A lesson in what not to say to Miller

Kirk Baird

Friday, Dec. 29, 2000 | 9:40 a.m.

It's arguably a journalist's worst nightmare, akin to having O.J. Simpson carve the Thanksgiving turkey or Ted Kennedy chauffeur you to the airport.

Picking up the phone one afternoon recently and hearing a quiet, calm voice on the other end say, "Hi. It's Dennis Miller. I just received a fax saying you wanted an interview. Let's go."

It's not the fact that it was Miller. It's just that I had no idea he was going to call. I'd talked to his publicist the day before to set up an interview, and he said he'd get back to me with the date and time. Nothing had been scheduled -- as far as I knew.

"Dennis sometimes does this," his publicist warned after the fact, "Sorry."

Calling from his home in Southern California to promote his New Year's Eve show with David Spade at the Aladdin Theatre for the Performing Arts, it was obvious Miller simply wanted to get the interview over with.

Never mind the fact I was completely unprepared for the interview, with not a single question in my head, which, considering it was supposed to be a Q&A piece, was a problem.

Miller, as most of America is well aware, is a busy man these days, with his "Monday Night Football" broadcasting gig on ABC winding down and his own show on HBO, "Dennis Miller Live," starting its eighth season in January. So, when he has the time to call, you take it -- come hell or no tape recorder in sight.

Feeling like Evel Knievel jumping the Snake River Canyon -- you know you're destined to fail, but what choice do you have? -- I just launched the thing and prepared for the worst. The interview was underway.

"So, Dennis, how's the 'Monday Night Football' job going? Do you feel you met the expectations thrust on you as the comedic savior of prime-time football?" (Admittedly, a softball question, one he's been asked more times than, "Mr. Gore, when will you admit defeat?")

"I don't know what other people's expectations are of me," Miller said. "I try to meet the expectations of my employers and myself."

Uh huh. Well, since he obviously loved that question, here's another equally thought-out poser: "So, do you feel your employer's liked your performance?"

"Don't know," Miller said. "I just did the job and they'll let me know."

So this is what it felt like on board the Titanic. "Well, what about your acting career? Loved 'The Net.' " (Insert sucking-up sound here.)

"I'm done acting. I only did that to make money," he said. "I admire good actors and I'm not one of them. I've got enough jobs."

It's time for a new strategy: talk to him about why he's doing the interview in the first place. "So, with all your jobs, how is it you find time to perform standup?"

"I miss (standup)," he said. "I've never deviated from it too far. That's what I am -- I'm a standup comic. I'm proud of that."

Obviously that tactic didn't work. "So, Dennis, who makes you laugh?" (Owww, straight from the Barbara Walters' School of Journalism. What's next? "So, Dennis, what kind of tree would you be?")

"(David) Spade and I have been on the road a coupla times. He makes me laugh harder than anyone else," Miller said.

"Why is that?" (I could feel Miller cringe on that one -- or maybe it was my own steadily deflating ego.)

"It's hard to break down. I don't want to break it down," he said. "I don't want to perform an autopsy on it."

At this point, I wished someone would perform an autopsy on me. This was followed by arguably the worst question ever uttered in an interview -- one so innocuous I cannot fully recall it. Suffice to say it was simply to fill dead air while frantically trying to type in his quotes even after he'd finished answering the question two minutes prior.

"That's one of those questions you ask when you don't have any questions," Miller said.

(Pardon me, Mr. Miller, while I pick up the pieces of my self-esteem.) "You're right, Dennis," I said between nervous laughter. "I've got nothing."

He began to chuckle at what was apparently obvious to both hunter and prey: blood had been shed, it was simply a matter of time before the carnivorous feast.

"So, Dennis, do you think your reputation as being a repository for all things pop culture is earned?"

"Now that's a valid question," he said. (The praise was deafening. The facade, it seemed, was beginning to crack.) "I didn't do anything to earn that. For all the deficiencies I have as a human being, one thing given to me is a reasonably deep ... ancilla retriever system. I don't know what it's worth, but I'm glad God gave it to me. It seems to be what my humor is about.

"I don't want that to seem braggadocio because I don't have a lot of strengths."

This coming from a man who has a link to Britannica.com on the Monday Night Football website to explain some of his references.

"You know, if I were to have a trivial pursuit team, you'd be on it." (OK, another attempt at sucking up, but it is the truth. Miller would be a pop-culture machine.)

At this point Miller laughed. The rapport was building.

"I would never go on one of those (TV game) shows," he said. "I think I'd just expose myself as a fraud. I'd rather just be rumored to be good. That's the key to a successful career: rumored to be good.

"I've never missed the first three questions of 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire.' But can you imagine if I did screw up? 'Mercury, Venus ... I don't know, Regis.' BONG! Career over. (Imitating Regis Philbin) 'It was Saturn. Saturn has the ring.' "

At this point the interview had clearly turned a corner. Miller was into it and I was beginning to feel like a high school girl who'd just been asked to the prom. Just like Sally Field -- he likes me, he really, really likes me.

"Hey, got to wrap this up. Any more questions?" Miller asked.

So much for the bonding session. As the wind vanished from my sails, I limped into port with one final idiotic question: "What are your plans for the holidays?"

"My show starts Jan. 12 and then football starts next year. I'm going to have a nice Christmas with the family. Those are my plans."

And with that, Miller thanked me and hung up, mercifully pulling the plug on the interview. I sat quietly at my desk thinking about what could have been, the questions that should have been asked. Later that day, one nagging question I wished I'd asked kept running through my head: "So, Dennis, was this the lamest interview you've ever had?"

Something tells me I didn't need to hear his answer.