by Craig Hlavaty
The producers of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire were in town recently to audition contestants for the show. Our Craig Hlavaty has already gone down this road before; here's his tale.
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire
Back in the summer of 2005, when I was slinging dough for Domino's and studying for a law degree, I was coerced by my dear old mother to go try out for the syndicated version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.
At this point the Millionaire phenomenon had run its course. In 1999, the show was must-see television for Americans, and it was a weekly hit for ABC. Regis Philbin's acerbic wit with contestants was a huge draw, as was the idea of winning a million bucks for knowing who Genghis Khan was. Along with CBS's Survivor, the Philbin vehicle was the first in a long line of what many called the dumbing down of television.
Flash forward to an unused storefront on the ground level of the Galleria. My friend Chad and I wake up around four in the morning to head to the cattle call. We are given two tests. The first is a general-knowledge test we both bomb hilariously. The second is a movie-trivia test. I ace this one with flying colors, much to the chagrin of the largely older and staid crowd. Obviously the bald, tattooed heathen had cheated.
I meet with a bubbly producer in a side room to get a once-over. He asks me about my personal life. I tell him about my college work, cheesy day job, military (sorta) career and my current girlfriend. This guy only wants to know about my tattoo sleeve. I glance down at my "Rated R" tattoo and he beams. It's simply the symbol for restricted movies.
I tell him I got it because I loved movies so much, but honestly it was for my favorite band at the time, Queens of the Stone Age, and their second album. He loves my "look," and says that he will be getting back to me. Yeah, right, not with this switchblade going through a heart on my forearm you won't.
Come November and I get a phone call while I'm watching Tyra, from the same producer. I had been picked for the show, and I need to be in New York the first week of December, in roughly a month. (You pay your own way, but get a discount hotel rate.) My studying begins in earnest that night, poring over everything with Leonard Maltin's name on it and living on the Internet Movie Database.
Just a few days before I leave for New York, my grandmother passes away from complications from smoking her whole life. That makes the trip a little more bittersweet, since she won't be able to see my appearance.
I arrive in New York a day before the taping and do the whole tourist thing. Visit CBGB's, take pictures at Strawberry Fields and grope a wax figure of Jessica Simpson at Madame Tussauds. The usual stuff.
The day of the taping, I get nervous. I get my phone-a-friend locked in, my friend Natalie, who is also a major film buff. I'm all set to slay these bastards and take home a check for a million bucks. Plus, there is a guy there who loves telling me how his beloved White Sox just swept the Astros in the World Series. He ends up losing by not knowing who directed Pulp Fiction. Karma rules.
My turn comes and I'm loose and full of coffee as I walk up to the "Hot Seat." Meredith Vieira is certainly an attractive older lady. What's the next level past cougar? In person, two feet away, she looks weathered and aged. But she is extremely nice to me, and our banter is breezy and light. In fact, I am told later on by friends and family that I was mildly flirting.
I fly through the easy questions about The Fugitive, 101 Dalmatians and Risky Business. She asks about my life and work. I show off all my tattoos on television, forever marking me as "one of those." My artist at Secret Tattoo off West Alabama, Dustin Whelan, is delighted by the free advertising still.
I hit a wall on a question about They Call Me MISTER Tibbs!. Out of sheer nerves and a little hubris, I flinch and pick the wrong final answer. I leave NYC with a droop in my step, an extra grand and a story to tell people until I die.
My episode airs in February 2006 to the amusement of everyone I know. For a week I am a hit with local Pearland folk, and a few exes come out of the woodwork and want to hilariously reconnect. My money comes soon after, and I use some for a computer, textbooks and a new tattoo to commemorate the fleeting ways of money.
Hot, Hot Houston
Getting it on more than anywhere else
by Richard Connelly
Houston, you are one horny town.
At least according to a highly scientific survey done for Trojan condoms. Um, make that a semi-demi-scientific survey.
A polling company invited people to take an online survey and compiled 1,000 responses; the results: Houstonians can certainly bone it like they own it.
The survey says we have sex 101 times a year; people in the hellhole of Dallas-Fort Worth make it only 73 times a year. San Francisco is allegedly just 60 times a year.
So you can see why we might believe the "scientific survey" ain't so scientific.
Trojan spokesman Bjorn Trowery tells Hair Balls the results "maybe just show Houstonians have a better taste in life and the simple things...It's not that there isn't a lot to do in Houston, it's a big city."
Houston was "head and shoulders" over the second-place city (Atlanta, 88 times a year), Trowery said.
Most cities fell in the 70-80 times a year range. New York was 80 times a year, he added, "and I thought that was high."
Just to be sure, we made sure that the "sex" involved was a) sex with and without condoms; and b) between two people.
"Yes...nothing mastubatory or anything like that," he says.
So, continue to get it on, Houston.
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