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10/06/2004: "My Million Dollar Day"
The television show Who Wants to be a Millionaire and I have had a
long and troubled relationship. When the show first premiered a few years
back, I would spend my evenings dutifully dialing into to the show's 1-800
number, following Regis Philbin's instructions, and answer all five
questions. The next day I would patiently sit by me phone waiting for the
show's computer to pluck my name from the list of names of other people
who had answered all of the questions correctly, and to hear from the
show's producers. They never called.
"Their computer is obviously an anti-Semite," I complained to Vienna one day.
"But you're not Jewish."
"No, but my last name sounds Jewish…"
This went on for a few months. Eventually Who Wants to be a Millionaire
stopped occupying my every waking moment. I dialed in less and less, and -
except for the show's resurrection as Who Wants to be a Super
Goddamn Millionaire (Once again, their computer dicked me) , I forgot
about the show, entirely. Or so I thought. The truth was that somewhere,
in the back of my brain stilled lived the little voice that whispered "You
can beat them. You can them all."
Then, a few weeks ago, I walked into the living room while Vienna was
watching a program that I had no idea existed - the daytime version
of Who Wants to be a Millionaire . White whale off the port side,
Captain! What amazed me about the daytime version of the show was how
utterly clueless the contestants seemed to be. Shit, Luther, where did
they find these idiots? None of them seemed to be able to answer more than
four questions correctly, and the "phone-a-friends" were on par with the
saddest Greek tragedies (One woman's father hung up on her). And then it
hit me - if these 'tards could get on the show, surely I could.
By the way, I should point out that the daytime version of Who Wants to
be a Millionaire is not hosted by the kindly Regis Philbin, but by a
woman named Meredith Vieira who always appears to be smiling. She frightens
me. She frightens me a lot.
I paid a visit to the Who Wants to be a Millionaire website and
discovered that all I had to do to get on the show was simply go to New
York and pass a tiny, 30 question test (I would also be required to sit
through the taping of two painful - yes, I believed the website did, in
fact, use the word "painful" - episodes of the show). If this was the
same test that the simpletons whom I'd watched fail to answer the most
basic of questions took, then this was going to be a piece of cake, and,
in the immortal words of Jackie Mason, "Jews love cake!" True, I'm not
Jewish, but my last name sounds Jewish…
A few days after I submitted my name and stats via the Who Wants to be
a Millionaire website, I got a call from one of the show's producers
who wanted to make sure that I'd be there on October 5th. I promised
her that both my wife and I would be present. This would mean missing
Milkmen practice, but the guys would understand. And if they didn't …well,
shit, I was about to become a Millionaire, so I could always pay them to
understand. After I hung up with the producer, Vienna and I made
reservations on Amtrak for a trip to NYC.
Now, at this point, most writers would go on for a few paragraphs about
how their excitement built during the following days, and how they had
trouble sleeping, and what they ate for breakfast on the morning of "the
big day" and that sort of bullshit. Well, fear not, gentle reader, there'll
be none of that silliness here. In fact, I think that'll employ the
cinematic technique of "jump cuts" to speed the action along.
[Jump Cut]
So positive am I that I'm going to breeze through the Who Wants to be
Millionaire test that, at 30th Street Station, I purchase a copy of
National Geographic Traveler and begin planning how I am going to
spend my million dollars. I decide that I'm either going to hire a sail
boat to ferry Vienna, a few of our friends, and myself around the coast of
Turkey, or I'm going to purchase an ice-breaker and, you know, break up
some fuckin' ice.
[Jump Cut]
On the train, Vienna and I take our seats opposite a familiar face. The
face damn well should be familiar since it belongs to actor Delaney
Williams, whom I watch every Sunday night at 9:00 pm on The Wire -
the best show on TV. Delaney turns out to be a great guy. He's incredibly
intelligent and articulate (We talk about politics for most of the ride),
so if anybody associated with Real Time with Bill Maher is reading
this - book Delaney Williams as a guest. D.L. Hughley can take that week
off.
[Jump Cut]
The test is given in a bar across the street from ABC's studio in a bar.
This gives me an idea for a show called Who Wants to be a Drunken
Millionaire . Basically, you get people liquored up and ask 'em
questions. Hell, they don't even have to answer the questions correctly.
All they have to do is not fall out of their chair. The "phone-a-friend"
lifeline would only be used so that the drunken contestant could call
someone at 3:00 am just to tell them what a great friend they are.
[Jump Cut]
We have ten minutes to answer the 30 questions on the test. I finish in
under five. Confident that I aced the thing, I smugly tuck the test back
in its envelope and wait for everybody else to finish. We have been
informed that the names of the people who passed the test will be announced
during the taping of the second episode. I fold my arms and lean back,
knowing that my name will be listed among the winners.
[Jump Cut]
Vienna and I are in the audience, watching the taping of the first episode.
Contestant Number One is no Ken Jennings - in fact, she's barely a Hominid.
"Jebbuz," I think to myself, "If this dipship passed the test, then there's
no way I could've failed." I'm not certain, but even Meredith, that smile
forever plastered on her face, had to realize that this was a "very
special" guest. I made a mental not to check for a "short bus" as I exit
the studio. Before long, Contestant Number One is gone.
I like Contestant Number Two a lot better. She's smarter than Contestant
Number One, but, then again, who isn't. Her husband is with her and he's
forced to sit under a spotlight and talk about their toilet. "Dear Christ,"
I think, "When I'm on the show, they'll make Vienna sit under that very
same spotlight and answer questions about our toilet. Is it really
worth a million dollars to subject the woman I love to that sort of
humiliation? Yes, yes it is."
Contestant Number Two fares a bit better than Contestant Number One, but
sadly makes the mistake of using her phone-a-friend lifeline to call her
mother. Note to future contestants : DO NOT phone anyone over the
age of 60. Old people are confused by new-fangled technology like
computers and phones and tend to choke when put on the spot. Also, old
people are, as a group, pretty stupid.
Speaking of stupid old people, the old woman seated directly in front of
me (The episodes featuring Vienna and me in the audience will air on
December 15th and 16th. Once you spot me, look for the old bag seated in
front of me) could've used a million dollars to buy a set of clues. She
insisted on leaning over and telling the man next to her what the "correct"
answers to questions were. She got every question, without exception,
wrong. After ten or eleven wrong guesses you'd think she's clamp her
denture together and give it rest, but no. I guess it really doesn't matter
because, since we were all instructed to shout, clap, and laugh as loudly
as possible, she most likely died of exhaustion shortly after she left the
studio.
Contestant Number Two was toast and thus ended the taping of the first
episode.
[Jump Cut]
Contestant Number One for episode two was a likeable old fart who didn't
get to hang around too long. The same goes for Contestant Number Two, only
minus "likeable" and "old". If these jokers passed the test…
[Jump Cut]
During the break, the guy who warms up the audience reads the names of the
people who passed the test. Mine in not among them.
Of course, you knew that it wouldn't be. I didn't (in fact, my feet went
numb and I suddenly felt very cold when the last name was read aloud and it
sounded nothing like mine - not even remotely Jewish.) But you knew.
You knew because you read the stuff I write and you've come to realize that
for me, just like for you, that brass ring is always just out of reach.
We're alike, you and I. If we were being held in a POW camp, we'd work for
months digging a tunnel that would end up surfacing a few yards short of
the fence. History is filled with people like you and me who kept on trying
despite failure piled upon failure. Most of them never succeed, but a small
percentage does. There's no shame in falling flat on your face. There is in
remaining that way.
I'd like to think that the lesson I should learn from all of this is that I
should be happy with what I have. I have a beautiful wife, and I write for
the city's best radio show and newspaper. That should be enough, but it
isn't. So it's time, once again, to pick myself up, dust myself off, and
look for another route to fame and fortune.
I hope you're doing the same.
