Mike’s Take: Lights, camera … identity theft

I had a shot at a sky’s-the-limit television career, except for one teeny mistake.

Many seasons ago, I got a call from a TV producer. She wanted me to be on a panel of journalists who would be interviewing the Secretary of the Treasury. I was young, ambitious and confident. Physically, I had (still do) a slightly oversized head and good hair, which help when you are in front of a camera.

The late, great Martin Agronsky was the host of the show. It later went network (somehow without me).

On the appointed evening, I showed up at the studio. The producer, a young woman about my age with red hair, showed me to my seat. She didn’t bother introducing me to the others, assuming I knew them because we were on the same beat … the prestigious economic beat.

The problem was, I was sort of floating at a newspaper at the time, doing features, crime, and for a while, real estate. Economics? Not so much.

My colleagues at the table were all older than me. One was the chief economic writer for The Wall Street Journal; another was a top financial expert for The New York Times. They all knew the Secretary. All but me.

With the first question, from the Journal guy, I knew I was in deep trouble. He asked a question I didn’t understand. The Secretary answered in words I had never even heard before. I could tell they were English, but that’s about it. The next reporter also fired off a Greek-to-me question. The Secretary responded.

Things were heating up. There was tension in the air. I considered fainting.

When it was my turn to quiz the Secretary, I realized I had nothing. I think I asked him if he was married, or how tall he was? Then they moved on. The producer glared at me. I was especially grateful D.C. had such tough gun laws, because there was murder in her eyes.

In the second round of questioning, I recovered — somewhat. After the Secretary handled tough questions about the pound vs. the dollar and secret Swiss bank accounts, it was my turn. In a suprisingly high falsetto voice, I asked the Secretary if he signed all the dollar bills, or was that a machine? Also, is there really a secret tunnel between the Treasury building and the White House?

I forget his answer but I will never forget the look — death rays — from the red-headed producer.

At the end of the show, which may have been the longest 30 minutes in history, the reporters and the Secretary sat and chatted. He was angry about the Swiss bank account question but you could tell they were all friends. Except me. I had no friends in that room.

The producer came around with a clipboard and asked each of us to sign a release statement, so the show could be shown again, I guess. Whatever.

She passed the clipboard to me and told me, angrily, to sign. I took it, looked down, then asked her where to sign?

“Right here beside your name,” she said, as if talking to an idiot.

“Where?” I asked, like an idiot.

“There,” she said. “Right next to your name: Mike Carney.”

Which explained a lot.

Naturally, I signed ‘Mike Carney’ and headed for the door.

I found out years later that he had been an up-and-coming economics writer with a New York-based publication. His future was bright — until that night when I, in his name, made television history. In fact, as far as I know, my portion of the show (which was taped) was so bad it was never shown at all. But word spread through the industry that Carney was a loser and should be avoided at all costs.

So here I am. And it could be worse.

As for the hapless Mike Carney, I heard somewhere that he had given up economics and writing for a different career field. I think he’s a chicken-sexer for some big poultry producer in Arkansas. Not a bad life. Still…

(Copyright 2011 by WTOP. All Rights Reserved)

Mike has spent the majority of his life inside the Beltway and has an interesting and humorous perspective that he will share every Wednesday. Mike has spent his career covering the federal government for the Washington Post and now for Federal News Radio.