ teaspoon fresh oregano, minced

  Red pepper flakes

  Pepper

  1 tablespoon butter

  Parmesan, for serving

  1. Heat a large, shallow saucepan over medium-low heat. Add the olive oil, onions, celery, carrots, and a pinch of salt. Sweat until translucent (approximately 10 minutes), stirring occasionally (do not brown).

  2. Add the garlic and continue to sweat for 2 minutes. (The garlic, not you.)

  3. Increase heat to high and add the veal, pork, and pancetta. Brown the meat, stirring frequently to break it up while combining with the vegetables.

  4. Once the meat is browned, add the tomato paste, wine, and milk. Bring to a boil.

  5. Add the chicken stock, thyme, oregano, and a pinch of red pepper flakes (or more if desired). Return to the boil, then reduce heat to medium-low and simmer for 1 to 1½ hours, uncovered, stirring occasionally.

  6. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

  7. Add the butter and stir until it is incorporated. Place in a large serving bowl.

  Serving Suggestion

  1. In a large pot bring at least 6 quarts of salted water to a boil.

  2. Put fresh pasta in the pot and boil for 2 minutes, or until it floats (do not drain).

  3. Transfer the pasta and a few tablespoons of pasta water from the pot to the serving bowl with the Bolognese.

  4. Delicately combine the pasta and sauce.

  5. Serve with shaved Parmesan to your loved ones.

  6. Enjoy their moaning.

  7. Make them do the dishes.

  * * *

  To tweet food porn about this delicious meal, go HERE.

  To s
hare a meal with one of your best friends, Kelly Ripa, go HERE.

  To bask even more deliciously in David’s love, go HERE.

  In 2002 you are hungry for a starring role on Broadway, and you think you may have found one in Proof, David Auburn’s beautifully written Pulitzer Prize–winning play. Although the play centers on the brilliant but troubled young female mathematician Catherine, the role of her boyfriend Hal is enormous, meaty, and fun.1

  Catherine is played originally by Mary-Louise Parker, then by Jennifer Jason Leigh. When Jennifer leaves, the producers decide to break with tradition and cast someone with only two names, Anne Heche. At the same time, the role of Hal becomes available. You’re very interested, and so are the producers, but they’re concerned you might look too young opposite Anne. So your agent—who’s Anne’s agent also, and isn’t that nice—finds a recent video of her auditioning for a film in which she looks young and glowing and radiant, which gives the producers confidence it won’t look too oedipal when you kiss her.

  You begin a month of rehearsal with Anne and the other new members of the ensemble, including the glorious Kate Jennings Grant and Len Cariou, the original Sweeney Todd. The cast is great. The material is exquisite. The stars seemed to be aligned. But from the very first rehearsal one unexpected obstacle emerges: Anne Heche. After her very public breakup with Ellen DeGeneres, she has by her own admission done a lot of prescription drugs. She was recently found on a highway in Napa Valley speaking to aliens. She has just come out with a book called Call Me Crazy. And now, as you sit in a circle discussing the play, she looks at you, pulls her sunglasses down (note: you are indoors), and, in a loud, helium-pitched voice, says, “Wow, how do you theater people do it? How do you theater people do the same thing every night? I just don’t get it, I don’t work that way.”