Come On Down (To Fairfax and Beverly)

There was a great article in the New York Times the other day about my favorite game show, "The Price Is Right" (or "TPIR" for short). Like millions of others, I've been watching the show since I was a small child. The set is like a playground for adults, full of life-sized games with flashy, multi-colored pieces and backgrounds. I love the frantic, pachinko-like action in "Plinko!"; the gaudy, oversized fuzzy dice used in the "Dice Game"; the bizarre game that I can't remember the name of right now where your pricing guesses can't be too far off or the mountain climber will tumble over the edge of the cliff. (Also, the background yodeling music for that one is way cool.)

When I was in elementary school, I used to watch TPIR with my stepdad's mother, whom we affectionately called Gram or Grammy. Gram would come out to California from New Hampshire during the summer to catch rays by the pool and get her daily fix of soap operas and game shows. Our favorites were TPIR, "The Young and the Restless" (because it came on right after TPIR and we were too lazy to change the channel), and "Sale of the Century" (another ridiculous but brilliant game show).

Children's television experts say that young kids are comforted by the predictability of their favorite programs. I get that. For example, I saw my first episode of "Dora the Explorer" the other day while waiting to help finalize an adoption at the Children's Court in Monterey Park. From what I can tell, the formula is that Dora goes on an adventure/mission (in this case, helping a lost baby dinosaur find her mom - awwwwww!), she accomplishes it, and then Dora and her friends sing this inane song that goes "We did it, we did it, we did it!" I can see how that would be comforting to a kid, knowing that Dora was going to do what she set out to do, and that the payoff - the stupid song and a lot of jumping and dancing - was coming at the end. My client's three kids knew the song and sang along happily. Even the dad sang along. (I resisted the temptation, even though I also practically knew the song after about three bars.)

That's kind of what game shows, and especially TPIR, were like for me. During summer vacation, I looked forward to 10 a.m. on weekdays, and it was comforting to know that I was in for a predictably good time. I knew that the announcer, Johnny Olson (or later, Rod Roddy), would pick four people from the audience to "come on down," and that Bob would emerge from behind one of the doors onstage to a standing ovation. Sometimes he'd pay some lame compliment to the fawning audience, who would eat it up completely and go even crazier. Sometimes, though, he'd forgo the banter and immediately ask for the "first item up for bids." After hearing the ten-second commercial for the item (including the brand name, of course), the four contestants would bid on the ladies' watch, or barbecue grill, or television set, or whatever. Someone inevitably would screw their neighbor by bidding one dollar more than the previous bid, or would bid $1 if they thought everyone else was on crack ($850 for tennis rackets? WTF?). Eventually, someone would win and join Bob on stage to play one of the games.

I knew this would happen three times, and I'd get to watch three games, before the "Showcase Showdown." This is where the three contestants come back onstage to spin the Big Wheel to see who gets to be in the Showcase at the end of the show. Then three more games, another Showcase Showdown, and then the Showcase. That's it. Formulaic. Comforting. Predictable.

Even things Bob or Johnny or Rod would say during the show were predictable. Any casual TPIR fan can tell you that Bob signs off every show with the signature line "Help control the pet population - have your pets spayed or neutered." The more devout watcher can rattle off the address where you can get Tickets, which Johnny or Rod would mention about halfway through the show: CBS Television City, 7800 Beverly Boulevard, Los Angeles, CA 90036. Growing up, the address didn't mean anything to me - no one from Orange County knows where the hell anything is in L.A.

But it's a block and a half from where we live now. The late-night lining up for tickets on Fairfax that's mentioned in the article? We see it all the time, usually on our way home from the gym. When we first moved to the neighborhood and saw it happening, I knew exactly what it was. Sometimes, in the morning, I see small clumps of similarly dressed people walking west on Beverly toward Fairfax. Sunburned folks with fanny packs and matching red T-shirts that say "Tulsa, OK Loves Bob!" Frat boys from USC with their Greek sweatshirts. Old people. Young people.

A block and a half away.

If I get tickets, will you come with me? You can crash on the futon. But we will need a gimmick...