I lost on Jeopardy

Weeks have gone by, and since not much has happened, I guess I'll return to stories of my last busy week.

As I've mentioned before, I'm a game show fanatic. To the point where I TiVo'ed the first week of the new Price is Right to see how Drew Carey fared in his first attempts to fill Bob Barker's shoes as host (so far, so good). I'll watch just about anything where contestants compete for prizes (even if that "prize" is a chance to screw a washed-up 80s glam-metal singer or a boobed-up, screechy Flavor-Flav reject).

About a year ago, my sister hooked us up with an audition for a game show called Set for Life. We weren't chosen to play, so I felt pretty justified when the show seemed to fizzle: even with high-profile host Jimmy Kimmel, its buried summer Friday evening test slot didn't exactly cause a whirlwind of excitement. On the bright side, though, the casting director, Leslie, took a liking to us, and kept us in mind when she had a new game show, That's the Question.

TTQ is a strange hybrid of Jeopardy without the intellectual challenge; Wheel of Fortune without the wheel, and the ubiquitous word jumbles found in old-lady magazines like Family Circle. In its first season, produced in Amsterdam, it garnered a reputation for misspelled clues, wrong answers and all-around mishaps. However, the U.S version of the show was scheduled to air on The Game Show Network, which few people get (myself included) and fewer people watch, so the embarrassment factor would be minimal. I figured I had nothing to lose, even if I lost (and very little to win if I won, in fact, as the prize money was probably the smallest sum I've ever seen on a game show -- including 70s classics like Match Game PM). But I wasn't doing this for the money as much as I was doing it to fulfill a dream -- a dream of bright lights and catchy theme music; of on-air chit-chat with a low-level celebrity and lightning-quick buzzer reflexes. A dream of being one of the select few who could put away dignity, rational thought and a hipster-cool nonchalance for a shot at fabulous prizes and public recognition of my mastery of useless knowledge. Plus, it was a chance to serve the first love of my life: Television.

I kicked major butt at the initial interview and the test. And I was thrilled that, in a room full of contestants -- many of whom had auditioned for and/or appeared on other of Leslie's shows in the past -- Leslie recalled many of my funny stories from my previous audition and encouraged me to tell a few more tales of my bizarre existence (including the roster of weird-ass jobs I've held -- remind me to share those another time). Two days after the interview, I got word that I was cast and received all the details I would need for my upcoming taping.

As this was my first game show, I can't say that the list of rules I had to follow were unique, but they did seem pretty bizarre. I couldn't be living with or related to anyone who worked for GSN, Sony, or any of the sponsors. I couldn't have appeared on another Sony show for at least a year, and I wouldn't be eligible to appear on another Sony game show for 3 years afterwards. While on the studio lot, I couldn't speak to ANYONE who wasn't a contestant or a contestant wrangler (lest they be tempted to slip me some answers, I suppose). And to make sure this rule was followed, we had to wear Contestant badges and were instructed to just point at them should anyone we ran into on the lot try to say hi. Also, the Wranglers were charged with babysitting us until our game, even walking us to the bathrooms, monitoring us as we went out for smoke breaks and escorting us, like kindergarteners to the commissary for lunch.

We waited up in a little Green Room as our little group of 15 contestants were assigned to opponents and a game order. I was the fourth of 7 games they taped, so I had plenty of time to pick up the finer points of the game, chat with my fellow green room hostages, change clothes a few times to suit wardrobe concerns and to slather on pounds of stage makeup so my death-white skin wouldn't blind the camera operators or render me invisible to photographic light.

To keep us busy until our taping time and orient us with the game play, they provided us with a live feed of the stage and other contestants' games. The feed started before the sound came on, and the group of us collectively watched, entertaining ourselves by watching contestants play with their hair and clothes and by providing our own snarky soundtrack to host Bob Goen's pantomimed banter. We needn't have bothered: the sound suddenly kicked on, and the first words we heard from the set was Bob's comment that "it's only sexual harrassment if the girl is really ugly."

Seriously. You can't make that shit up.

I sat through three games, answering nearly every question and gaining confidence, before I was called down to the set. With uncharacteristic enthusiasm, I gathered my things and made my way to the stage. I tried to conserve my mental energy for the game, but I had a touch of stage nerves and kept bouncing around while they set the lights and did techie things. One of the show runners took one look at me and mumbled something into a two-way radio, requesting a "half apple box". From my days in high school theater and from the few panel discussions I've moderated at conferences, I knew what was coming. Sure enough, a stage hand ran up to me with a small box, which I would be expected to stand on so the cameras could see me over the huge podium. While this bit of awkwardness filtered through my mind, I tried to break the tension by engaging my opponent in some chit-chat. He was pleasant and friendly, but kinda quiet and reserved. In fact, I hadn't even noticed him the entire time I was up in the green room.

There was a reason for that.

He was the Answerbot 5000, programmed only to answer obscure trivia questions and solve jumble puzzles -- not confer with inferior beings.

The first round of our game revealed that we were a pretty even match. We took turns answering our respective questions and took turns answering each one quickly and correctly. Neither of us missed a single one of the trivia questions in that first round, but I was a bit quicker on the draw, solving the first two puzzles before he could decipher them. I was only a few points up going into the third game, and we were neck and neck. On the third game, he buzzed in to solve the puzzle before I did, but missed one letter, giving me the chance to steal the round, which I did. And it was this slight lead going into round 2 that would cost me the game.

In round 2, we no longer took turns answering questions; instead the player who was behind got the first question, and kept control of the board until they failed to answer one. And this time, I didn't stand a chance. My opponent got the first question right and robotically responded to question after question, solving the first puzzle without missing a beat, or giving me a chance to play. The second round went similarly -- though I had the first question, I was eventually trying so hard to solve the final puzzle that I wasn't paying attention when Bob asked me a question about some traditional beef dish. Veggie-girl that I am spaced out after the word "meat" and couldn't come up with the answer, giving Answerbot an opening to have another run and give himself an untouchable point lead.

Though we each missed a question in the third game, it no longer mattered. I couldn't catch up point-wise, and Answerbot was headed to the bonus round. I took my place off stage and watched dejectedly as he tore the final puzzle a new one and won the $5000.

As a crew member led me off the stage and directed me to the parking lot, I reflected on my day. Disappointed, caked in makeup and no wealthier than when I started out the day, I made my way home through Hollywood traffic and realized that this first foray into televised gaming had not quenched my thirst for game show success. I needed to try again. Right away.

Reaching home, I dove into a search for any other game shows that filmed in Los Angeles. My choices were slim. My sister's job at Fox makes me ineligible for Fox game shows; and TTQ TKO'ed my shot at Jeopardy, Wheel of Fortune or other Sony game shows for three years. Little by little, I realized CBS was the only beacon that still shone on me. And it was the brightest light of all, as it was the home of my game show nirvana, The Price is Right. The perfect plan swam in front of my Showcase-dazzled brain. I would order free tickets online, camp out in Studio City with the sorority girls, grandmas and other low-hanging game show fruit, chirping and squealing my way into the hearts of the casting directors and onto the stage of Plinko-induced heart failure, where 5 years as a grocery store cashier and over 30 years of pricing-game expertise would put me on a straight path to fabulous prizes.

I had pondered this path and looked into ordering tickets before, but could never commit to a day in advance that I could justify taking off from work to sit on a line for hours waiting, possibly in vain, for a shot at hearing a deep, smooth-voiced announcer beckon me to the stage. But this time, nothing was going to stop me. Then, as I filled out the online application form, a new codicil to the process caught my eye. TPIR added a new regulation -- potential contestants could not have appeared on any other game show for at least one year.

Et tu, Drew Carey?

So, I'm out of the game for a year. But all hope is not lost. For Los Angeles is a city of dreams, and around every corner is another celebreality contest or fledgling game show pilot, aching to stretch its wings and draw viewers to its sparkly, insipid, greed-sating bounty. And so help me God, I'll never go home without a consolation prize again.