My Oprah Casting Call (Part 5)

I notice that “Shy Girl” is next and hope that she has conquered her nerves and is able to blurt something out. As it turns out, I needn’t have worried.

She stands up, puts her hand on her hip, and begins to howl. “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooo!” 

This howling is so loud that my eardrums begin to hurt with the vibration (I talked to people one the other side of the parking lot, and they heard her). She stays at this volume for her entire pitch, doing her best “Sha Na Na” from In Living Color impression (I loved the original, but this, not so much). I stare at her with disbelief - how can this be the same shell-shocked girl that was so nervous that she was going to read her pitch off her phone? 

My only explanation for this sudden outburst was demonic possession - I’ve honestly got nothing else. 

She finally screeches to a halt and our group is done. We get up to leave and I realize that I haven’t handed in my carefully prepared media kit, as the whole handing-in-the-application process was so flustering. I wait to be the last out of the tent and hand the “casting agent” my idea for a blog to go along with the show. She takes it and puts it with my application. 

As I walk out I realize that, to steal a line from my friend Joanne Simonds Moore, this entire experience was a lot like bad sex. There was a big build up, a lot of promises made, some sweating, some howling, and in 45 seconds the whole thing was over, leaving me filled wondering what just happened and with a definite sense that I would regret the whole thing in the morning.

I walked back to my car with Dwayne still rapping into his camera and Del stubbornly keeping up with my brisk pace. I just wanted out of there. My little voice had become a loud scream as I realized that what they said they were looking for was not really what they were looking for. It just did not feel right.

We all end up being stuck at the light to cross the highway, which was just enough time for Del to interview me for his YouTube show (I will post the link later so you can see what I was dealing with here). I honestly don’t even want to think about what that is going to look like. 

I get in my car and call my husband - and truthfully, I’m almost in tears at this point. The entire morning has been too much for me, and while I am one very resilient girl, the absolutely insane, chaotic energy put me into overload. 

As usual, my husband is the epitome of calm and kindness, even with a severe chest cold that had kept him from being able to come with me. He tells me to go easy on myself, to not worry, to be proud of the fact that I did this, and that he is so proud of me, no matter what the result is here. I feel better instantly, and also feel so lucky to have such a wonderful man as my husband.

Now calmer, I realize how hungry I am and head off to find something to eat. I’m definitely seeking comfort food, so when I see an IHOP I pulled right in.

I just ordered pancakes when the waitress notices my “OWN Show” wristband and asked, “Oh, did you just do the try-outs for Oprah?”

I concede that I did. Instantly, she changes from “friendly waitress” to “huffy witch,” as she gives me the stink-eye and says that she “just found out about it that morning.” She clearly wants to be a star and is bitter that I had the audacity to have gone and tried out without her. Impressively, she keeps this attitude up the entire time she serves me, no matter how nice I try to be to her. That’s commitment, folks.

I eat my pancakes and phone my parents, who both agree that I am not, in any way, a reality show kind of girl, but that they are so proud of me for having the courage to do this. After all the madness of the morning, I am truly grateful for their unconditional support, let me tell you. 

On my way out, I am stopped by a delightful man named Tim and his super-cute friend, Kristen. Basically, they are a Will and Grace team and are completely adorable. They inform me that they are auditioning at 3:00 pm that day and would love some advice. 

I am happy to give them the inside scoop. After all, I figure that if this is the right opportunity for me, then I will get it, no matter who I help. If it is not, then I am glad I helped someone else get the chance.

So, I give them an overview of the “interview” process and also what I wished I had known before I pitched. I also hear their pitches and realize that Tim’s hilarious personality makes him a shoe-in. He is like Graham Norton with a huge heart, and I honestly think I may have met the winner of the competition.

Kristen is totally adorable and personable and wants to do a show on animal rights, which I can 100% get behind. I recommend that she start her 45 seconds with a short, compelling story about the experience that caused her to want to be an animal advocate, and then launch into her pitch.

She looks at me and says, “You are like a media coach!”

Hey, I am just glad to have used the experience to help someone.

I wish them both my best and head for my hotel. 

Upon entering the room, I realize that I am beyond exhausted and flop into bed, setting my alarm for 2 hours later in order to wake up and meet Kellie and Cliff for lunch. I sleep straight through my alarm (I never sleep through an alarm) and wake to find that Kellie had just called, so I hurriedly call her back. They decide to come and get me for lunch.

We end up at Buca di Beppo for hours - laughing and eating yummy Italian food and being complete fools. It was one of the best afternoons I have spent in ages.

That evening, my dear friend Gina McNew - a radio host and the incredible woman behind “It’s Hip to Be Hot” drives out to meet us for dinner. As we have been friends by phone and internet for 2 years, I am delighted beyond belief to finally meet her in person. At this point, the OWN show folks are supposed to call us between 7 pm and midnight if we are to be called back for the next day, and I am finding myself at complete peace that this is not the right opportunity for me, that I am not getting a call back, and I am 100% wonderful with it. 

We have a fun dinner where Kellie, Cliff, and I regale Gina with the adventures - and misadventures - of the day, and finally head back to the hotel around 9:30 pm.

Before turning it, I call my hubby and then my parents, who continue to be incredibly supportive of me and of my courage to go and do this, even if it isn’t the right experience for me. I am so at peace with the entire thing and go to sleep.

As I predicted, I didn’t get a call back - but what shocks me more is that my IHOP buddies Tim and Kristen did not either. I am not quite sure what in the world they were looking for here, but it isn’t what I thought, that is for sure! 

The next morning on my drive home, I call my sister and as usual, we laughed and were our silly selves. But - to my surprise - there was also an extra-special message for me that day.

My sister had been cleaning out her bedroom drawers and found - for the first time in years - a note I had written her when she was in 6th grade and got cut from the cheerleading squad. Apparently, I had told her I was so proud of her and loved her so much - and that she was “too good for the cheerleading squad.” 

My sister pauses after telling me this, and then says, “You know, of all the days for me to find this note. I think I am supposed to tell you that YOU are too good for the reality show.” 

If I was waiting for a sign from the universe, this was certainly it.

My Oprah Casting Call (Part 4)

Suddenly, groups start getting taken by “casting agents” who are, at most, 25 years old. I watch as they cram 15 people and the casting agent into a tent, and then each person stands up and gives his or her pitch.  

I see Kellie’s group go and send out some good vibes that she will do well.

Eunice, the woman in curlers and a scarf, continues to look nervous. “My friend went to get something I need,” she says, “What if they don’t let her back in?”  

I assure her that they will, not really knowing if that is the case, but hoping it is. 

Sure enough, moments later, her friend shows up with a painting in her hands. I look at it and see an artist’s rendering of Eunice in the middle, two strapping African-American guys on each side of her, a listing of a bunch of TV networks at the bottom, and - perhaps most startling - Oprah above, with big, angel wings sticking out of her back. 

“It’s my vision,” she says, smiling.

It’s something, I think to myself. It reminds me of a graffiti artist’s version of Da Vinci’s The Last Supper.

The group in front of us gets taken, and my nerves are feeling totally rattled now. Del and Dwayne are continuing to prattle on at each other and at me, and I cannot, for the life of me, get a moment to think.

As we move up, I run into a blond girl who had brazenly jumped the line several times to get to the front now crouched down trying to complete her application. I am dumbfounded - who goes to the trouble of possibly getting beaten by other competitors by blatantly jumping the line, but comes to the competition without her application finished?

She looks up and says to go ahead of her - she’s still not done.

An unnaturally skinny “casting agent” who is maybe 25 years old comes to get our group, and we head to our “Tent of Fate.” She instructs us to sit down in a chair and I end up beside a beautiful African-American lady so full-figured that I have perhaps half a chair to sit on. I squeeze in and try to collect myself and get ready.

Our casting agent tells us that we will each have “no more than 45 seconds” - and that she has a timer and, “to be fair, will stop us at exactly that time.” 

“And really, guys,” she says with authority, “If you can’t explain your show idea in 45 seconds, it’s not a good show idea.”

Of course, we are not just pitching the show, we must also tell her about ourselves and convince her that we are the right candidate in that time, but from that moment on, all I can think about is that I want to make my best impression and not have her have to stop me, which I am now figuring is the kiss of death. 

She also tells us in a very dismissive way that if we have brought any “chotchkies” with us that we must give them to her with our application. I glance down at my carefully prepared media kit. The little voice says, “You see? They do not even care if you have documentation to show that you have any experience - it’s all a bunch of chotchkies to them.”

I glance around and realize that they are not taping the auditions at all, and I begin to wonder how in the world they are going to remember who is who.

Del is first up and pitches a show he is calling, “The Adventures of the Semi-Impossible.” Honestly, it is a pretty darn good idea, but he immediately tells the casting agent about how many reality shows he has tried out for and I see her shut down. He’s not making the cut.

Dwayne stands up with his video camera, and a tall, distinguished African-American woman on the other side of the tent suddenly speaks up in a freaked-out voice, “You know he has to have permission to video tape us!” 

I sigh and look at her. Oh, jeez. Seriously? Do you know what I have been through for the last two hours, lady? I think you can put up with 5 minutes. 

The casting agent looks exasperated and tells him to put the video camera away.

He does and then launches into a pitch on how he wants to do a show to help the children of the world. It is, in fact, a decent pitch - and shocks me, especially as he SAID he had no pitch at all. 

The lady next to me stands up and pitches - saying something about wanting to be the next Oprah and just have a talk show “because she likes to talk.” 

It’s my turn. I stand up, take a deep breath, and hand the “casting agent” my application. Now, it should be said that I printed off the answers that I had to fill out online for the video application - all typed out neatly - and attached them to the “Casting Call Application,” which, by the way, is the exact same application. I then went through the casting call application and made sure everything was synched up properly, signed everything that I was supposed to sign, and put them together.

“Oh, I can’t take that.” She says as she looks at the typed answers. 

“I’m sorry?” I say, a bit flustered.

“I can’t take the typed answers.” She says as she points at them and hands them back to me.

“No, they are the same application. I just typed the answers, that’s all.” I hand them back to her.

She looks at me like she is going to challenge me again, and finally says - pausing for effect between each word, “Oh. Okay. Fine.” She looks and sounds annoyed and I haven’t even started my pitch.

Let me take a moment to tell you that nowhere does it say that you cannot type your answers out - AND - that I followed every rule to the letter, when others have not and no one has called them on it. For instance, it specifically says “no logos, branding, or anything else identifiable as your brand in the videos.” So, I did not mention the name of my company, my book, or anything else. However, dozens of videos have done just that and are not being disqualified by the OWN team.

And now, I am being challenged because I typed my answers? Sigh.

So, now completely flustered, I manage to spit out 45 seconds about myself, my experience, and my idea, cutting myself off to make sure I don’t go over my time.

I sit down and almost burst out in tears. This entire morning - and all of this preparation - came down to 45 seconds with one 25-year-old “casting agent” who never asked a single question to find out more? I also have the absolute, certain knowledge that I am not getting a call back - not because I didn’t do well, but because nothing about this process is set up to find experts - they are looking for dramatic reality-show personalities, not people with a resume and a heart that wants to help people.

This certainty is confirmed with what happens next. The African-American guy sitting next to me stands up and starts his very energetic pitch. He’s dressed quite nicely in a blue button-down shirt and tie, when suddenly, he rips it off. Now, when I say “rips it off” I mean Chippendales-style, button-flies-past-my-nose rips it off. This effort reveals a workout shirt. He talks for a few more seconds and rips that off, revealing a tank top. He throws on oven mitts with a flourish and yells that his show will also include healthy cooking.

With all this disrobing he has definitely gone over time, but no one has stopped him. I look at the “casting agent” and see her write, “yes” on his form. The stripper is getting a call back.

The distinguished black woman stands up and pitches - she’s a medical doctor and dry as a late season Chardonnay. I see the “casting agent” write “No” on hers.

The fritzed-out Pink Lady gets up and speaks about breaking her toe and having had cancer, and that she wants to do a show with all the questions that you scream at the TV wishing someone asked. “You know those questions?” She says, “I will ask them.” How she is going to know those questions, I am not sure, but hey, semantics. She finishes by saying that she “knows all the answers to everything and is happy to tell anyone about it.” She has rambled on for at least 2 erratic minutes without anyone stopping her.

I am getting more and more annoyed. So, here I have an actual resume and a track record of helping people with what I do and get 45 seconds, but an unhinged woman with absolutely no experience gets 2 minutes? This competition is getting more insane by the second. My little voice says, “I told you so.” 

A pretty African-American girl in a beautiful cocktail dress stands up and says she wants to do a show about living on a budget (she made her dress) and then shows us a move that is supposed to “firm your booty” but looks more like something you would do going down the line on Soul Train. She’s gone on for a good minute and a half. She gets a “yes” from the “casting agent.”

A full-figured, impeccably dressed African-American woman gets up and says she is “fat and fabulous” and is the next Star Jones. She gets a “yes.” 

Next: Part 5, The howling of "Shy Girl"  

My Oprah Casting Call (Part 3)

After a while more of this insanity, the “producer” finally yells over the megaphone that they are going to start taking us in groups of 15 to be put in the line and wait for our wristbands. He says that they will see everyone that comes before noon and gets a wristband, and that once you get your wristband you will be given an appointment time for your audition and can leave and come back. 

At this point I am thinking, “Why in the world did I get up this early to be here if they are going to see everyone and give out appointment times?? I would much rather have been able to get a time and leave, get away from the craziness, prep myself, and come back fresh.” 

Oh, well. I take a deep breath and wait for my group to be taken. I look up and see the first groups filtering into the line under a big tent. I see Kellie go and start yelling support for her. As a few more groups get taken, Del starts hammering me with questions about how I started my speaking career, as he’s always wanted to do that. I respond as helpfully as I can, when, gratefully, I am taken as the last one of a group of 15. My heart skips a beat as I leave Del with the group behind.

Little did I know that I was going from bad to abysmal. 

I follow the group and end up in line next to a guy I will call “Dwayne,” a fresh-faced African-American fellow in his 20’s. He’s got a huge smile and wide-open, startled eyes, and is waving a video camera frantically in people’s faces. 

Not able to help myself (I told you it was a sickness), I smile at him and say “Hi!” 

In case you are counting, this would be my second truly awful move of the morning.

He immediately whips out his video camera, starts waving it in my face, and says, “HeyHeyHeyHey! What’s your name, girl? What’s your name?” I smile and say “Tara” and we are off to the races.  

He seems to have some sort of hip-hop ADD, as he waves and gyrates and raps, “Yeahyeahyeah it is. Look at that smile. Look at that smile. She’s a winner folks.” He turns the camera back to himself and says, “Hey everyone, here I am in line. Yeahyeahyeahyeah. Yoyoyoyoyoyo.”  

Oh. My. God. Is this going to go on for the entire rest of the time?? Yep. It is. 

Glancing back to see if I can escape somewhere, I see Del walking at me, big, goofy grin on face.  

Oh no. This cannot be happening.

Oh, but it is. So, I have Del on one side continuing to yammer on about one-liners and some book of one-liners he wrote in college and that got published but the stupid publisher didn’t do any marketing for him, and I have hip-hop ADD Dwayne on the other side, waving his video camera continuously in my face and asking me questions like Eminem on uppers. 

Good God. 

To top it off, I am starting to get a very strong sense that this is not the right place for me to be. Actually, the little voice that had started several days earlier was simply beginning to shout above Del and Dwayne and hoards of Oprah wannabes that I was not competing for a show of experts, but competing for a basic, drama-laden reality show - and that was not me at all. 

Well, I was already here, so I was going through with it. Maybe my little voice - which is never wrong, mind you -  was a bit off this time. It’s possible, right? 

Um...no. 

Two people from the “producer team” come through the line and give me my wrist band: “number 130.” They then inform us that we are going to be seen by a “casting agent” within the hour and cannot leave the line. 

I feel a moment of panic. I can’t get away from this insanity? Not for a moment?  

I quickly get a hold of myself. Okay, deep breath. I can do this.  

I turn around and come face-to-face with a short, 60-ish Caucasian woman dressed head-to-toe in pink - pink baseball hat, pink jacket, pink jeans, and pink shoes - who also has the distinction of looking like she is wound so tight she is going to actually jump out of her skin. I try not to engage this time, but it is too late.

“Do you have your application done?” She asks, doing her best imitation of a squirrel on crack.

“Um, yeah. Been done for a while.” I say, trying to mentally send some calm energy her way, if not for her, at least for me.

“Oh, mine’s not done.” Her anxious energy ramps up yet another notch and I become concerned she might eject through the top of the tent. 

Someone within earshot makes a comment about this being a reality show competition. 

She spins like the Tasmanian Devil to face the voice. “WHAT? It’s a reality show competition? We don’t just win our own show?”

Hoping to make the situation more sane, I calmly explain what is clearly on the show website - that we are here to compete for 10 spots on a reality show, after which, one person will win their own show. It’s like Project Runway for experts, or so I thought. 

Pink Lady - who ends up being from Columbus, Ohio - starts throwing a royal hissy fit about this and stomps off to the paramedic tent to sit and finish her application, as it has the only chair in sight. Ironically, she apparently broke her toe on the way over there, so truly did need the paramedics by the time she arrived.

Suddenly, another “producer” jumps up on a chair and starts shouting into the mic. “Attention! Okay guys, this is how this is going to go. You are going to be taken in groups of 15 people to a tent with one casting agent. You will then have 45 seconds to talk about yourself, your show idea, and why you should win. We will be timing you and will cut you off if you go over. If you see this sign (he points a finger to the sky and circles it) that means you are going over and need to wrap it up. And - don’t just tell us how much you love Oprah. We all love Oprah. Sell us on you and your idea.” 

45 seconds??? And they aren’t going to ask you a single question? This isn’t what I prepped for at all! After all, on the OWN site it says, “Casting directors will conduct interviews at each open call.” In my experience, being “interviewed” means being asked questions to find out your opinions, experience, and personality. Not to mention, if you actually ARE an expert, it is pretty hard to fit your resume and back story - not to mention a pitch and why you should win - into 45 seconds.

The little voice starts screaming at me again. “Yoyoyoyo Tara! They are not looking for experts. They are looking for dramatic people who want to be on a reality show. Yeahyeahyeahyeah.” Oh, no. My little voice is imitating Dwayne now. This is not good.

Panic sets in again. What in the world have I managed to get myself into? Okay, deep breath. I am always telling people to do things that make them uncomfortable and to go for their dreams no matter what. Time to take my own advice! 

I open up my press kit and get out my application to glance through and formulate what I think I should say for my 45 seconds. 

Del notices what I am up to and leans in so close that I can feel his breath on my neck. He stares over my shoulder for a moment and then says in his best John Candy voice, “What’s that? Your script?”

Everything in me wants to kill him at this point. Instead, I look over and say, “No, my application. I just need a few moments to decide what to say in my 45 seconds.” My voice is calm but firm.

He doesn’t get the hint. “Oh, you’ll be fine. You just need to get up there and say something. You don’t need to look at that. This is easier than eating 30 hot dogs in a sitting, I’ll tell you that!” He laughs with delight at this idea. “Here - say it to me - what’s your pitch?” 

If looks could kill, I imagine mine might have disemboweled him. He apparently got the idea and left me alone to prep for about a minute, which, given the situation, was some kind of miracle. 

I get my thoughts together as much as I can, when Dwayne breaks my concentration and says, “Yoyoyoyo, Tara - what should I pitch?”

“You mean you don’t have a show idea?” I say, somewhat stunned.

“No. I just came here to film y’all.” He smiles a seriously unstable smile.

The helper in me comes out. “Well, you have to pitch something, so pitch that. Say that you want to do a show about the people that are crazy or courageous enough to stand in line at 4 am to try to live their dreams. There are lots of casting calls and such going on all the time, so you would have plenty of people to interview.” I look around and think of all the characters he could feature right here.

He looks completely elated and whips out his video camera again, first pointing it at himself. “Yeahyeahyeahyeah people, I just got the best idea for a show from Tara. Yoyoyoyo girl, what was that idea?” He swivels the camera around at me, slinging it back and forth like he’s on a sailboat in a hurricane.

I take a deep breath and mentally stop myself from grabbing the camera and shattering it. I smile and repeat the idea to the camera.

He turns the camera back on himself. “Yeahyeahyeahyeah yo - that was Tara - she is takin’ care of all of us this morning with that pretty smile. Yeahyeahyeah she is.”

Suddenly “Shy Girl” - who has been standing there looking shell-shocked the entire time  - looks at me and asks if I think she can just read her pitch off her phone.

“Um, no. Do not do that,” I say, with complete certainty that this will get her kicked out immediately. “If you are nervous, take a few moments to read it and get it in your mind, and then feel free to practice with me. You’re going to be just fine.”  I pat her on the shoulder.

She looks like she is going to cry, but starts trying to memorize her script.

Next, Part 4: The Tent of Doom!

My Oprah Casting Call (Part 2)

My alarm goes off at 2:56 am, and 4 minutes later my friend Kellie calls. 

“Hello?” I wipe the sleep out of my eyes.

“Hey girlfriend. Are you here?” She sounds both bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

“Um,” I glance around the hotel room. “Not exactly. Haven’t even taken a shower yet.”

“Oh! Well there’s a crowd here already. 

I sat up. They are only taking the first 500 people in line! “Okay! I better get my butt moving! See you in a few!”

I jump out of bed, shower, get myself dressed, triple-check my press kit, grab my handheld “misting fan” and water (it was going to be 95 degrees out), and ran out the door. I arrived to find out that you couldn’t pull into the Kohl’s parking lot - it was blocked off with yellow tape - but you could pull across a 6-lane highway and park there. I look towards the parking area and see about 300 people waiting at the corner, chomping at the bit to get into line. 

I rushed to find a parking spot, gathered up my bag, and headed toward the mob. Suddenly, I hear someone yell something about the line opening up and someone else yell, “Run!” and before I know it, I am in the midst of what I can only describe as a “stiletto stampede.” Now, when I say stampede, I mean STAMPEDE. If you have ever seen Nature on PBS, you’ll be familiar with the scene of a group of buffalo or gazelles charging across the plains - a lovely, powerful sight to be sure - but sometimes there is a feeble or young one that gets trampled in the chaos, which is not so good. Now, imagine that - but instead of gazelles, think a pack of very determined Oprah fans in heels and dress shoes slinging bags and purses and whatever else is attached to them.

Not wanting to be the one to be trampled, I keep to the outside and move in a full sprint in my cute black and white plaid 9 West heels. As I am running, I see a shoe fly, then some hair, then curlers, and finally someone’s skirt (I don’t know whether she was wearing it or not at the time). Suddenly, I am giggling like a fool as I keep on running all the way to the back of the lot. 

During the sprint I end up being joined by an older Caucasian man (I will call him “Del” to protect the guilty), who, as I will find out soon enough, is a competitive eater, has tried out for countless reality shows, and believes himself to be witty. And, in small doses, he absolutely is. However, as you will see, I get a big, fat, melty, grande chalupa-sized platter of him, and that is not so funny.

The pack finally comes to a halt by a yellow tape that runs the length of the parking lot and looks for all the world like crime scene tape (as it turns out, it’s a pretty accurate analogy). The survival instinct that kept me to the left of the main crowd ends up being the right instinct for more than just arriving without heel marks on my back. A “producer” (a 25 year old hourly worker in a yellow “OWN Show” t-shirt), climbs up on a chair and starts yelling at the main crowd that the “line goes to the left, people!”

Hey! I was already left! I dig in my heels and lower a shoulder to not be pushed over as a swarm of sleep-deprived full-figured divas start fighting to get a place in line. The chaos slowly forms into a disorganized queue and I take a deep breath of relief. “Okay,” I thought, “I made it!” 

I look up and realize that I am almost at the front of the line. The “producer” then climbs on his chair and starts yelling into the megaphone that we are now going to be standing in this position - on the asphalt in heels, in my case - for 2 hours, when they will start handing out wrist bands. 

I look over at Del and smile. “Hey! We made it!”  I say brightly.

I will regret this moment for the next 2 hours. 

Del starts talking and doesn’t stop for the entire time we are in line. He tells me that he is a world-ranked competitive eater - apparently put down enough hot dogs in one sitting to win a beach vacation for the whole family - and knows the famous “Black Widow” - a very tiny oriental woman who puts away sickening amounts of food and wins eating contests all over the world.

Without missing a beat or taking a breath, he moves on to tell me that he has tried out for Survivor 8 times (almost made it one of those times), was up for some “Neighbor Next Door” reality show but the neighbors wouldn’t sign the release, and has, in total, tried out for over 35 reality shows - including attempting to become the Lottery Spokesman for Georgia. “Anything for a million dollars!” he says with a grin. 

He casually mentions that he has been through 8 jobs in the past two years, “You know, with the economy and all that,” and is now an ad salesman. 

Throughout this monologue, he throws in one-liners and puns like it’s going to be his last day on Earth and must use up everything corny that he knows before he takes his last breath. One woman in front of me, an elegant, tall, slender African-American woman, turns around and tells Del, “You do know that this is not an audition for Comedy Central, right?” Her voice drips with sarcasm. Del is undaunted. 

I glance around for help and realize that everyone around has turned their backs on us - and when Del tries to engage them in conversation, they play deaf. Softy that I am, I feel bad for him - he seems like a truly nice guy and clearly has no idea he is driving me or anyone else crazy.

I see my friend Kellie ahead of me in the line and wave like a madwoman until I get her attention. Her boyfriend Cliff holds her place in line while she comes back to give me a hug and chat for a moment. We both agree that is the craziest thing we have ever seen, and to make the point, she tells me that during the stampede her DVDs fell and rolled out in the road. Cliff, she says, is determined to go back out on the highway to find them. She wanders back to her spot, looking fabulous in a long, pink gown, and I go back to trying to not let Del get to me. 

He starts battering me with questions, “Where ya from? What’s your show idea? What’s your pitch going to be? Have you ever been on reality TV?”

This man clearly means well, so I respond to each question as nicely and calmly as I can muster. 

Trying to distract myself from Del for a moment, I begin to look around me. There is “Eunice,” an African-American woman from Louisiana who still has curlers in her hair and a scarf tied around her head, and her friend, a very large African-American woman who is continuously bumping into me, seemingly on purpose. I get a sense that she is trying to intimidate me, but it’s more annoying than anything else.

Then, there is a tiny African-American girl with a cute pixie cut and a very shy demeanor. We’ll call her “Shy Girl” for now, but don’t forget her - in a moment she becomes truly unforgettable.  

In front of her is a 6 foot tall, 280 pound African-American woman who is very pretty, but for who-knows-what-reason has decided to wear a tank top with spaghetti straps. Now, if you are at all a well-endowed woman, you will immediately recognize the problem with this arrangement - that is a lot to ask of spaghetti straps and a shelf bra. I wonder briefly if it’s going to hold when I notice a tattoo on the back of her upper arm. I cringe, immediately imagining how painful that must have been. I look closer, straining to see what it says. “TEARS ARE JUST WEAKNESS LEAVING THE BODY.” 

Whoa. 

Okay...no issues there, I think to myself. I try to discreetly get a picture of this but she turns around and looks at me. As I felt strongly that I did not want my own weakness to be leaving the body by way of her fists, I put my camera away.

Del is still yapping away at me, and I am kicking myself for my innate friendliness. Why do I always have to be nice to everyone?? It’s a sickness, I tell you. A sickness!

Suddenly, there is a nice young man coming up the line handing out coupons for his sandwich shop. I take one, thank him, and tell him that I am impressed with his initiative to be out there at 4 in the morning. He smiles and thanks me.

Del, on the other hand, decides to try to sell him an ad. “Hey, is this your business?” It is. “Do you have advertising in the newspaper yet?” He doesn’t. “Oh, well great - let me give you my card - do you have a card?” He doesn’t - or, more likely, he does, but is desperately trying to get away clean from this encounter. However, Del has clearly been trained to not take no for an answer. “That’s okay! Here...” He searches for a pen and finds one. “Give me your name and number. And what day is good for you to meet with me?” The poor, stunned sandwich guy stumbles for an answer and finally manages to say that he doesn’t know his schedule just then. “No problem!” Del says brightly, “I will call you first thing Monday morning.” 

And then it dawns on me who Del reminds me of: Del Griffith, the lovable but annoying salesman in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, played by the wonderful John Candy. I also realize that this would make me Steve Martin’s character, Neil Page - a man who tries desperately to hold on to his sanity while dealing with Del. If you have seen the movie, you’ll know that this does not bode well for me. I am just hoping that no one says, “Gobble, gobble, gobble!” I just might lose it, Neil Page-style. 

Seemingly to prove me right, just as I start to look over my application and notes, Del starts up talking about how, if nothing else, he’ll get an ad sale out of this, and that will make the whole experience worth it. “You just never know when you will meet the next great sale! Everyone’s a prospect!” he says cheerily.

Immediately I imagine the scene in the movie where Neil is trying to read an article and asks for quiet, when Del responds, “You know, nothing grinds my gears worse than some chowderhead that doesn't know when to keep his big trap shut. If you catch me running off with my mouth, just give me a poke on the chubbs.”

This makes me giggle, but not really feel much better. After all, it is always fun to watch someone in a crazy, annoying situation, it is not as much fun to BE that person.

Stay tuned for Part 3: It goes from bad to worse...