So I tried out for Big Brother …
Curiosity and a need to get paid gets the best of this soon-to-be college grad
By Katie Heath
Published: May 2nd, 2008 | 1:30pm
If you’re clueless about what you’re going to do after college, then you’re like me, and for that I’m sorry. I’ve been dreading this issue for as long as I’ve been working on my end-all dissertation speech. The premise I’ve been fearing is one in which I deliver my outstanding cultural analysis piece laden with five-dollar words at the cultural studies graduation assembly, only to be crushed when someone in the audience asks me, “What sort of job are you going to get with a cultural studies degree?” So I’ve been working on a punch line, not because I’m jaded, but because I’ve always wanted to one-up Winona Ryder’s Reality Bites graduation speech.
“Reality television,” I’ll say. What better job for a cultural studies major than my participation in the lowest brow of entertainment? I’ve been kicking this idea around for some time now, mostly half-assed, but lately serious because I’m feeling desperate enough. So as I was looking for a job — a real job on Craig’s List — I stumbled upon an audition for CBS’s Big Brother. The gist of this show is that contestants live in isolation with each other in a custom-built house in Los Angeles until they’re evicted one by one for losing corny obstacle courses by their fellow house guests. The name Big Brother comes from the George Orwell novel 1984 and means that the contestants are under constant surveillance via webcam for voyeurs. If you can stand it all, the winner will eventually receive $500,000 and the runner-up will get $50,000. “I was looking for a job and now I found a job,” I’ll quip.
I imagine it’ll be miserable. Why would anyone intentionally cast themselves on reality television knowing full well that their plots generally tend to humiliate cast members and/or manipulate them into eating sick shit? And what is this? Big Brother Ten? How interesting could this tiresome gimmick be after ten seasons on the air? I reasoned to myself that because of this, there wouldn’t be too much attention paid; my immediate family wouldn’t even have to know, I hoped. So on a whim I applied, giving into a nasty spell of curiosity and perhaps even a bit of my inner masochist.
On April 10, I mustered the courage to actually go through with it. Alone, I arrived at an upscale bar called Martini Lounge in the West side of Chicago. Upon entering, an unenthused Big Brother staff person pointed to the back of the line. His clichéd uppity demeanor so fulfilled my curiosity about “Hollywood types” that I hesitated, reasoning that I had seen too much already.
I bit the bullet and got in line. I was upset to find that the spring rainstorm had scaled down the number of applicants who had gathered inside. A horde of what felt like 200 people stood restlessly around the bar, some drinking, others teasing their perfectly manicured coifs or tugging on their favorite outfits. Somewhere between a half hour and a hard place, I decided to stop making fake cell-phone calls to busy myself — you know how celebrities do when paparazzi near — and joined in on the atmosphere. I started up a bar tab and begrudgingly ordered myself a $10 gin and tonic. I’m too embarrassed to discuss how much I paid for the following two beers.
Putting on the character of the dumb drunk girl was my best strategy for appeasing the producers and landing a spot in the house. I rationed that if I at least got my foot in the door, then I’d get to return my normal, composed drunk self. As I drank, the boredom began wearing off, and I became uncharacteristically chatty with the dude-bro in front of me. I turned journalist on him and interrogated him about why he was there. Turns out he made a bet with his friends. Funny, I made a bet with myself.
“Would you cheat on your boyfriend if you got into the house?” the dude-bro asked, summing up my feelings on how gross I felt being there.
I finally got to the front of the line after two and half hours. They took my photograph and I gave them my most flattering MySpace angle; I cocked my head to the right a little in an effort to make my nose look smaller.
Was I nervous? I’m delighted to say “No.” In fact this cultural studies major was having a riot watching the nerves and hackles on everyone there. When I was finally pulled to a private table for my question-and-answer segment, my dude-bro accomplice warned me that my interviewer was “super drunk.” I was in good company! The next five minutes went painfully like this:
Interviewer: “What do you do?”
Me: “I’m a writer … a fashion writer.” (I bluffed, so what?)
Interviewer: “Why do you want to be on Big Brother?”
I started geeking out. Which I’m sure is adorable and good when in the company of my friends, but certainly not “cool” or “hot” in a coed jacuzzi sort of way.
Me: “For my mom. Once she quit smoking after 30 years, she got really into reality TV. It all started when we got her TiVo for Christmas. It was a terrible idea. Now she watches reality television as much as she used to smoke and I think she’d really get a kick out of –”
She cut me off. Took a big bite of her fish taco and said,
Interviewer: “When was the last time you cried?”
Me: (I snorted loudly) “Last night!”
Interviewer: “Why?”
Me: “I was thinking about my mom…”
Interviewer: “Why would you be good on Big Brother?”
Me: “I’m really good at lying!”
Interviewer: “OK, what was the last lie you told?”
Me: “Oh sometimes I make up stories! And they’re not true but I tell them to my friends like they are true! It’s great fun. But of course I eventually tell them because I end up feeling guilty…”
Interviewer: “OK. Any questions for me?”
Me: “Nope, but your food looks good?”
Apparently they’ll call me if I’m selected sometime in June. I’m not losing sleep over it, but I do think about it from time to time. To be honest, I don’t know how interesting a tipsy mama’s girl will be in a land of bug-eating and adulterous slumber parties, but we’ll see.
Issue #25
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