My "Twenty-One" audition: Stupid, stupid people
Written: Feb 22 '00 (Updated Feb 24 '00)
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Product Rating:
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Pros: I was able to steal a pen
Cons: Poor taste
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| Mr_Scrooby's Full Review: TV Shows |
It's raining, and it's rush hour. I'm driving up 280 toward the city, where I'm to audition for "Twenty-One." This is going to be my big break. I can feel it.
I fantasize about riches and fame. After I win, I'll work for two weeks to show that I'm a decent guy and all. Then I'll move to Chicago, where I'll buy a condo and a bar blocks from Wrigley Field. Conan will invite me to his show. In the winter, I'll be a motivational speaker for people in debt and bankruptcy.
This is going to be great.
I shift my focus to the looming audition. My mind rifles through its files on American history, state capitals and pop culture. I try to name the past ten best-picture winners.
Then I think about what my "interesting" fact will be -- what Maury Povich will mention when he introduces me to America. This is hard, and it's not like I'm having to narrow things down: I'm just not that interesting. I settle for my White House internship.
When I arrive at the Hotel Monaco, I'm a nervous wreck and I have to pee.
In the ballroom there are about 100 people, mostly white, mostly early 40s, mostly men, all some permutation thereof. I take a seat and join them in filling out the "Twenty-One" questionnaire. It asks about hobbies and accomplishments, and, true to my premonition, asks what the "most interesting" thing about me is.
I look to see what the neighbor on my left has written. "I have made mall walking an Olympic sport." The woman shops. Jesus, even I am more interesting than that. I've eaten 14 bratwurst in a sitting! I can sneeze with my eyes open!
I have it made.
I am asked whether I know anybody who works for NBC or its subsidiaries. I lie. I mentally cut ties with my friend at MSNBC and, for a brief moment, forget my burning desire for CNBC's Maria Bartiromo. I write "no."
Sarah, the contestant coordinator for "Twenty-One," tells us about the evening's procedure. We're to take a brief quiz, and people who do well will be asked to play some mock games. People who show the right enthusiasm and pep, she says, will be invited to the show.
Pep. I can fake that. Even having seen the show only once, I know that "peppy" and "enthusiastic" are code words for "dopey" and "melodramatic," and I've been practicing both.
Q: What do you want?
A: Well, I don't think it's a shake, and McNuggets is obviously wrong. Oh, gee, I don't know. OK, I believe the answer is 2, two-cheeseburger meal.
Q: Jerk.
A: Yesssss! Phew! Oh, boy!
People pepper Sarah with annoying questions, one after another. She asks whether anyone has been on a game show before. One guy says he won $60,000 on "Jeopardy!" Everyone claps, and two -- two! -- jackasses tell about their experiences on high school quiz bowl. Much eye-rolling is done at my table. I furiously tap my pen in the Morse code for, "Can't you fuckers shut up so we can get on with this?"
Finally, the test. Game on! There are three sections of 10 questions each: true/false, multiple choice and short answer. They aren't terribly hard -- What animal is the mascot of Fruit Loops? What soundtrack was the best-selling pop album of 1998? -- but others have me stumped.
The questions seem to be geared toward women. What does the DK in DKNY stand for? In what city is "Ally McBeal" set? What astrological sign comes after Aries? There is not a single questions about sports, and only one about war. Even worse, two of the 30 questions -- Whose album is "Wide Open Spaces"? What about "Yes I Am"? -- are tailored toward women who listen to country music.
Nonetheless, I am confident with most of my answers.
Sarah's two assistants leave with the tests, and for an hour she entertains us by going over the "Twenty-One" rules and common strategies. Then she opens things up to another insufferable round of question/answer. Do people leave the studio with the cash? Can they keep the bag? How many times do you film a day? About five times she is forced to tell us that, no, there is no advantage to scoring more than 21 points. I realize that things can only get worse when the pencilneck at the next table begins, "OK, my question has two parts ..."
What strikes me about the would-be contestants is how earnest they are. They genuinely love the show and are not here merely to get fodder for a mildly amusing essay. They invoke the names of past winners, they lean from their chairs to get Sarah's attention, and they guffaw at her many digs against "Who Wants to be a Millionaire."
What stupid, stupid people.
To distract myself from their inanity, I think about who my "second chance" guest will be. This will be the person who, when I'm stumped on the show, will be able to help me out.
Sandy comes to mind. I think of wacky ways to share my winnings with him. A wheelbarrow full of quarters? A $10,000 gift certificate to the Gap?
No, wait, Sandy is no good. He's a genius and great at games, but we know the same stuff. That'd be fine if the category were "Planets from 'Star Wars,'" but "Women of Poetry" would sink us. I need someone complementary, like Nikki or Ben. What about Chris from work?
No, no, no! The rules don't say I have to pick a friend or even somebody I know. I'll get Marilyn vos Savant from Parade magazine. I think her column sucks ass, but she is, after all, the record-holder for highest IQ. Or should I turn to science? I'll have them fly in Stephen Hawking.
It's at this moment that the two assistants return with the graded tests. Sarah wraps up her talk and starts reading names of people who get to stay.
She rattles off 10 names. She has not said mine.
Then 20. Mine must be on the bottom because I finished early.
30. Christ, how many people is she going to keep? Did I make my name legible?
40. The 41st name she reads is "Charles van Doren." Ha, ha.
She reads the 46th name, the final name, and it is not mine.
Oh, the shame. No game show. No riches. No speaking tour. Worst of all, no chance to have Maury ask about my White House internship and make a joke about giving the President head.
I don't know which is more troubling: that none of the names is mine, or that 46 are someone else's. 46! That's half! Half the people in this room are smarter than me? No! I had scoped them out, examined the way they dressed and judged their laughs, and the evidence was incontrovertible: These people are maroons. Chumps. Possible mongoloids.
And yet it is I who is picking up his coat and leaving.
I look back and see the final humiliation: The Olympic shopper is still sitting. Her grin is wide.
Rain continues to pour. Driving home, I think of Sarah's inspiring words: "There's a game show out there for you. You just have to find it." Yes, yes, like true love and the perfect burrito, my game show is out there. Waiting. For me.
When I get home, her words still echo in my mind, and I make my daily call to the "Millionaire" contestant line.
I don't get past the second question.
Recommended:
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