[NOTE: THE VIDEOS BELOW WERE RECORDED AT A WEAK VOLUME, SO SENIORS READING THIS BLOG SHOULD TURN UP THEIR HEARING AIDS TO "11" IMMEDIATELY]
[NOTE #2: SOME BLACK SPOTS ACCOMPANY THE BEGINNING OF THE YOU TUBE CLIPS. IGNORE THEM. BECAUSE I CAN'T BEAT THE INTERNET AT ANYTHING.]
Being the overly ambitious child I was (read: kissass), and having spent weekends writing to any “celebrity” whose address I would rip from the pages of The Big Address Book, the gift that would keep on giving (to personal assistants of C-list celebrities), I was no stranger to writing letters. I constantly wrote friends and family, kept pen pals, and collected autographs via the aforementioned hobby that resulted in a bulletin board tacked with signed glossies from Luther Vandross (I was weird), Fred Savage (I was gay), and Brooke Shields (I was really weird and really gay). Having already received autographs from Vanna White and Pat Sajak, I decided to step it up and write a fan letter proclaiming my nightly allegiance to Wheel of Fortune.
Several weeks following, the tolerant producers, upon receiving what was surely a ridiculously cute and mildly obnoxious letter, left a message on our answering machine, requesting that I attend an audition for the show at the Marriott Marquis in Manhattan. Delighted, my parents and I drove to the audition (for which I left school early to a classroom of applause) although why they let me out of the house in a full body heather grey sweat-suit that advertised the city of Santa Fe, continues to remain a baffling mystery.
I did, in fact, make it onto the show, and months later flew with my family to Orlando, Florida to tape the show at Walt Disney World with my math teacher, Mr. Howe for "My Favorite Teacher Week":
Sadly my wardrobe blurred the distinction between teacher and student.
My first immediate fuck up was when I nervously referred to him as my “mass” teacher instead of “math.” Nice start.
Whatevs. At least I didn’t look like Erin:
The moment she opened her mouth, Erin managed to define for me the concept of what it meant to come from “rural Pennsylvania.” Yikes. Paula Poundstone would be proud.
Anyway, things did not bode well. Besides not being able to spin the wheel myself (it was quite heavy for a little shrimp like myself), the main problem was Noah and his science teacher, Martin.
Actually, the main problem was really just Noah.
Noah, who will forever be etched into the collective memory of my family and friends as “That Douche,” somehow gained consistent control of the wheel. Plus, he may have also had luck on his side, as well as, my mom some might argue, the advantage of age, as he was three years older than myself and Erin. Many will claim there to be no skill necessary to successfully play Wheel of Fortune, but that’s a flat out lie. When there’s that much money on hand, you’d better know your English, and you’d best be prepared to gamble accordingly. Noah and Martin did just that, too. Somehow, they avoided every last one of the traps on the wheel, managing to score (and keep) $10,000 the moment that piece was added:
At one point, Mr. Howe and I did gain control, and the situation seemed to be moving in a healthy direction with $2150, until Noah and Martin later used a free spin to take control of the game, solve the puzzle, and clean up shop. Erin and I both did a terrible job hiding our disappointment (I looked ready to cry, and she actually did).
Even Peggy, Erin’s teacher on whom I’d developed a minor crush, had to let go of the smile, even if it was for just a moment.
She’s faking it here.
Of course, Noah and Martin went on to solve the final puzzle (which, for the record, was “AUTHOR”), thus securing them each total winnings of over $46,000. And a new car. For both of them. In 1995. When Noah was 14.
There would be many, many days in the coming years when I would take pause each time my old Saab broke down or sat in the shop, just to think about what Noah was doing at that exact same moment. He was definitely still a douchebag, I’d decided, and that’s only on the small chance that he’d lived through the inevitable car accident that completely destroyed that terribly unsafe and ugly, doorless vehicle.
Fuck you, Noah. I’ve got a blog. (Plus, I walked away with a year’s supply of prune juice and Centrum Silver. Huzzah!)
It was a rough game, and a true blow to the ego of a pompous adolescent who, if anything, would make friends through appearing on a nationally syndicated version of Hangman (but with money at stake). In the end, however, the experience was a memorable one for many reasons. But, of everything I can remember from when I was on Wheel of Fortune, one moment vividly sticks out in my mind, one which also proves why Pat Sajak doesn’t entirely suck ass.
Throughout the whole game, the avid "Wheelwatcher" (I think I just grew a pussy!) could easily pick up on Pat’s dislike of Noah. Noah was rude, curt, and obnoxious, and Pat made sure to point it out. Me, however, Pat liked, and in the final moment before I exited the stage for good, and just as the cameras were cutting to commercial, this happened:
Barely audible over the applause of the audience, Pat Sajak walked by me, and, perhaps noticing the unmistakable defeat on my face, patted both hands on my shoulders and said, “Good job, Eliot.”
He knew I tried. Pat Sajak knew I tried, and kindly acknowledged the fact, too.
In the end, what is $45,000 when compared to the warm cupping of Pat Sajak's palm on my right shoulder?
I was "cupped" by Pat fucking Sajak!
This was a very nice blog, complete with video and humorous narrative.
You are cool.
Posted by: Diana | September 21, 2006 at 12:44 AM