‘Bachelor’ call: Booze, babes, Tinder moments
Hundreds turned out last week to audition for ABC’s “The Bachelor,” and the Chronicle’s Wei-Huan Chen — who wound up auditioning himself — describes the booze-and-babefilled scene.
After being assigned to write about the open auditions for “The Bachelor,” I sat stewing in my newsroom desk, contemplating the state of journalism. “I. Am. A. Theater. Critic!” I thought to myself, raising my nose in the air. “I read James Baldwin. James Baldwin!”
Rather than working, I pondered for a few hours about whether my Christ-like standards of art and the sublime would be sullied by giving publicity to a reality TV show that perpetuates fairy tale-like romance myths. Then, I consoled myself with the fact that any uncomfortable situation can be turned comfortable with the aid of alcohol.
“I think it’s just a cash bar there, but you can expense it,” one of my editors whispered to me.
I hope so. The casting call took place in that “aquarium” operated by the same chain that also owns the Golden Nugget Casino in Lake Charles, the aquarium that has the name of a sequel to a Syfy original movie (“Downtown Aquarium: An Underwater Adventure”) and features, inexplicably, a white tiger, a Ferris wheel and a thrilling train ride through a parking lot underneath a freeway.
On Thursday afternoon, I took a Lyft there. Confused where the audition was — cer-
tainly not next to the frog tanks — I spotted a tall woman with long, straight hair and high heels. Journalistic instinct, honed to perfection over the years, said “follow her” (but without being creepy). She rode an elevator to a third-floor lobby, where clearly she was in the right place. The room was full of tall women with long, straight hair and high heels filling out paperwork.
I walked inside and was stunned by a gorgeous man in a blue suit. He was six feet, 4 inches tall with immaculate white teeth, holding a well-read copy of Dale Carnegie’s “How To Win Friends & Influence People,” which I assumed simply contained the words “be as good-looking as this guy” printed over and over.
It takes a certain specimen of a man, I thought, to not only know what “The Bachelor” is but to want to be on the ABC prime-time staple (the men would be featured on the sister show, “The Bachelorette”). At the bar, I ordered a whiskey and Coke and took in the scene, thinking about whom I might interview, when a producer approached me, asking if I needed any help.
“Oh, no, I’m just writing about this. I’m media.”
“Well, you look sharp. You should audition.”
“No. Thank you.” “Don’t say that. You should!” “OK.”
How many opportunities does one get offered by simply sporting an H&M blazer and the confidence of a white male middle manager? Soon, I was drinking a second whiskey while writing down my name and cell number on a whiteboard and being photographed, mugshot-style, by a woman with a digital camera that looked like it was salvaged from the early 2000s.
I sat down at a table and tried to make some friends. There was Alyssa, who told me to put in a good word for her, and a girl with a blue dress who chatted with Alyssa about veneers. Jerri was once on the MTV show “Disaster Date” but had been rejected from the Texans cheerleading squad. Sam was just there to support her friend, but we roped her into trying out as well.
“Are you really going to put down your social?” she asked.
The application was six pages long. We were to reveal not only our social security numbers but also our salary, marital and relationship history, reasons for breakups and, perhaps most important, hobbies. I took notes on the table talk:
“Is Tinder a hobby?”
“I’m better than Becca, but I’m not the best.” (Becca Kufrin is the current “Bachelorette,” airing at 7 p.m. Mondays on ABC and KTRK (Channel 13).
“So I heard when they put you in the house, you can’t talk to anyone outside, no phones or anything, for six weeks. But what if someone needs you? My grandma’s in the hospital.” “Did you see that hot guy?” Was she referring to the man carrying the Dale Carnegie book? She shrugged. I zoned out of the conversation when it landed on whether this girl who someone saw with an Astros player named Greg or Craig or something at Clé the other night was in fact his girlfriend.
The actual audition, lasting no more than three minutes, was not interesting. A friendly man asked me a few questions.
“What are your hobbies?” I said, “Intersectional feminism.”
“Why would you be good on this show?” I said something about diversity.
After the audition, I tried, unsuccessfully, to record an interview. This was mostly my fault. Then Nioki showed up. She was there as moral support for her cousin. The ChineseJapanese-Filipino Marine vet bought me drinks and blasted the songs of Cardi B on her phone, trying to get the other girls to sing along. After Nioki talked to me about PTSD, she sauntered to the other side of the table and sat on the lap of a man with black-rim glasses and a Superman-like build. He claimed he’s had thousands of online dates — literally, over a thousand — and that most women can’t hold 30 minutes of conversation. He was an exotic dancer at a local club.
“It’s four nights a week. $200,000 a year, easy, no taxes.”
A girl from San Antonio asked me where I was from.
“Houston, but originally South Carolina.”
“But, like, where are your people from?” “Ghana.” This was a joke. “Oh, cool! I have this hairdresser and her boyfriend’s last name is Nguyen. He’s from Vietnam. It’s pronounced newyen but it’s actually spelled N-G-U-Y-E-N.”
The girl, who looked like a model, said she was a 7 and that the room was filled with 8s and 9s, but she can try to make up for it with her personality. I told her she was wrong about being a 7; she didn’t think I was being genuine.
Parroting Nioki, she started playing Shania Twain on her phone and asking us to sing along, but no one could hear the words. More drinks from Nioki and her crowd. Around 8 p.m., the auditions were dying down, but the party, apparently, was only starting. People had moved past following each other on Snapchat and Instagram and began trading actual phone numbers. Our table wanted to all go grab food together. I left by myself, wondering if these people showed up not to audition but to meet attractive singles.
What would I do if I got a call back from the producers? Being on “The Bachelorette” would be awesome. The girls were still talking about how Jerri, the “Disaster Date” alumnus, spent so much time talking to the producers. Longer than everyone else. Longer than me. I mean, I’m happy for her. I’ll have to watch out for her on the show.
The journey back home from an audition is an emotional one. The elevator doors on the way to exit the building opened to a half-outdoor, half-indoor preview of the aquarium, a stark contrast to the glitzy design of the upstairs ballroom.
The entrance reeked of algae floating in warm water. None of the parents or the children there had on high heels or pressed suits. They wore shirts that sagged, pants that looked comfortable. Disgusting. I walked out into the swampy night, sweat already trickling down my leg, sweat perforating through my shirt, the weather already transforming me back into an ugly, regular person.