If you’ve ever read the very first Roshamblog post, then you probably know Scott Keneally as an attention-starved writer desperately clawing for fame, even if it means being spotlighted as People Magazine’s “Sexiest Bedwetter.” Maybe my Mom and Dad made me feel too smart and special as a child, or perhaps I’m the byproduct of an era when Time Magazine declares me to be the “Person of the Year,” but I have banked on the notion that my life is fascinating or interesting or funny enough to read about, talk about, watch and follow. Was I the only one in the theater seething with envy during “The Truman Show?”

Well, as crazy and deluded and humility-challenged as I may be, there are some blokes who think that the life we are all living here at Roshambo is nifty enough to document for global broadcast. We are still a ways away from signing any deal, but there’s a decent chance this television series will materialize. And if it does and airs in the summer of ’08, I suppose I will have achieved some of that fame that I’ve been shamelessly angling for ever since I wrote Ronald Reagan about my Presidential dreams back in ‘84. After all, your beloved Roshambuddies will be in the hearts and homes of millions of folks spanning 160 countries and 37 languages.

Whooohoooo! Right?
Well, not so much anymore.

After spending something like eight straight hours watching an eight minute pilot that the film crew cut, I’ve quickly discovered that having two or three cameras trained on me at any particular moment, capturing my every action or comment from all sides is NOT good for my psyche. In fact, after watching some of the early footage I have gnawed my nails into bloody stubs. It’s not what I did or said that was so unnerving, it’s how I looked while doing and saying. Like the low angle shots that make me look like a talking double chin. Or the profile shots with my head hunched forward like a Neanderthal and my schnoz stretched clear across the screen. Nothing speaks the truth like High Definition video and I am buckling under the burden of Vanity.

Even without seeing today’s footage I’m already the kind of neurotic mess who drives Naomi nuts by weighing himself three times a day and checking his gut after each meal. In fact, if you’ve ever visited a public restroom and walked in on a guy yanking up his shirt up rotating in front of the mirror like a rotisserie chicken, well, that was probably me. Or if you’ve ever seen someone dumping ice water on his French fries to avoid engorging, well, that might have been me too.

I can’t imagine how I could ever BE this insecure. Especially when I have friends like Patrick, a novelist with the hots for hyperbole, who recently informed me that from the side view, I looked “a lot like a chicken, with the spiky hair, long beak, and that soft chin that just falls into a wattle.” Or especially when I have a girlfriend like Naomi, who sometimes cups my chest with her hands, then her own, and says, “Yup, your moobs are definitely bigger than my boobs.”

I suppose the real challenge as I face the prospect of a Roshambo show will be in finally embracing the physical and psychotic ugliness that dogs me in wake and in sleep. I need to drop the whip that cracks me to the scale every few hours. And probably Unsubscribe to those dreadful gossip rags. Because no matter how far, fast and often I run, I’m never going to be Brad Pitt pretty. And even if I were, I would probably look clear past the chiseled chest and rippled abs and find something to despise about my thighs. So, many years ago when my mother said, “You know, about that nose of yours, we can have it taken care of,” it’s a wonder that I didn’t go under the knife. Maybe I knew all along that if it weren’t my nose it would be my toes.