The star treatment can be downright addictive

My cellphone rang just a few minutes after 9 a.m. It was Prague. No really. It wasn’t a prince from Africa looking to pay me $10 million. And I hadn’t won a trip.

It was the “showrunner.” Turns out, they actually call themselves that. It’s not just used in books about the people who make TV shows. It’s so accurate a job title it’s almost unnerving.

“We’re in Prague and we’re just getting ready to shoot your episode. John Carpenter is just wrapping up his and I was wondering if you had a few minutes,” he said.

Seems the director had a few questions. About MY episode. And John Carpenter?

Yeah, the same one who directed the movie Halloween. The original one. From 1978. When Jamie Lee Curtis was just another actress-want-to-be, and the daughter of movie royalty. Dad was Tony Curtis from umpteen movies. Mom was Janet Leigh, the woman in the shower in Alfred Hitchcock’s classic, Psycho.

Sure, this sort of thing happens to me all the time.

And did you see how many names I managed to drop in that 50-word paragraph? I’m getting good at this.

My episode.

I’d started receiving Hollywood calls months ago when someone in the U.S. ran into the story of my hometown’s serial killer, Allan Legere. His escape from two prison guards while at a hospital. His killing of four people on the run.

And me.

It took a while for me to get it. They wanted my story – smalltown newspaper editor fighting with cops who wouldn’t talk, supervising coverage of the manhunt for months, getting threats from the killer – as a key part of the episode.

They were pitching episodes to NBC’s sister network Peacock and wanted to fly me to LA – those of us in the biz call it that – Los Angeles, for a day-long interview.

In a surprisingly short time, I was on a plane and in front of a camera. And that’s when I realized how easy it would be for anyone in front of the camera to get very used to the treatment that brings in Tinseltown. Very.

A car picked me up that Friday morning just before 9 a.m. and drove me to the shoot. Location. The house they’d rented for the day because it had a room they liked as the backdrop for my interview.

Shoot. Location. Backdrop. Sorry, I tend to slip into the biz jargon. Force of habit.

They needed me for makeup. “They shooting in HD?” I asked Bree, my makeup person, showing how up to date I am about you know, the biz. HD – highdef, high-definition TV.

“Yup, and you can’t hide anything from it,” she said as she pulled out a tiny pair of electric clippers.

“Ear hair,” she said. “That’s all they’ll see if we don’t get rid of it.” I must have missed that email.

Hair slicked down – for the same HD reason, and face remade into something I was sure looked like the mask the killer wore on the movie Halloween, an assistant guided me through the house and up the stairs to the library.

“Watch your step,” he said, all but taking me by the hand as I walked past a crew of about 15, over and around enough cables to wire a 747 jet.

“Rick MacLean’s coming into the room,” he sounded as I entered a lovely library, which apparently had plenty of windows, all of them blacked out so the only light allowed in came from the bank of lights focused on one chair.

My chair. For my episode. The showrunner, also the director of the episode, had me sit in a chair as four people moved lights and an end table – which at one point required three people and two pieces of wood to lift it into the perfect spot.

Twenty minutes later, with three cameras focused on me, the showrunner, plus the director of photography and a cameraman sat in the dark, while two more teams in adjoining rooms monitored sound and pictures.

“Wait,” said the showrunner. Everyone froze. “There’s no water.”

“We’re not allowed to bring any food or drink into the house,” someone said quietly.

“Well, this interview is going to take hours. I need water. And the talent certainly needs water.”

The Talent. OK, I added the capital letters. The water arrived in a hurry.

Someone off camera – that’s what we call it – held my water while I was talking. My makeup was adjusted every time they had to reload the cameras.

Lunch was a sandwich. I had to wear a bib to protect my shirt. The sudden appearance of a mustard stain on my wardrobe – that’s what…never mind – would cause havoc.

And five hours later I was done.

“Rick MacLean is leaving the room,” the assistant said loudly before guiding me back to my dressing room. OK, it was the homeowner’s spare bedroom. But it had its own bathroom. And a big bed for their very big dog. But it was mine for the day.

I hung up the phone after chatting with the showrunner in Prague and turned to my wife.

“He just had a few questions,” I said nonchalantly.

Silence. Then.

“Fine, now take out the garbage.”

I miss LA.