Neil Patrick Harris

by Neil Patrick Harris

  * * *

  1Actually, her previous birth had been a C-section, so it’s deemed safer not to do it the other way. That’s fine. You’re quite fond of C-sections, often finding them the most melodic part of a song.

  A cordon of police cars follow behind you. Ahead, a highway overpass rapidly fills with people waving and holding posters like STAY STRONG, BARNEY and RUN, NPH, RUN! A half-dozen helicopters circle above you, shooting real-time footage telecast live around the world to over 500 million people.

  And all the while, you sit in the passenger seat of the white Ford Bronco that David is driving.

  How could I have been so wrong? you wonder. You didn’t think anybody would care that you and David were trying to have children through surrogacy. Why should they? It’s 2010. Gay couples have kids all the time. So you’d been going to the clinic together using your actual names, taking absolutely no security or privacy precautions. Four days ago, as you left, David thought he spotted a photographer taking a picture of the two of you. “Damn, that’s going to be in the papers,” he said. “No it won’t.” you replied. “Believe me, nobody cares about two happily partnered men trying to have children.”

  The next morning your story dominated international headlines. “HARRIS, BURTKA ATTEMPTING TO HAVE NON-BIOLOGICAL CHILD,” blared The Wall Street Journal. “NPH, PARTNER IN SICKO BABY QUEST,” screamed the New York Post. blasted the Beijing Times-Picayune.

  The three days that follow are a nightmarish whirlwind. The paparazzi stalk you mercilessly. Your deal to star in the upcoming action movie Hetero Man completely falls through. Gay activists hold you as an example of everything deeply right with Hollywood, fundamentalists as an example of everything deeply wrong with Hollywood, and gay fundamentalists, as always, remain deeply in the closet.

  No one is talking about anything else—not global warming, not terrorism, not even the latest bit of Kardashiana. All seven billion people on planet Earth are united in their single-minded obsession with the possibility of you spawning.

  You and David somehow escape the media crush in the middle of the night and hide out with friends. In the morning you hop back into the white Ford Bronco. You are spotted, and now every major network is covering the slow-speed chase down the California highway.

  Suddenly your phone rings. Who is it? Fox News? Out? TM friggin’ Z? You just changed your number twenty-four hours ago, and now already the vultures in the press have gotten hold of it? How dare they?

  “How dare you?” you scream into the phone.

  “I’m sorry, um, Mr. Harris? This is the clinic. I was just calling to tell you the news that both embryos took. You’re going to be having twins.”

  And all at once, everything is wonderful, and nothing else matters.

  You and David look at each other and smile for a moment in sheer bliss.

  Then David realizes he probably should be watching the road.

  He turns his head forward just in time to see the eighteen-wheeler barreling towa—

  THE END

  Fundamentally interwoven in your genetic makeup is the ability and desire to play the role of Kermit the Frog or P. T. Barnum—the impresario, the circus ringmaster, the one who welcomes other people in and lets them know what they’re in for and then keeps checking on them to make sure everything’s okay. And over time, hosting awards shows becomes, to the extent any particular thing is your thing, your thing.

  You’ve hosted the Creative Arts Emmys, the TV Land Awards on Nickelodeon, and the Video Game Awards on Spike, and done several guest spots on the Oscars and the Grammys. But the awards shows you’re best known for are the Emmys (which you’ve done twice, in 2009 and 2013) and the Tonys (four times and counting). Your affinity for hosting awards shows has become such a well-known proclivity that at the 2013 Emmys you appeared in a pre-recorded sketch in which your HIMYM cast-mates diagnosed you with EHD—Excessive Hosting Disorder.

  Like all good comedy, it’s funny because it’s true.

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  If you would like to host the 2009 Tonys and watch a hair-metal hero almost die of blunt force trauma, go HERE.

  If you would like to host the 2011 Tonys and sing a legen—wait for it—dary opening song called “Broadway Is Not Just for Gays Anymore,” go HERE.

  If you would like to host the 2013 Tonys and pull off an extraordinary theatrical coup involving 121 actors in which you literally jump through a hoop and then disappear from the stage to reappear in the middle of the audience five seconds later, HERE.

  If you would like to host the 2013 Emmys and wrangle together a half-dozen other awards-show hosts to perform with you in an evening whose overall theme turns out to be the icy hand of death, go HERE.

  It’s the 2009 Tony Awards and you are over the moon. It’s your first time presiding over one of the four “major” awards shows. You’re on a mission. You’re not just going to host this awards show—you’re going to revolutionize the way it’s done. No, more than that; you’re going to change the world.

  Like you said, first-time host.

  But the co-executive producers, Ricky Kirshner and Glenn Weiss, pitch you an idea for a giant opening number that doesn’t involve you. Instead, cast members from different nominated musicals will all sing excerpts from their songs, one following the other in seamless choreography. It will be the biggest opening number in the show’s history, and only at the very end will you come out. You know what? This is your first major awards show, and you are a little nervous, and maybe not bearing the burden of the opening song on your shoulders would be just fine.

  So now the ceremony has begun, and you are standing off stage left, looking at a monitor and watching this truly grand piece of musical stagecraft unfold at Radio City Music Hall. This happens to be the year the jukebox show Rock of Ages is on Broadway, and its section of the medley features about a half-dozen performers and, making a cameo appearance, the rock band Poison. They, like everyone else performing in the opening medley, had heard this mantra repeated a hundred times over the course of the week: Giant pieces of scenery will be descending from the rafters throughout the number, so for safety’s sake, as soon as you’re finished, go upstage quickly. Yet despite this warning, at the appointed time, Poison’s lead singer Bret Michaels turns back to give the crowd one last unrehearsed I-love-you-Cleveland hand gesture. As he turns upstage, with comic timing worthy of Buster Keaton, a giant backdrop comes down right on his forehead and flips him onto his back.

  “Oh!” you immediately scream. You also realize that that backdrop isn’t done going down yet. It’s heading all the way to the floor, with Bret Michaels’s cranium beneath it. You are running through the likely scenario that Bret Michaels is now dead, his skull crushed, and the first line of your first Tony Awards hosting job will be, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to say this, but there’s been a terrible accident. Bret Michaels … is gone.” How should you say it? With what combination of authority and sadness? Should you take off your glasses like Cronkite after JFK? Too much? Too soon?

  These are the hypotheticals you feel obliged as a professional to weigh in your mind at this potentially bleak moment in American history. Fortunately, you soon see that Bret is more or less okay. The cast of Shrek is tending to him, presumably in response to someone shouting, “Is there a cast of a Dreamworks-based musical in the house?!?”

  You frantically ponder how to acknowledge what just happened as you walk to begin your opening monologue. Because you can’t not acknowledge it. It happened right in the middle of the stage; there was an audible gasp from the crowd; it would be disingenuous to pretend it hadn’t taken place. This is your big moment, your baptism by fire. A theater-award-loving nation hangs on your every word. Are you up to the task of the off-the-cuff zing?

  After a couple of jokes you quip, “By the way, Bret Michaels just gave head-banging a whole new meaning.”

  Zing accomplished! Well, partly. Bret later threatens to sue you for the aforementioned zing. But eventually he thinks
better of it, as—you will hope five years later—he will think better of suing you for recounting the anecdote in a book.

  It’s an early object lesson in the proper use of ad-libs. As host you have the opportunity, and sometimes the duty, to adjust on the fly, but you must do so with judgment. While it’s often sorely tempting to reappear after some particularly crazy or rambling acceptance speech and snarkily ask, “Wow, was that crazy or what?!”, it’s rarely a good idea. It will probably either come off as mean, sour the mood in the room, or lengthen an already overlong telecast.

  But in this case the joke strikes the right note. And you will return to the theme at the end of the night. In lieu of an opening number, you have told Glenn and Ricky you want to do a closing number. Your idea is to musically recap all that had transpired over the course of that very evening, almost like a magic trick. Although Glenn and Ricky reluctantly agree to your idea, they are dubious. Not only is there a high degree of difficulty involved in writing and learning the song over the course of a night, but their instincts are that it’s all for naught, since people stop watching awards telecasts the moment the last award is presented. They’re not alone in this opinion. A few weeks ago you spent a few minutes chatting with a previous Tony host, Nathan Lane. You went to see him in Waiting for Godot, and in his dressing room afterward you filled his ears with warranted praise for his amazing performance. He responded by letting you know he’d heard you wanted to do a closing number at the Tonys and “that’s a really bad idea, Neil, ’cause after the last award people stop giving a crap and you’re wasting your time and believe me I know.” When you respectfully tried to parry with “Well, that’s why I’m trying it, because I think it will be a fun, unique signature piece that breaks tradition,” he glared at you, closed his eyes with a slow blink, and oozed, as only Nathan Lane could, “Well, good luck with that.”

  Mr. Sunshine, that Nathan Lane.

  But you have two secret weapons in your arsenal: the genius songwriters Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman. They shine to your idea, and immediately focus on “Tonight” from West Side Story as the ideal musical jumping-off point. “Tonight, tonight, the Tonys were tonight …” You can hear the thing practically writing itself.1 As for the lyrics, you realize the shrewdest thing to do is write them in advance based on what you feel is likely to happen. The three of you write lyrics for the favorites and lyrics for the second choices, get the awesome director-choreographer Rob Ashford to work out a little bit of movement for you, and trust that if something out-of-the-ordinary happens—like an underdog winning, or Bret Michaels getting bonked in the forehead with a backdrop—you’ll be able to quickly bang out a couplet to replace a weaker joke, rehearse it backstage during the last twenty minutes of the show, and sing it off teleprompter. And sure enough, it goes like gangbusters, and you’re able to add,

  “What class, what drive,

  Now Angela [Lansbury]’s won five,

  And she hooked up with Poison backstage.”

  All in all, a great night for you, and a horrible one for Bret Michaels.

  * * *

  If you’d like to host the Tonys again, go HERE.

  If you’d like to be hosted by Katy Perry, go HERE.

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  1Note: the thing did not write itself. Marc and Scott wrote it. Songs very rarely write themselves. They’re lazy like that.

  [You sit behind a desk. After a few seconds of upbeat music, you turn to the camera.]

  YOU: Welcome back to The NPH Show! I’m your host, Neil Patrick Harris. My guest tonight is an actor, performer, and insanely handsome man currently starring in Neil Patrick Harris: Choose Your Own Autobiography, playing the title role of “you.” Please welcome Neil Patrick Harris!

  [You walk onto the page and wave to the reader. Then you go over to yourself, shake your own hand, and take a seat.]

  YOU: Look at you! You look great!

  YOU 2: Thanks! So do you!

  YOU: Now, Neil, you and I go back a long way, but if I’m not mistaken this is the first time you’ve appeared on The NPH Show, right?

  YOU 2: That’s right, although in my defense this show is a purely literary construct.

  YOU: Fair enough. Still, it’s safe to say it’s probably the only talk show you haven’t been on before, right?

  YOU 2: As Ed McMahon used to say, you are correct, sir! I’ve been on just about every TV gabfest there is, from Letterman to Leno to Kimmel to Fallon to Conan to Stewart to Colbert, right on through to RuPaul, Megan Mullally, and Ellen DeGeneres, usually multiple times.

  YOU: Clearly they love having you. You’re a good guest. What’s your secret?

  YOU 2: [Stretching out on couch] Well, I would say informality. Looking and feeling relaxed.

  YOU: And what about banter? I would imagine that you’re good at—

  YOU 2: —getting into a rhythm where you’re sort of—

  YOU: —in sync with the other person and there’s—

  YOU 2: —no awkward silences, exactly.

  YOU: Which show have you enjoyed the most?

  YOU 2: That’s a hard one. Fallon is fun. We play games; I rocked a magic trick once. He just makes you feel relaxed and comfortable, like you’re two old friends hanging out. I’m looking forward to doing his show to promote my book because when I’m on I’m going to read a little excerpt—this one right now, probably—and then when I’m done I’m going to reach over and French-kiss him.

  YOU: That’ll make for great TV. Let’s talk about some of the giants of the late-night world, because you mentioned Ed McMahon before, and I don’t think people realize you’ve been doing the circuit for so long you actually did Carson.

  YOU 2: Yes, three times back in the early ’90s. What a rush that was for a sixteen-year-old kid. I even got to do a magic trick with him.

  YOU: I’m intrigued. Do you have a clip?

  YOU 2: No, this is a book, Neil.

  YOU: Oh, right. Let’s talk about the other godfather of late night, Letterman. You go way back with him too, right?

  YOU 2: I’ve done his show ten times. The first was in 1994. I played a game where he and I tried to bowl and knock over random things in the NBC hallways. I also had a running gag that I’d get electrocuted every time I touched his microphone. I love David Letterman. He’s like a father figure to me. Only a sexy father. So suave; so rakishly handsome. And a generous kisser, a generous lover. You might expect him to be more selfish in bed, but no. He’s very thoughtful, always tending to my needs first, and next time I’m on his show, I’m gonna find some organic way to tell him how much I appreciate that.

  YOU: Oprah Winfrey.

  YOU 2: Funny story about her, Neil, and please stop me if you know it—

  YOU: Of course I know it, but go ahead.

  YOU 2: For the longest time—and here’s the insecurity talking—I thought that for all I’d achieved in the business I still hadn’t truly “made it” because I was Oprah-less. In fact I carried this silly anti-Oprah grudge because during the Doogie years Fred Savage and I appeared at a benefit for her, and afterward she ran up to Fred and told him how awesome he was, but barely said a word to me. It was silly. Extremely silly. She had no reason to know who I was. But two decades later, after David and I had our kids, her people called saying she wanted to come to our house and hang out with us, which under normal circumstances I might find weird, but of course Oprah is not normal circumstances. And I can guarantee you, by the time she arrived, our house had never been cleaner. I’m talking immaculate.

  YOU: Any other interviewers you particularly admire?

  YOU 2: Howard. I looovve Howard Stern. He is the best interviewer in the business. I bought Sirius Radio because of him; I only wish he were broadcasting live 24/7. He approaches his subjects almost the way a psychiatrist approaches his patients. If he sees there’s something they don’t want to talk about, that’s what he asks about. Which is human nature and a riveting interview technique, and exactly why I was so terrified the first time I appeared
on his show. All I could imagine is that he’d have his numerous callers say awful things about my sexual proclivities and ask whether or not I love fisting. But I decided to face my fears, and he couldn’t have been nicer. We played “Fuck Marry Kill,” took some calls, and had a lovely chat. I’ve done his show again since then, and I hope I get to do it once more for the book tour. Maybe I’ll get to throw bologna slices on a stripper’s ass. Or finger-bang Richard Christy.

  YOU: Awesome! Maybe I’ll be there for that as well. We have to take a break. Can you stick around for another chapter?

  YOU 2: I can, but other people might not want to, so let’s give them a chance to change channels.

  * * *

  If you want to read the rest of your interview with yourself, go HERE.

  If you want to hear from a close friend of Howard’s (and yours), go HERE.

  If you’ve had enough of this meta-self-indulgence and would like to mix yourself a drink, go HERE.

  And now a word from your friend …

  KELLY RIPA

  One of my job perks is that occasionally I get to meet people I’ve admired for years. And every so often we become friends. Such was the case with you and me.

  We first met when you were a guest on my chat show a thousand years ago. The producers and I know a great talker when we see one, so it wasn’t long before our show was reaching out to you to cohost with me from time to time. From there our relationship just blossomed. We became very close, as did our families, and so we took it to the next level … Thanksgiving dinner.

  As you know, my kids are obsessed with you in general and your sleight-of-hand tricks in particular, so it was a real treat when, after a delicious and relaxing meal, we all settled into the living room to sit by the fire and be entertained by the magical stylings of NPH.