October 2003 · Volume 85 · Number 9

A Manager’s Turn On Reality TV

Patrick Guilfoyle 
What if? What if you have a lot of energy and a competitive spirit, want to do something in summer that is markedly different from the typical resort trip, enjoy being “on stage” and performing, would love to travel and have a good time on someone else’s nickel, and have no problem laughing at yourself?
If you fit this profile, one possible answer is . . . try to get on a reality television series. That’s what I did. As I became a “Survivor” and “Mole” fan during their first seasons on TV, the Walter Mitty in me kicked in. I felt challenged to go through what turned out to be the fun process of trying to get chosen for such an adventure.
I loved the “Mole”’s first season. Heck, somebody would actually put me up in posh resorts in foreign lands, feed me at gourmet restaurants, and let me dispense with the routine of the normal 24/7, playing games with kindred spirits? Sounded like my kind of thing.
I logged on to the ABC network’s Web site and printed out the “Mole” application and instructions, as did several thousand other hopeful candidates. OK, strategy, strategy! How best to see that my application was more appealing and noticeable? I decided to make my application stand out from the pack by spoofing the typical answers whenever I could. After all, I assumed the show’s executives would be looking for somewhat kooky personalities, people who were not afraid to color outside the lines.
So when the application asked “Where have you lived?” I replied, “Only on the planet Earth, but I’d be willing to relocate if necessary.” And when they wanted to know “What is your favorite sport?” I jotted, “Full-contact checkers.” 
Show Requirements
The application also called for the obligatory two- to three-minute video. So I transformed myself into a film producer, writer, director, editor, and actor to make what I hoped would be a satirical, entertaining accompaniment to my questionnaire. I created vignettes that dramatized the application’s questions and answers. My son and I donned hockey helmets while we played checkers and engaged in a hockey fight at a critical point in the checkers game. Okay, you get the idea.
Producing this video gave my friends, family, and me so much personal and creative entertainment value. Even if I didn’t make the final cut, the video process had been satisfying and fun-filled in itself.
I shipped the application and video off to Hollywoodland, then waited. Truth to tell, I shipped it off and forgot about it, given the odds against being selected. Then one night, about bedtime, I received a phone call from a production assistant in Hollywood. After ruling out the notion that the phone call was a practical joke and deciding it was for real, I agreed to do an interview with the Los Angeles producers using a speakerphone and video camera. After we had completed the interview, I overnighted the videotape to Hollywood.
The only hitch was that neither I, nor the governing body, nor my immediate household family could tell anyone the real reason I was absent from the home front.
As with any job interview, I was both optimistic about my performance and doubtful of my prospects. Within a week, I abandoned my doubts when I got another Hollywood phone call, asking me if I’d consider allowing the producers to fly me to Los Angeles for a long weekend of final interviews, game playing, medical and psychological exams, and more interviews. What the heck? I thought. Sounded better than mowing the grass, which was my alternate plan for the weekend. 
My Time in L.A.
When I deplaned at LAX late on a Friday night, a production assistant (or PA, as I learned was the proper “biz” term) met me and told me that, from that moment, I had no name. I would simply be known and referred to as “Number 42.” The PA deposited me in my hotel suite, or should I say jail cell? She reminded me that I would be sequestered alone in my room for the entire weekend. I was not allowed to go anywhere unescorted; I must have a PA with me at all times and venture from my room only when it suited the producers’ needs.
I felt like I was in a spy movie. All weekend, I was escorted by a PA with a walkie-talkie who constantly chatted with other “escorts” to make sure that none of us 65 hopefuls talked to or even saw each other. I ate my meals in my room and learned to enjoy the scenery from the balcony from Friday through Sunday.
When I wasn’t counting ceiling tiles in my suite, I met with producers and directors, played games, and answered all kinds of questions, both routine and odd. I learned from the psychiatrist that my strategy of using zany application responses to help my questionnaire catch their attention had paid off. He said it definitely caught their eye. Also, it probably explained why the psychiatrist was poised with a straitjacket at his side during my psych exam.
After this sequestered weekend of poking and probing my personality, the PA picked me up on Sunday morning and drove me to LAX for the six-hour flight back home to New Jersey. As with a lot of job interviews, the parting message to me was, in effect, “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”
At this point, I was highly enthusiastic and hopeful about my chances, though, needless to say, concerned about my weekend’s performance. But one week later, all doubts went away. I received a call from the “big honchos,” the executive producers, asking me if I wanted to be one of 14 “players” chosen for the show. Being selected meant a potential absence from my job, family, home, and mowing the grass for up to six weeks, depending upon my success or failure in the show’s on-air elimination process.
When I accepted the proposal, they said I would receive an overnight package in six days containing a plane ticket to my initial destination; only then would I know where I was heading. But I was sworn to absolute secrecy; I couldn’t tell anyone else exactly where I was going, including my family.
At that point, I met in executive session with members of my elected governing body to explain my opportunity and obtain their blessing. The only hitch was that neither I, nor the governing body, nor my immediate household family could tell anyone the real reason I was absent from the home front. The producers valued secrecy about any detail of the show, to the point of paranoia. So, we all shared a little white lie to cover my tracks; meanwhile, I went “home to Kansas” to help deal with family matters.
On the following Thursday, I received the anticipated FedEx package with my plane ticket to Zurich, Switzerland, leaving just two days later. On Saturday, after boarding the plane, I began my unusual experience on a reality show, with the potential of winning up to $1 million. But, as was the case with the 13 other players on the show, the money was not the prize I sought. My prize was simply being chosen.
This attitude served me well since I didn’t win the $1 million. I met my Waterloo when I became the fourth contestant to get bounced off the show. But it proved a fantastic 17-day adventure, which took me through the Alps of Switzerland to the gondolas of Venice.
My job wasn’t done after I got home in the latter part of June. I had to keep mum about the whole experience until the show premiered in September. Again, the producers’ penchant for secrecy had to be satisfied. 
Would I Do It Again?
All in all, not a bad way to spend part of my summer. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat! And if you talk to all the other participants in the show, they’ll share the same sentiment. It wasn’t about winning or losing, it was all about the amusing process of getting there and the chance to participate in something definitely out of the ordinary. Would I have approached the show’s game strategy differently if I had to do it over again? Oh yeah, but that’s another whole story. 

Patrick Guilfoyle was the township administrator of Plainsboro, New Jersey, when this article was written. At press time, he was seeking new adventures and challenges (GreatTate@aol.com).
 
© 2004 International City/County Management Association.