Brent Hopkins Hopkins is now holding
auditions for "Who Wants to be a Soon-to-be Millionaire’s Friend."
e-mail him at [email protected] for your
application.
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When looking around at my fellow Angelenos, I’d like to
think that we all have our own special talents, something that sets
us apart from all the other folks out there. Maybe you can tango
like there’s no tomorrow. Maybe you can differentiate complex
equations in seconds. Maybe you speak nine languages. Maybe
you’re the world’s best surgeon.
Me? Yeah, I’ve got a talent, too. Something that puts me
head and shoulders above everyone else. Something that makes me an
absolute superstar. Want to know what it is?
Trivia.
Sad, isn’t it? Whereas all those other skills I ticked off
have real, practical applications, my gift is useful at parties and
just about nowhere else. Since I’m a big geek and I
grudgingly go to about two parties a year, my little talent is
particularly worthless. My chance to be an Einstein or Martin
Luther King Jr. has dried up, because the section of my brain that
could go to big important things has instead been devoted to the
study of pointless, random facts. Finally, though, after years of
bemoaning my sorry, misdirected skill, I’m beginning to see
the light.
Thanks to those deep-pocketed folks at ABC, I can finally put my
trivial brain to work and be handsomely compensated. That’s
right kids, I’m gonna win me a million dollars. At least I
sure hope I will.
Last Saturday morning, while you were all sound asleep in your
beds, I dragged myself out of the comfort of mine to try out for
“Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.” At the ungodly hour of
7 a.m., neck stiff with sleep deprivation, I hauled myself and my
colleague, Terry, down to the Beverly Hilton in an attempt to begin
the quest for opulence. I’m not sure how it went yet, but
maybe if we all cross our fingers and think good thoughts, the
producers will deem me charming enough to get a shot at a million
bucks.
Terry and I, with our intrepid photographer Lisa recording the
whole event, strode boldly into the Hilton at 7:45, a full hour and
15 minutes before we were even supposed to be let in. Not being a
morning person, I grumbled the entire way, still fondly remembering
the warm, soft pillow that had been softly cupping my head.
Thankfully, however, our early arrival netted us a place halfway
through the line.
Apparently, some horridly crazed individuals had gotten there at
4:30 a.m., an hour which I’ve always thought was best
reserved for either sleeping or not waiting in the lobby of the
Beverly Hilton. By the time we took our places in line, it was a
good 50 people deep, stretching through a now-empty bar and snaking
towards the concierge. These would-be millionaires take this
seriously, I quickly learned.
Some studied philosophy books, some quizzed one another and
others worked themselves into Zen-like trances. We had the good
fortune to be stuck in line by the only three jackasses in the
whole line, whose preparation routine consisted of stringing
together creative chains of expletives and adding them to the name
“Regis Philbin.” Standing near these titans of
intellect, I began to feel a bit better about my chances of taking
home my million dollars.
At 9 a.m., they ushered the first 125 people into a small
conference room filled with chairs. We dutifully walked in, not
wanting to stray out of line and risk our chances of nabbing the
dough. Soon, a very nice man with a very ugly tie started listing
off all the rules of the test that we were all hungrily
awaiting.
At this point, when I really should have been paying attention,
my mind began to wander. “What would I do with a million
bucks?” I wondered. In retrospect, I guess it was a tad
arrogant to expect that I’d get the whole enchilada, but hey,
no one wants to speculate about what they’d do with $100.
Suddenly, that oil leak in my rapidly aging Honda and the dearth
of laundry quarters didn’t seem like such a big deal. After
all, I was about to take the first step towards ungodly riches. I
mean, if I wound up taking it all, I’d suddenly have as much
money as a mediocre baseball player makes in two months.
When I eventually phased back in, the guy with the
aforementioned odd tie told us that we’d have a 30-question
test based on the “Fastest Finger” segment of the show.
This comment brought a hail of laughter from the Jackass Posse, who
had no doubt figured out some extraordinarily clever insult
involving the word “finger.” Sinking lower in my seat,
I prayed that they didn’t go to UCLA and hoped that
we’d get the test soon.
I may have sounded a little cocky before, I realize. Not that
some of the questions on “Millionaire” aren’t
tough and all, but let’s just say that most aren’t
exactly difficult to figure out. I mean, jeez, you don’t have
to be a genius to know that the saying is “Blood is thicker
than water,” not “Motor oil is thicker than
water.” Suffice to say, I saw myself whipping through the
questions in about 2 minutes, tossing it aside and going to grab a
cup of coffee. In my arrogant little mind, I’d already
won.
So when we actually got the test, I just about had a heart
attack. Holy cow, those were just about the strangest questions
I’d ever read, about 9,000 times tougher than anything they
ever have Regis reading off. What order are the Olympic rings in,
clockwise? Which American Sign Language letter has the most fingers
pointing up? Which Morse code symbol has the most dashes? I mean, I
know a lot of trivial stuff, but I was guessing like a maniac.
After the allotted time, I grudgingly handed mine in,
embarrassed at my dumbness. I knew that as soon as they graded
mine, they’d probably hang it on the wall with a big sign
reading “Moron: Best of Show.” Olympic rings ““
who knew?
Following an eternity of waiting, the producer returned with the
list. Now was our moment to shine or go back with our tails between
our legs. Just as I was envisioning the breakfast I’d soon be
enjoying, a miracle occurred. My number was called.
Now let me tell you, I’ve been humbled. I’m not
going to chalk this up to my genius or anything. This was pure,
blind luck. Terry probably passed on brain power, but me, I just
coasted by on Lady Luck’s coattails. Whatever I guessed on
all those questions randomly happened to be right, and now
I’ve made the cut to be a millionaire wanna-be.
Those of us who passed were interviewed and videotaped, cast
into a pool of thousands of other hopefuls. Now I’ve got
three weeks of sitting and waiting, hoping they’ll call.
Chances are, they probably won’t, and this will be the last
of my “Millionaire” columns. I’ve got a feeling
that I’m lacking in the “poise” that they list as
a required quality in the rules. But who knows, maybe my luck will
keep riding.
There’s probably a lesson to be learned here, but I
can’t really think of what it is. Study hard and you’ll
be rewarded? Good things come to those who wait? The early bird
gets the worm?
Nah. Study up on your random, pointless information, kid, so
maybe one day it’ll make you rich. That sounds like a good
enough moral to me.