Barbarella's Backstage Pass

By the time we pulled into the parking lot and found a sweet space a few steps from the side of the building, the sun was shining brightly. As David was taking pictures of me with my sign (a large picture of my face, mouth open wide in excitement, next to the boldly printed words, “I LOVE BOB!”), a security guard shuffled quickly over to us. “I’m sorry, there are no pictures allowed on the premises, I’m going to have to confiscate your camera.” While I was marveling at the audacity it takes to snatch someone’s expensive camera, David was more concerned about what was ON the camera. See, we had quite a “photo sesh” with this digital camera a few days before. And when I say “photo sesh,” I mean I played photographer while documenting some of my finest, Mistress-quality work. Nothing fit for the children, or any god-fearing person. Shit, nothing fit for most people. Hee hee. But I digress.

As if in answer to our baffled expressions, the guard said, “Just kidding. Ha! Gotcha!” Uh, yeah, very funny, man. He wasn’t going to take the camera, but he was adamant that we were not to take any more pictures on the premises. Even in the parking lot. I don’t understand how taking pictures of yourself in the parking lot threatens the studio in any way, but when David reminded me of those pics, I chose to comply with the local rules.

We were instructed to gather by the side of the building at 7:40 a.m. Now that we weren’t in single file, I got the opportunity to size up my competition. All around were big groups of people with matching T-shirts proclaiming varying levels of love for Bob. There was a little slut with a punky torn shirt that appealed to “Uncle Bob” to make her 18th birthday special by choosing her. Cute. Accompanying the girl was her mother, also wearing a shirt with words of devotion to Bob in support of her daughter. You’d have thought she was there to offer her daughter as some sort of sacrifice to CBS. They just had that look about them. There seemed to be a lot of birthdays, a lot of big groups, and a lot of college students. The only marine I was aware of was out of uniform, which probably cost her in the end; I read they love to pick marines in uniform.

Order and Chaos

At 7:40, a short man in a red jacket began to speak into a mic, his voice clearly blasting through a few well-placed speakers around the building. He repeated his instructions several times, yet when I looked around me, I found blank stares on the faces that topped all those colorful, wordy T-shirts. Just how difficult is it to comprehend where the line begins and where it ends? Huh? Just HOW DIFFICULT IS IT?? One through 150, on the benches against the red rail. 150 and up on the benches against the black wall. You should have seen the mass confusion, the desperation and need apparent on some of those faces. What did he say? Which way? What number are you? Where am I supposed to be? Someone take my hand and guide me, I’m an imbecile!

Whew! Eventually, we were seated, and we had to make room for the ultra-confused and astonishingly stupid stragglers, whom, despite the efforts to help by those gifted with common sense, just couldn’t seem to get their shit together. There were Scott and Greg, right where they should be, right next to us. Seated, controlled, numbered, the children became restless. One young gal (a member of the trucker hat gang) jumped up, screaming and yelling. Her actions prompted others about her to scream and yell, cheer and whoop. It was like watching howler monkeys communicate with one another, each mouth joining in the yelps and squeals. As if unable to contain herself, she ran down the center of the two benches, right between hundreds of seated people facing each other with her arms outstretched, screaming all the way down. Some people put out their hands to slap hers as she ran by. I looked on in awe.

Game Show pg.6

Game Show
pg.6