Saturday morning is sacred time. You’re tucked into bed, all cozy, the whole weekend ahead of you. Go for brunch, take your favorite hangover remedy, see a movie, do laundry. Saturday morning, you can do anything.
You could even pay a homeless man $100 to sleep on Columbus Drive at the NBC Tower if you felt like it.
But who would ever do that?
I assure you: It happened in Chicago as more than 1,000 people lined up for a casting call for next season’s “Apprentice.”
Paying the homeless was a popular way to outsource the wait time. (At least one sponsor appeared to have a heart–he said he took his rep in line to P.F. Chang’s the night before.)
Now, I watch every episode of “The Apprentice.” I’ve interviewed crazy Sam and spent what can only be described as a strange hour on the phone with Omarosa for RedEye’s exclusive interview. I have even paid $25 to attend a nerdy “Apprentice” party hosted by contestant Bill Rancic.
I used to think this more than qualified me as an “Apprentice” psycho, but that was before the real ones came out on Saturday.
Never before had I seen so many people in suits making such asses of themselves. They were like the high school kids who are always in the background of news frames, screaming and gyrating for attention while the reporter delivers a tearful update on a kidnapping case.
Upon seeing my RedEye baseball cap, you could see their conniving little brains reviewing lessons from business school on guerilla marketing. They yelled out anything they thought would draw attention to themselves.
“You know, the reporters are only talking to men,” one woman said, grabbing my arm.
“It’s the RedEye girl!” I kept hearing as men tried to flirt their way into my notebook. (Perhaps they have become wise to the “sex sells” strategy displayed by Katrina and Co.)
“Do you have any food?” a guy yelled.
Um, no. But there is an entrepreneur selling coffee and muffins from a makeshift cart a few blocks down.
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“That guy should be The Apprentice,” someone exclaimed.
At each stop, I asked those in line if they were worried that being on a reality TV show would detract from their credibility as businesspeople. Everyone said the 15 minutes of fame would be a boost.
We talked ethics: Is it wrong for this season’s girls to pose for FHM magazine? The consensus: Yes, because it shifts focus away from their business skills.
We talked strategy. Some people pointed to contestant Troy and said their street smarts would trump expensive degrees.
Stretching down Columbus Drive, the line appeared endless. I had to meet the person who was dead last. With the final wristband in sight, its owner’s enthusiasm was just as vigorous: “I’ll be here until they send me home.”
I marvel at the determination and the motivation. I respect their tenacity.
Later, someone told me that he and the people he waited in line with overnight were starting an e-mail group to keep in touch. They were meeting for drinks later that night.
Maybe they weren’t all self-promoting, power-hungry voyeurs; this whole thing was really about fun and taking chances.
With zen-like understanding, I packed up my notebook and decide to go shopping. Bouncing along State Street with my packages, I collided with another line of people.
This time there were only a few hundred, and they were dressed in black because they were protesting the war in Iraq on its anniversary. They called for peace and held signs that read, “Impeach George Bush.”
Suddenly, all I could think about was the many ways we choose to spend our Saturdays.
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