He wants to be a `Millionaire'

I finally realized it wasn't all a big gag when I spotted the rumpled old chauffeur waiting for me at JFK Airport in New York last week, his hand tiredly clutching a tongue depressor stapled to a piece of paper with my name on it.

He had Rodney Dangerfield eyes and pigeon toes, and his off-black suit probably fit once, many years ago, back when it was last pressed. But as he lifted my bags and trudged toward his waiting limo, he attempted a weak smile, and with a Walter Matthau deadpan he confirmed my reality.

"So, you wanna be a millionaire, eh?"

Looking back, a week later, at the most nerve-wracking yet surreally fantastic 72 hours I can ever remember, the image of that nameless driver keeps coming back. It seemed, from that point forward, like it couldn't possibly be happening.

Me? On a game show? I don't believe it.

I suppose I'll find out for sure this Sunday night at 9, when I will be televised as a contestant on the flashy ABC game show "Who Wants to Be A Millionaire," along with the great Regis Philbin and nine other rich-people wannabes from all over the country.

I might as well get this out of the way right now: Because of agreements with the public-relations and legal folk at ABC, I am not allowed to say what happened on the show: whether I won anything, whether anyone else won anything, or even whether I got to sit across a computer monitor from Philbin.

Sorry. If you're that curious, you'll just have to watch.

But I can say this: It was an overwhelming and sometimes mind-blowing experience to see the inner sanctum of national network television at work.

And my conclusion: It's as artificial as I always thought. And twice as impressive.

It began the minute the Dangerfield driver dropped me off at an Upper West Side hotel. I was already late for a meeting with a network coordinator named Paul, a man whose entire job consists of pampering the show's contestants. He even lives in the hotel.

He had to make sure the clothes I packed were appropriate for TV: No logos, patterns or stripes, please. No plaids or checks, thank you very much. And there, in Paul's room on the 11th floor, I met my first bona fide game-show nuts: An East Coast couple, in a panic.

The wife, a contestant, was frantic that Regis sign her copy of his book, "Who Wants to be Me?" And she had piles of gifts for the host: books, ties, framed photos of her friends.

But mostly, it seemed, the cheery couple was fully and hopelessly addicted to dialing up the show to qualify as contestants. Even though she had beaten hefty odds to get on the show, her husband wanted to keep trying.

But how? He was going to be at the studio at the same time a network person might call his home number to tell him he qualified. Should he actually not play the game for one whole day? The mere thought appeared to give them cold sweats.

I'm not sure how he resolved that, but it appears the withdrawals didn't kill him.

The next morning, all the contestants and their guests - spouses and girlfriends, mostly - were shepherded onto a van and driven three blocks to ABC studios. We gathered in a big room, sucked down free coffee and bagels and learned that no one was going anywhere without an escort. Men and women in headsets would be with us everywhere. Even in the bathroom.

They don't want any cheaters, they explained.

They seized cameras, books, pagers and cell phones. We were left with little to do other than get to know each other. This is where it's important for me to mention one fact: I have never watched an entire hourlong broadcast of "Who Wants to Be A Millionaire." I can only stand about 20 minutes of watching someone else ruminate on multiple-choice questions. And I'm lukewarm about Regis Philbin. I tried to get on the show because I thought I'd do well and maybe win some money.

Honest.

But locked in the "Green Room" for a couple hours with a bunch of rabid fans can make a believer out of you. Larry and Susan from Georgia and Andrew and Diana from Iowa, like the rest, were absorbed in the nuances of how to select Lifelines and in gossip about Regis. The very nice East Coast couple from the night before were now, apparently, counting their proverbial chickens. The husband was referring to the show as his wife's "great opportunity." Several times, his wife told me, somewhat consolingly, that I was at a "disadvantage" because I was from the West Coast and possibly feeling the effects of jet lag.

Suddenly, I was feeling competitive. And I was eager to meet this Philbin character. Next stop: rehearsal.

Before we knew it, we were being ushered to the set. A few minutes later, I realized I was on the set. It's not that impressive, as anyone who has seen the inside of any TV studio will attest. The famed Hot Seat is a tall drafting chair in front of a computer screen built into a wooden box, spray painted to look metallic.

The plexiglass floor looks high-tech on TV. Up close, it looks kind of silly and cheap. Somehow, though, it had an amphetamine affect. My heart was thumping. My hands were starting to rattle. And, suddenly I was realizing: I was about to be on a game show.

I was itching to talk about Lifeline nuances. I was itching to see Regis. We practiced the dreaded Fast Fingers playoff. I won four times out of six. The other players got mad at me.

A studio lawyer showed up. She said the judges' decisions on the questions are final. Period. Don't like it, don't play. After all, she implied, this is all on the big ABC dime, folks.

On our way upstairs to get makeup smeared on our faces, we encountered our first true celebrity. His name doesn't matter. He was the "holdover contestant" from the last show - the guy who got in the Hot Seat as time ran out. It made him an instant idol.

That he was a just a regular guy didn't matter - even when he was locked in a dressing room with all the other male contestants to change clothes. Somehow he had the answers, the lucky vibe. I am not sure, but I think some guys "accidentally" brushed up against him in the hallway.

Not me. I was too nervous.

And filing back to the stage didn't help. It had been transformed. The purple lights were on. Fake studio smoke filled the room. A hundred screaming fans filled the wraparound stands. A studio "warm-up man" was telling jokes and tossing T-shirts to masses. The audience fought for them like they were home-run baseballs from Ken Griffey's bat.

I tried to tune them out, to stare at the computer screen in front of me. My heartbeat, however, was acting like the crowd. I was blind with nerves. Tunnel vision.

When Regis Philbin walked onstage, I thought the crowd would collectively pass out. He smiled, waved, made a joke about being "the man who saved ABC."

And then the cameras rolled.

Like I said, I can't say what happened from there.

But I will say this:

Next time you happen to have "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" on the TV screen, do me this favor: Before you bark, "you dummy!" at the contestant who is stumped by what seems to be the simplest of questions, think twice.

Take pity.

That guy may be me.

Ian Ith sheepishly admits he now watches large portions of the show. And he's always looking for more Lifelines. Call him at 206-464-2109. His e-mail address is: iith@seattletimes.com