Ted Koppel | designer potato chips | chair | makeup artist

As I stepped inside the studio, I heard someone say, "The talent's here."

I looked around to see who they were talking about.

After a light lunch of good sandwiches (no white bread and bologna, here), designer potato chips, and a pretty salad, we got down to the hard work of making me over. Scrubbing me over is more like it. I sat in a chair while a makeup artist plucked my eyebrows and dabbed my face with powder and paste. Feeling a little silly and a lot self-conscious, I tried to relax by pretending I was Ted Koppel.

I stood around for a while afterward, wondering what an actual talent would do, and decided to make myself useful. I unpacked my suitcase, which was filled with clothes I was told to bring. Among them were the aforementioned pants.

My wife had pressed them the night before. But real-life pressing is not the same as photo-shoot pressing. Which is why they were being pressed again. My wife doesn't have a fragile ego, and it certainly doesn't hinge on her ironing skills, which, I should note for the record, are considerable. Normally, she'd be happy if someone else pressed my pants. Still, even if a person does something she isn't all that invested in, she would prefer to believe she was good at it. I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Plus, I didn't want her to not iron my pants in the future, thinking they were only going to be re-ironed anyway.

At least I got to wear them.

You see the sweater I'm wearing? It's not mine. They procured it along with several shirts in hues such as Key lime and powder blue that no one wears - except people in photo shoots.

The hair? Not mine. I mean, I have hair. And it is dark, like the hair in the picture. But it never looks like that. That hair looks good. It was styled. Mine is more, how you say, Ishkabibble.