Chapter 11

The Pros and Cons of Fame

"I never wanted to be famous.

I only wanted to be great."

~ William Butler Yeats, 1951

It may surprise some of you to learn that I did not set out to become a celebrity. My talents and ambitions gave me a natural yearning drive to achieve greatness. That much is true. Prestige and stardom certainly were not the goals in and of themselves. But it would appear when an individual achieves greatness in their field, fame becomes unavoidable.

Being famous has its perks, certainly. I'm no stranger to the occasional complimentary meal or the ease of finding an adoring fan to enjoy my company on a Saturday night. But fame is not without its drawbacks. It's not unusual for someone of my notoriety to be mobbed by admirers in the streets. I carry a baseball hat and a pair of dark glasses with me everywhere I go, just to be safe. I have found myself, on occasion, swarmed by radio enthusiasts on the streets of New York, each eager to get an autograph or a handshake from yours truly. To my loyal followers, please don't misunderstand me. I truly appreciate the love and adoration you have shown me over the years. I do not want to seem ungrateful. But sometimes a man just wants to walk down the street alone with his cigarette and his thoughts.

I'm reminded of one occasion in particular. I had just received word that an old friend had, once again, lost his job. I decided to take a long walk through the cold streets of Manhattan to clear my head and decide what to say to lift the old chap's spirits. This particular chum got fired a lot, so it was always a challenge to think of something original to cheer him up. Halfway through my third cigarette, the words were starting to come together inside this brilliant mind of mine. That's when I turned a corner and found myself face to face with a well-meaning fan who screamed, "Hey, it's Bill McNeal!" I was instantaneously swarmed by a crowd of McNeal devotees, each wanting a photo opportunity or an autograph. It completely derailed my train of thought.

I know there are a great many has-beens and never-weres out there who would relish in a fan base such as mine. I don't mean to imply that I take my zealots for granted. I do my best to make time with the commoners who adore me. Still, if you should see me on the streets of New York looking whimsical and ruminative, do us both a favor and kick rocks.

The real problem with having such an enormous fan base, is that I'm bound to attract the occasional overly enthusiastic fanatic. I've had my share of stalkers and potential assassins alike. It's happened often enough that I have developed the honed instincts of the most skilled investigator. All it takes is a prickle on the back of my neck to let me know I'm being followed. My bat-like hearing makes it possible for me to pick out the irregular cadence that often accompanies the cautious footsteps of a hunter—although, in this case I am the prey. It's understandable that a person might become so overwhelmed by my greatness that their infatuation might turn into something more malicious. They want what they cannot have and they will try to get it at any cost.

The motives of my stalkers tend to vary. Some are fairly benign. There was the aspiring broadcaster who wanted me to listen to his demo tape. Then there was the overbearing barista who wanted an autographed photo to hang in his coffee shop. And who could forget the gentleman who repelled from the top of my apartment building in order to photograph me through my window while suspended by nothing more than a flimsy rock climbing harness. My neighbor, who happens to be one of the busiest male prostitutes in the business, was sure this individual was an obsessive former client who had mistaken my window for his own. But, come on, I'm Bill McNeal.

Perhaps my favorite stalker of them all was the one who managed to track down my home phone number, in spite of the fact that I'm unlisted. I never did determine the identity of this resourceful individual, but I must say that the heavy breathing of their wordless, late-night phone calls lulled me to sleep on many occasions. Sir or Madame, if you're still out there somewhere, thank you for the slumber. You've been of great service.

I have endured countless encounters such as these over the years and, I assure you, they are fairly harmless. The perpetrators meant no ill will. They simply let their enthusiasm get away from them. Given my level of appeal and approachability, I can hardly fault them for it. I have accepted these experiences as the price of success and stardom. There are others, however, which are far less innocuous. Believe it or not, there is a small subset of my admirers who have taken things a step too far. There are deviants out there who have allowed their obsession with my persona to turn into something much more sinister.

This will come as a shock to those of you who have come to know and love Bill McNeal, but there are a handful of individuals out there who would like to see me dead. No, really, it's true. I have accumulated my share of attempted assassins over the years. I've had my brake lines cut. I've detected arsenic in my fan mail. Countless people on the streets have told me to drop dead. I consider the number of death threats received in a given year to be a good indicator of my level of fame. You'd be a fool to assume that no one ever tried to knock off Dan Rather. Why should Bill McNeal be any different? For the most part, I've been able to handle these incidents on my own with a clever disguise or the help of a hired goon. Sometimes the threats have been serious enough to warrant a call to the local police department, although they seem to have blocked my number for some reason.

There was one event, however, that still sends a chill up my spine. Looking back, I realize that I cheated death by a margin thinner than a razor's edge. As they say is often the case, my assailant was not merely a random, deranged super fan, but someone I knew personally. It was a woman I had previously worked with. She was one of my original co-anchor when I first ventured away from my aunt's radio station. Her name was Erica Delaware. I first met Erica when I was seated opposite her in the broadcast booth. We were co-anchors at WFBQ in Indianapolis. She had an instantaneous obsession with me from the moment we met. I walked in and asked her if she'd be a sweetheart and fetch me a cup of coffee. From that moment on, all she could talk about was, "Bill this," and, "Bill that." I'll admit, her level of instant infatuation made me a little uncomfortable. We were in a place of business, after all. I did my best to ignore her fanaticism. On a regular basis, I would talk over her while we were on the air or simply snag her news copy and read it for her. I thought that might give her time to compose herself and get her obsession under control. It was no use. The woman was fixated on me and there was just no stopping it.

I tried everything I could think of to reduce my celebrity appeal. I frequently called Erica by the wrong name on purpose. I told her time and again that she was terrible at her job and she should probably consider switching careers. She could surely find something more suitable to a woman's skillset, like becoming a preschool teacher or a secretary or something. This ploy to make myself less appealing to her proved fruitless. I guess star power is something that can't be turned off. Erica's obsession with me continued. Somewhere along the line I guess it all became too much for her. She went to our news director and demanded that he fire me. Can you imagine that? Who would fire Bill McNeal? I suppose she knew she couldn't control herself around me, so she tried to push me out the door. The news director denied her request, of course. He said something about unsubstantiated claims, but in reality, it was obviously because their little station couldn't stand to lose a star like me.

Looking back, I think that's when Erica began to crack. She went on air, telling all of the greater Indianapolis area that I was a misogynist, a narcissist, and an arrogant bastard. I told her those were big words for a little lady. They cut the feed right about the time she lunged at me across the booth. I was impressed by the lies she was willing to tell in hopes of pushing other fans away and keeping me all to herself. I should have known at that moment that the woman was crazy, but I suppose I'm guilty of always trying to see the best in people.

After that incident, she was fired, as you might expect. I thought I had seen the last of her. It wasn't until years later that I would experience the encounter that would nearly be my end. I would have thought her fixation with me might have waned over the years. I hadn't given the woman a second thought since the moment she left my sight. It was at a broadcasting convention in St. Louis where we finally met again. I had decided to attend one of the after-hours mixers for the free booze. There I was, cocktail in one hand, cocktail weenie in the other, when I heard a voice growl my name. I turned around, expecting to see an adoring fan, but was met with the cold, ruthless gaze of Erica Delaware. It was clear that she had spent the entirety of our time apart allowing her obsession to grow into something dangerous and all-consuming. Erica looked me in the eyes, unblinking. She quickly downed the last of her complementary chardonnay, smashed her wine glass on a nearby table, and came at me with the jagged stem.

I tried to grab a nearby convention-goer to use as a human shield, but that gentleman proved more slippery than the cocktail weenie still clutched in my grasp. Erica hit me, full force, with as much strength as a woman can muster and we both tumbled to the floor. I held her wrist at arm's length as she attempted to stab the broken stem of her wine glass directly through my jugular. Bystanders attempted to wrench her off of me, but she seemed to possess the strength of a mother attempting to lift a car off her child.

"Erica!" I cried. "Get a hold of yourself. You cannot have me and you're just going to have to live with that."

The unholy scream that came out of that woman in response is something that still haunts my dreams. With renewed strength, she raised that broken glass up into the air with both hands and attempted to drive it directly into my heart as if she were slaying a vampire. My efforts to fend her off were wasted. She had been overcome with some unseen force which gave her the strength of a tiger and the ferocity of a badger in heat. She brought the stem down hard and quick. There was nothing I could do to stop her. Now, I am not a religious man, but I do believe there was a higher power at play in that convention hall. For as the jagged tip came down upon me, it connected not with my flesh, but with my gold tie clip which was no more than a quarter inch wide. The impact caused the glass to splinter further and a tiny sliver managed to lodge itself squarely in Erica's eye. She dropped her weapon and rolled off of me, writhing and screaming on the cheap carpet of the convention hall. I did not hesitate. I seized the opportunity to make a hasty exit. I promptly filed a restraining order and have not seen my attempted assassin since. The last I heard she had been committed to a mental ward for the criminally insane. While she nearly brought about my untimely demise, I want to make it clear that I hold no ill will against Ms. Delaware. I can hardly blame her for her fascination with me. Perhaps being so charming should be a crime. It is my sincerest hope that Erica has found peace and has finally let go of her fixation on the one and only, Bill McNeal.

While I possess a certain star quality that is undeniable, I am hardly the most famous person in the public eye. I realize that to the commoner I am something of a celebrity. But have you ever wondered whom a celebrity like myself thinks of as a celebrity? These are the super celebrities-the household names that bridge generational divides. I may reach that level of fame one day. Given my talent and charisma, it seems unavoidable. Still, I've had plenty of encounters with these superstars along the way. Always cool under pressure, Bill McNeal is not one to get star struck. I've always kept my composure when I've had my fair share of brushes with the rich and famous—the elite amongst their peers.

There is an unspoken code between us famous types. We don't kiss and tell and we certainly don't spill the juicy details of our encounters with one another in a tell-all memoir. That being said, I think I would be doing my fans and followers a disservice if I did not at least enumerate some of the glitterati with whom I've rubbed elbows.

Well documented is my encounter with the legendary James Caan. He had accepted the role of a radio journalist in an upcoming movie. Always a class act and a credit to his profession, he knew he had to learn from the best. Thus, he came to me. If you watch the film Bulletproof, I think you'll notice a lot of Bill McNeal coming through in his performance. I must say I'm quite proud of my meaningful contribution to his career. While our time spent together ended with him punching me in the jaw, I still think of my buddy Jimmy fondly and consider him to be one of my closest friends.

Of course, none shall soon forget my scintillating on-air interviews with hip-hop artist, Chuck D and comedian-turned-actor, Jerry Seinfeld, both masters in their class. While I came away from both conversations with a new understanding of each of their respective crafts, I would like to think that they each learned something as well. Certainly, they each learned that if you're going to go toe-to-toe with Bill McNeal, you had better bring your A game. I believe Chuck D learned that rap music can be more than just curse words that happen to rhyme. I believe Jerry Seinfeld learned that no one gives a damn what some Hollywood elitist thinks about the national deficit. And I believe that we all learned a little something about friendship along the way.

I shared a cab with Mike Dukakis once. It was a funny story, actually. There I was at the corner of 58th and Madison, hailing a cab after a long day of blessing New Yorkers with the sound of my voice. A taxi pulled up and stopped right in front of me. Just as I reached for the door handle, another hand met my own. I looked up and found myself face to face with none other than Michael Dukakis. Ever the diplomat, Mike asked me if I wanted to share the cab. It was 1988, in the middle of his presidential campaign. I certainly wasn't going to pass up the chance for a little one-on-one time with the candidate. Like the gentleman I am, I motioned for him to enter the taxi first, which conveniently gave me time to switch on the audio recorder I usually keep in my pocket for just such an occasion.

As the car pulled away from the curb, I jumped right in with my hard hitting questions. I grilled him on his foreign policy plan and his thoughts on deficit spending. I asked him to defend his prison furlough plan. I pushed him to address his reputation as a technocrat and his issues with the pledge of allegiance in schools. I was relentless, but Mr. Dukakis surprised me. As most politicians do, he refused to give me a straight answer on anything. Instead, he countered each of my queries with a diversionary question of his own, such as, "Who's Mike?" and, "Are you talking about that guy who's running for president?" He's a slippery one, that Mike. He gave me nothing and showed no emotion while doing so. It's no wonder he earned the nickname Zorba the Clerk. The man is like a robot.

In the end, I must say Dukakis won that round. I wasn't able to get much out of him. Still, I ran the interview on the air the next day, uncut. It must have gotten under his skin. Someone from his campaign called the very same day, stating that if we didn't issue an apology they were going to sue. I never did get to find out how that turned out. My news director was so riled up about the whole ordeal that he decided to send me home for a week. It looks like old Billy got the last laugh, didn't he Mike?

I had a similar experience with Ted Koppel. I hadn't known him to be especially stone faced. But when I met him at a press conference, he flat out refused to admit who he was. We shared a nice conversation, nevertheless. Thinking back on it now, he may have been deep undercover for a story. As something of an investigative journalist myself, I know that you can never give away your true identity, even if it means passing up the opportunity to have a conversation with Bill McNeal. I respect his commitment to his character. Kudos, Ted!

There were other run-ins with politicians as well. You can't flick a cigarette butt in this town without it hitting the shoes of Governor Pataki. Honestly, I've run into the man so many times I don't even try to interview him anymore. I just say, "Hey, George," and keep on walking. I've had a great number of encounters with B-list celebrities as well. Howie Mandel, Bob Costas, and Jon Lovitz, just to name a few. They're hardly worth mentioning, really.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, no matter how famous you are, it's still a little thrilling to meet another famous person. You can't help but feel that a little of their fame rubbed off on you. These interactions with fans and celebrities alike are part of what makes me, me. After all, what are we besides a collection of our experiences? Every person you encounter in your life becomes a part of your story. While there are a lot of people who have contributed to the mosaic of what makes Bill McNeal tick, some of the people who shaped me the most profoundly are the ones I've worked with at WNYX. Granted, they mostly shaped me by providing me with amusements and distractions from the portion of daily life that lies between the time I wake up and the time I have my first drink of the day. Still, I like to give credit where credit is due.

If I'm being honest, I may not have achieved this pinnacle of fame at which I find myself without WNYX and, by association, some of the other people who work there. Let's explore these WNYXicans and their various contributions to the career of the now world famous, Bill McNeal.