Yearly Archives: 2013

Let’s play The Million Second Quiz!

A few months ago my mother sent my siblings and me a mass text message, something about a friend of a friend working for a casting company, looking for people interested in auditioning for a game show. I’d never really directly thought about being on a game show, but as soon as I gave it even five seconds of consideration, I realized that I desperately wanted to, that the idea of going on TV and potentially winning money was something that I needed to do.

I sent over my contact information along with a few photos from Facebook and the casting lady got in touch with me later in the week to schedule an interview. While I had no idea what was going on, no clue as to the format of the show, I thought it my head, just get me in front of the cameras, and I’ll figure it out.

The casting process took place in some office building in midtown Manhattan. They said dress to impress, which meant a whole lot of me staring at my closet not knowing at all how I’d even manage to put my clothes on. Dress to impress? If I’m ever dressed to impress, it’s a total accident. I have no idea what goes into a good outfit, and so after standing there clueless for what had to be an hour, I went with a safe jeans and button down combination.

Whatever, I got to the office, they made me fill out a bunch of paperwork, answering questions like, “What makes you think you’d be a great contestant for this game show?” and “Do you have any funny stories that set you apart from potential competitors?” I don’t even remember what I wrote down, a bunch of made up stories most likely.

They put me in front of a camera and started asking me all sorts of questions. Would I consider myself more book smart or street smart? I told them, both. “Get cocky,” some producer directed me, “I want to hear why you think you’d win over everyone else.” What, the being both book smart and street smart thing wasn’t cocky enough? This went on for about five more minutes, they thanked me, and I went home.

And then nothing. I did find out that the show in question was something called The Million Second Quiz, but after trying to garner information from the Internet, the best I could piece together was that it had something to do with trivia, and something to do with a million. In the meantime, I had ample opportunity to spend every waking second daydreaming about how I’d make a splash in front of a national audience on live TV, overcoming all odds to beat the game show and walk home with an insane amount of money.

My fantasies got a little too real, and I felt myself getting all revved up for what in all probability wasn’t going to happen. My everyday actions were starting to be tainted with just the slightest touch of hubris. Like I’d be waiting tables at the restaurant and someone would ask me for a Diet Coke. Before I automatically answered, “of course,” or “right away,” these thoughts would flicker through my head, like, get yourself a Diet Coke. Go ahead and complain to the manager, see if I care. I’m going to win a game show and then I’m going to follow you around all day paying you to get me Diet Cokes, and then I’ll send them back because I don’t like Diet Coke, I want regular Coke.

And as the weeks and then months went by without having heard any news, I tried to ramp down, to prepared myself for a future in which game shows weren’t a part of my life. This was harder than I planned, because as the date drew closer to the September 9^th premier, NBC started advertising pretty heavily about the show, about lucky Americans from all across the country competing for a chance to sit in the money seat.

I still had no idea what any of that meant, but it was hard to put out of my mind the fact that somewhere in some stack of papers on some producers desk somewhere in the city was my name, a file labeled Rob G., potential candidate. “I bet you they call you last second,” my mom kept telling me, and I’d be like, “I’m not even thinking about it anymore. I’ve all but forgotten everything.”

I was lying, of course. This game show was probably the only thing I was thinking of. The dreams of how I’d make my way onto the stage vividly choreographed, the witty banter I’d exhibit as I’d back-and-forth with host Ryan Seacrest. So when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket on Sunday afternoon, September 8^th, I knew even before I took it out that it would be something about me coming into the city tomorrow to win a lot of money.

“Be there at six!” the producer told me. In the morning? I had to be at work at eleven, should I try to take off? “Oh yes, this is a commitment. If you’re going to win, you’re going to need to have your schedule totally clear for the next two weeks.”

I found someone to cover my shift on Monday, but should I really try to get off on Tuesday and the next day and the week after that? Last minute favors are really hard to come by in a restaurant, and even if I did somehow make it happen, that would be a lot of good will I’d owe to my coworkers, not to mention the zero dollars in income I’d earn while sequestered away at the studio.

But … fuck it. I’d probably be winning a million dollars, and then I wouldn’t need to worry about a stupid restaurant job. I showed up at six am the next day, me and about five hundred other people snaked around the outside of the building. You mean all I have to do is beat all of these people? Ha!

Ha. But seriously, seeing that many contestants felt like a punch in the stomach, a punch that began winding up three months earlier, when I got that text message from my mom, a giant cosmic fist that began hurtling my way as I picked out my wardrobe for the interview, imagined all of the jokes I’d say on TV, planning out the small businesses I’d start with my winnings, all of that momentum making contact with my gut as I saw the amount of people surely suffering from identical delusions of grandeur. For the first time in months I felt actually humbled.

The rest of the day went like this: I made my way through the studio where I had to fill out a textbook sized contract in front of an NBC lawyer. Then I got sent to a room with a TV where they played a video of someone basically reading us the contract that we got just signed. From there a giant group of us were shepherded into a waiting cell with computers, board games and Twinkies. They’d make us wait up to ten hours before calling us to potentially play.

I got selected along with seven other people after about two hours. We were led outside, around the block, to an enormous tent filled with couches and sofas. A production assistant did his best to explain the rules. We’d be answering trivia questions in eight-minute bouts with the hope of winning a spot in the money seat. Once in the money seat, we’d start accumulating cash. Just don’t press the doubler button. Also, you might get sent to something called Winners Row. Also, there was something about a line cutter. And point leader. I didn’t really get it. Did anybody watch the show?

After a whole day of waiting, it was finally my turn to actually compete. I was whisked away not to the studio, but to a closet somewhere in the building where the off-air competition took place. The guy I was facing off against had won the previous seven matches, so I admit that I was a little intimidated.

The first question was: In which city did the TV show ER take place? I had no idea. I’d never watched ER. I guessed San Francisco, and now I’m cursed with the permanent knowledge that the show ER in fact took place in Chicago. I was at a deficit, one from which I could not recover. I wound up getting two more questions wrong, something about Blanche Dubois from A Streetcar Named Desire, and another asking about the best selling Atari game of all time. (It was Pac Man. I guessed Donkey Kong. I’m an idiot.)

I didn’t even have a chance to make a comeback, because all of the other questions were so incredibly easy. Sure I got ten out of thirteen, but because most of them were along the lines of “Which web site lets users sell handmade crafts,” I didn’t have any opportunity where my opponent could have screwed up, giving me a chance to take the lead.

Still, I can make all of the excuses I want. He won, I lost. It was over in eight minutes, and eight minutes later, I was exiting the studio, face to face with that steady line of hundreds of people, all waiting for their chance to unseat the victor, to go home with millions of dollars won on live TV. Me, I didn’t win any money, but at least I didn’t take all of that time off from work. That would have been an awkward two weeks hanging around the house.

Thoughts on the new iPhone

Are they going keep naming new iPhones based on the numerical order in which they’re released? Right now everything’s fine because we’re only up to iPhone 5. But what about years from now? Are consumers really going to be as excited for the iPhone 36? Hopefully I’m still alive by then. Also, hopefully scientists will have figured out a way to keep everyone looking young and healthy indefinitely, kind of like in that movie In Time with Justin Timberlake, just minus all of the massive inequality and social injustice, not to mention the terrible storytelling and horribly overdone time puns, “Time’s up,” stuff like that.

What am I talking about? Nobody saw that movie. But back to the iPhone. We’re all ignoring the fact that it went right from iPhone to iPhone 3G. What happened to the iPhone 2? And then after that it was 4 and then 4G and then 5 and now 5G and 5C. Talk about a horrible naming strategy. I’ve heard all sorts of theories, how the C is supposed to be for China, because they’re trying to get Chinese people to not only manufacture iPhones, but to buy them as well. But when I hear 5C, all I think of is the word cheap.

Like, “Oh, I see you bought the cheap one.” Why would you want a plastic phone? Why would you want a neon pink iPhone? Although, that’s a pretty stupid thing to say on my part. I shouldn’t be in the business of judging people’s preference in colors. I am a little disappointed by the fact that there really isn’t much of a selection. Not that I’m interested in buying the cheapo model anyway. It’s just that, what if you’re not into really bright colors? I guess for me it never really mattered anyway, seeing as how I never take it out of its plastic protective case.

While I’m on numbers, isn’t anybody else going to point out the obvious incompatibilities with model number and operating system? I’m talking about how when they released the 5S/C, they simultaneously made available the new operating system, IOS 7. Can’t the boys in marketing figure out a way to synchronize the numbers? I’m being petty here.

I just get annoyed whenever a new product comes out and everybody starts gushing over it, the media, everyone at work, people on the subway. And then like a week after it comes out, I start to see them everywhere, new iPhones, shiny new colors, slightly different ringtones and message alert sounds. I took out my phone the other day, and a coworker was like, “You didn’t upgrade to IOS 7 yet?” looking at me like I had just contracted leprosy.

And so I went right home and downloaded IOS 7. And it took like an hour and a half out of my day, plugging it in, waiting for it to download and install, laying on my bed going through all of the menus and settings, discovering which marginal changes had been made to my phone’s user interface. The whole thing left me very underwhelmed, and now I was holding my same old iPhone 4, only it felt less comfortable, my old bright wallpaper was no longer compatible with the white numbers used to tell me the time, but of course Apple wouldn’t give you an option to change the color of the home-screen text.

Or let you decide if you like the old interface better. And I know it’s such a tired argument, that Apple doesn’t really let you customize anything. It does bother me, like the old operating system looked a certain way, and then all of the sudden Apple decides that they’d like mine, and everybody else’s phone, to look a different way. That would be like living in an apartment and the landlord busting in every year deciding to paint all the walls an entirely different color.

But it doesn’t matter. I have this fear that the minute you stop upgrading operating systems is the moment that you decide to get left behind in terms of technology. Sure, skipping one update won’t really get in the way of how you use a phone, but there are subtle changes with every release. You let those changes pile up, and before you realize it, you’re an old man that puts his hands on the newest model only to find that he doesn’t know how to use anything, he’s too set in his old ways.

This is crazy. It’s a fucking iPhone. I can’t believe I just spent all of this time actually writing this down. Sorry if you’ve made it all the way down here. New cell phone releases cause me an unnecessary amount of anxiety.

New furniture

I’d been meaning to get a new couch for a while now. Not that there was anything necessarily wrong with my old couch. It was perfectly comfortable. But it’s been through a lot, a few moves, more than a fair share of spills and accidents. My dog came of age with this couch, meaning that a couple of times I’d walk into living room only to find that he’d torn open the fabric and strewn all of the stuffing across the floor.

I did my best to collect all of that cotton and put it back in the cushion, to sew it all up. And it was fine, from a practical standpoint, it was usable. But the lines from my repair job were an eyesore. Also, it used to have an electric chord that would make it vibrate, there was a seat heater I think. I never got to use any of those features because my dog chewed through the wires almost immediately after I got it.

So I made up my mind that it was time for something else. Only, making that decision is a lot different than actually executing a plan, picking out a couch, figuring out how you’re going to pay for that couch, how to get if from the furniture store to my living room. And what was I supposed to do about the old couch? Is it one of those things where I just have to drag it to the curb and wait for it to disappear?

I figured that before I just tossed the couch outside, it wouldn’t hurt to see if I couldn’t make a little money. It had to be worth something. I mean, yeah, it looked kind of beat up, but it was comfortable. It was clean. Maybe a hundred bucks? I took a photo and put it on craigslist for a hundred and fifty, hoping they’d try to bargain me down to a hundred.

I’d act out a little bit of reservation, “Jeez, I don’t know …” making all of these pained facial expressions before I’d cave, “All right … I guess I could do a hundred.” And then I thought, man, maybe I should have put two hundred and have them bargain me down to one fifty. But the ad was already posted, and someone emailed me back immediately.

It was two guys that had just moved to the neighborhood, they stopped by later in the afternoon to check it out. “We’ll take it,” they told me after patting it, sitting on it, bouncing up and down a little. That was way too easy, almost no negotiation involved at all, I totally should have at least tried for two hundred.

But a deal was a deal and they had the couch out of my place by evening. Wow, I thought, that was so easy. I basically went from being overwhelmed with having no idea as to how I’d go about starting this process to standing right here in my living room, no couch at all. This place looked a lot bigger with no furniture, and dusty, I guess I should try and use the Swiffer over this way every once in a while.

Then I wanted to watch some TV before going to bed, but without a couch, I tried using one of the kitchen chairs, a hard-backed solid wood piece. It was so uncomfortable. I gave up after half an hour or so, telling myself I’d watch on the laptop in my bedroom, but I fell asleep as soon as I hit the mattress.

The next day I had to work, so I couldn’t go couch shopping, and it was the same deal the day after that. Finally I had a day off and I went to the furniture store, everything was like a thousand dollars, fifteen hundred dollars. Sure, they had some stuff for a lot cheaper, but everything felt not right, like if I had spent four hundred dollars on a basic model, it would have been a downgrade from what I was using before, albeit a brand new downgrade.

I turned to craigslist, and after weeks of nothing, I found an ad for my old couch. I called up the guys, they said they liked it, but it wasn’t really meshing with their apartment. I told them I’d be glad to take it back, but they wouldn’t budge from the advertised two hundred dollar price tag. I met with them for like an hour, my best defense amounting to me standing around saying, “Really? Come on. Seriously? Two hundred? Come on.” But they were good, I caved. I paid up.

After I handed them the cash, I was like, “Can one of you guys help me carry this thing outside?” And they were like, “Yeah, man, we’ll help you get this back to your old place if you want also, we’ve got a truck. What do you think, twenty-five bucks sound good to you?” And I didn’t know what to do, they got me again, I thought about saying, “Really? For real?” again, but whatever, I just wanted to watch some TV, so I took out thirty dollars. Neither of them had a five to give me change.

My desk is cluttered with junk

There’s a Powerball ticket on my desk from last week. I already checked the numbers, and let’s just say, if you’re holding any outstanding IOUs, keep holding them. I’ll make good on them eventually, I promise. Well, promise is such a strong word, but let’s say just one degree short of a promise, you know, barring any unforeseen circumstances, like if I die suddenly and I can’t pay you back, or if you die suddenly, and I can’t pay you back. I don’t want your ghost coming back to haunt me, “A promise is a promise!”

Also I have this tiny stapler right here, it’s really small, like when you buy a regular sized stapler at the office supply store, a lot of the time, included in the box, there will be like a mini sized stapler, only big enough to hold twenty staples at a time, maybe twenty-five. I’m not quite sure how this stapler wound up being the only stapler in my possession, but that was it, that’s what I was relying on for the rare instance when I needed between two and fifteen pieces of paper stapled together. But this thing is such a piece of junk, which isn’t fair really, I’m sure it wasn’t built for the long haul, primary-stapler role I had assigned it. A staple got jammed a while back and, on a normal sized stapler anyway, I’d just slam it down harder, forcing everything out. But on this little guy, all I did was jam another stapler in there. It got past the point where it’s fixable. It won’t even unhinge anymore. I don’t even remember the last time I’ve thought about it. Like, how long has it been on my desk, broken, taking up space?

A few inches away I have this click pen, it’s white with blue letters screen printed on the side. Although they’re really faded by now, at one point it said, “The Journey,” it was the name of a megachurch, something evangelical. One time maybe four or five years ago, I was waiting tables and these Southern tourists left me this pen in lieu of a real tip. I thought, really? You want to convert me to your religion and the best you can do is this pen? Still, I kept it in my rotation of pens, handing it to guests after I’d run their credit cards. I was indiscriminate as to who got to sign with my The Journey pen at first, but after a year or so, I started to imagine it to wield magical tip-boosting holy powers. I could tell that if I kept handing it out every day, it would break or I’d lose it. So I started saving it for only the worst tables, like people that would not be pleased, heavy complainers. After a miserable experience for the both of us, I’d hand them their credit card with a big fake smile and say something like, “I hope you have a blessed day.”

Both the stapler and the pen are sitting right next to my watch. It’s very basic, some sort of a synthetic navy blue strap attached to the same colored navy face. Two months ago or so, the watch stopped. I remembered making such a big thing of it in my mind, like how it would turn into one of those simplest of chores that I’d just never make an effort to actually get done, how I’d lose all track of time, I’d get fired for being perpetually late. I freaked myself out to the point that I left my house that very second and rode my bike to this dingy watch repair shop on Broadway. I walked in and the guy didn’t even say anything, he had a special watch monocle, he used little tweezers to artfully remove the old battery, put a new one in, and then adjust the date and time to make up for all of the lost minutes and hours I’d let slip away since the battery died. I asked him, “how long do these batteries last?” and he told me, “Six months.” He charged me six dollars. What’s that like, a dollar a battery? Not too bad, something I could definitely make a little room for in the budget. But just last week, the watch died again. I brought it to the same watch guy, went through the exact same routine, he took my watch, my six dollars. What’s the deal? Are you giving me defective watch batteries on purpose to bring in more business? Am I being played? But for six dollars, I don’t know, I can’t really get myself to even bother asking another watch question. I guess six dollars every two months isn’t that expensive either, and as long as I’m careful about my money, my Powerball tickets, not writing out too many new IOUs, I think I can squeeze it in, yeah, I can definitely make it work. I’ve got to be able to be on time, right? Nobody’s getting paid if I’m not getting paid, if I’m not showing up on time because I don’t know what time it is.

Thanks! Have a great day!

I was at the grocery store the other day, and after the cashier gave me the receipt and handed me my bags, she looked at me, she smiled and said, “Have a great day!” And I wanted to be like, excuse me, but don’t tell me what to do, OK? Why don’t you concentrate on your day? You want to have a great day? Fine. But how about just leaving me alone with my day, to do with it as I see fit?

And so, fuck that lady, bossing me around, I had the shittiest day ever. I went home and left my groceries out on the table for the whole day. The milk got warm, I had to throw the whole gallon out, the ice cream melted, my dog wound up jumping on top of the kitchen table to lick everything up. It was chocolate ice cream, and so of course he got really sick.

I had to call in to work, “Hey boss, my dog just ate a bunch of chocolate ice cream, so I have to take him to the vet,” and my boss was like, “Listen Rob, you can’t keep calling out like this so last minute. What am I supposed to do this late in the day? It’s way past time where I could’ve gotten someone else to take your shift.”

So I got fired, yep, my day was taking a sharp turn south. I got to the vet and my dog, he was like collapsing, I kept having to prop him upright just so he could take another few steps, and then it was the same thing, collapse, throw up, cough, prop up, walk. Finally we got to the office and the vet told me, “I don’t know that there’s much we can do right now,” and right as he said that, standing there scratching his chin, my dog dropped dead.

Totally not a good day. And the vet told me, “Look, I’m really sorry, but it’s going to cost two hundred bucks to dispose of the body,” and I was like, “Are you kidding me? I don’t have two hundred bucks,” to which he said, “Well, how were you planning on paying me today if your dog wound up surviving? Nothing here costs less than two hundred bucks.” And I didn’t like being talked down to like that, so I said, “Oh yeah? Nothing? Well what about those,” I was pointing to this display of leashes and collars that he had by the door.

“I was talking about medicine, treatment. That stuff over there costs twenty, thirty bucks, depending on the leash.” I said, “Nice try doc, you said nothing. You weren’t specific.” And so I hoisted the dog’s body over my shoulder, I threw a twenty on his desk and grabbed a new collar on the way out.

It took three black garbage bags to hold the dog without ripping the plastic, but I got him in there, that and the new leash I bought for him post-mortem. Everything was settling in, the dog, he being dead, me throwing away twenty bucks to prove a point. I had a lot of trouble carrying the bag to the park, and when I finally managed to get it inside one of the public trashcans, some Parks Department employee came running over, “Hey! You can’t dump that here!”

So I took off, I got back to my house, and, never having cleaned up any of that milk or melted ice cream, the whole place stunk. I don’t know how the flies got in so fast, but they were all over it, the spill, the rest of the groceries. I couldn’t find a mop so I got some old newspaper I found in the basement to sop everything up. But the newspaper print bled, the paper wasn’t absorbent, I just wound up making more of a mess than I had in the first place.

Eventually I just gave up, fuck this, the whole dog thing was really starting to weigh on me. I felt like I needed to cry but I couldn’t muster up the emotion necessary to really have any relief, it was just a ball of misery sitting right under my throat. Finally I decided that I’d better eat something, so I went back to the grocery store to get some bread, I’d make some peanut butter and jelly or something.

“Thanks a lot!” it was the same cashier ringing me up again, I couldn’t believe it. “Have a great night!” and I took the bag, I looked her right in the eye and said, “The fuck you just say to me?”