The following can also be found in the book Chicago Stories 1996. Click here to learn more, and to download a free electronic copy.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the host of The Price is Right, Bob Barker!"

Have you watched an episode of The Price is Right recently? I have. My temp agency hasn't been able to find me work this week, and I have spent each and every morning watching mindless television. I watched my very first episode of Beverly Hills 90210 this week and discovered that Jennie Garth is hot. I watched an entire episode of Jenny Jones this week. It was entitled "I Have A Secret Crush on my Service Technician!" which teaches us two things -- 1) Jenny Jones still hasn't learned her fuckin' lesson, and 2) I will watch anything if put in front of me. Oh sure, I learned some things, too. I learned how to make a portobello mushroom sandwich. I learned that when traveling in Greece, not to stay in Athens because everything's really overpriced. I learned that Barney really is as annoying as everyone says he is. Mostly, however, my mornings this week have consisted of Regis and Doogie Howser and Eagle Insurance.

So. I was flipping channels and ran across the very beginning of The Price is Right. Now, understand that The Price is Right was my absolute favorite of the game shows in my preschool days. Something about those bright '70s colors, the purples and burnt siennas and mustards. Something about those long, slender microphones, like out of Logan's Run or something. Something about that retro-futureshock font they used for everything from the show's logo to the giant pricetags. I hadn't watched the show in ten years! This was gonna be great.

Now, I won't insult your intelligence by assuming you've never watched The Price is Right. You are familiar with the blaring theme music. You are of course familiar with the diffusion-lensed camera that transforms the studio lights into a dazzling, wonderful fantasyland. You must be familiar with the nervous energy with which the camera jaggedly sweeps over the audience, until... "Billy Joe Bob, COME ON DOWN!" The oversize nametag that looks like it came from Goldblatt's circa 1957. The anger and frustration you would direct at that one asshole contestant, you know the one -- "How much did she bid? 840? Um... I'll bid 841." All this... all this is the same.

I'll tell you what's different. Back when I was a tot, when I was watching the show on a fairly regular basis, the emcee would end all the silliness with "And now the host of The Price is Right... Bob Barker!" Bob would step out from behind some hidden recess, Logan's Run microphone in hand, and the crowd would display the normal game-show sycophantic behavior that game-show crowds always do. If it was a particularly good day, Bob would take a small, humbling bow before calling for the first item up for bid.

Now, though, now... "And now the host of The Price is Right... Bob Barker!"

Have you ever seen the movie Network? The classic 1974 film about a television personality who is unwittingly turned into a messiah figure by a media-saturated, uneducated country? Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have our Howard Beale in 1996, and his name is Bob Barker.

The mere mention of his name gets the entire audience on their feet immediately, hootering and hollering and waving their fists in the air and barking, actually barking like the fucking Arsenio Hall show. Bob now comes out from the back audience exit and slowly makes his way down the aisle to the stage. The throngs, the awed throngs, gingerly reach out and touch him, as if to say, "Bob, Bob, cure me of my leprosy!" "Bob, Bob, drive the demon from my soul!" "Bob, oh Bob, save me from my bout of consumption!"

Bob, of course, takes it all in stride. He reaches out to touch his zealous followers. He wisely nods at them, back and forth, like the faithful idol that he is. Bob is happy. Bob has finally attained the status of sainthood that he so richly believes he's deserved his whole life. He climbs on stage now and blithely accepts the adoration without so much as a thank-you now.

This, in and of itself, was frightening enough to give me chills. But there's more. I started putting it all together, there in my bed, holding the remote control, and never mind that I had just woken up and never mind that I was still a little drunk from the night before. I had ol' Bob's number right there and then, all right.

Nothing else about the show has changed. It's still the same free-wheeling '70s logo and colors and sliding panel doors and even the Logan's Run microphones, for God's sake. The models, the "game show assistants," are even younger and firmer than they've ever been. They all look like rejects from the Baywatch callbacks. They flirt with Bob constantly, throughout the entire hour, flirt in this very lecherous, very slimy, very "Come climb up on Uncle Bob's lap" kinda way. It occurs to me that there was some sort of ugly business a coupla years back, something about a lawsuit against Bob Barker for sexual harassment or something.

Oh yeah, I'm putting it all together. Bob Barker... Bob Barker's running a sex club, right in the middle of CBS Television City, in the heart of sunny and sleepy Burbank, California! Unwitting tourists are being lured into an innocent taping of The Price is Right, but when the cameras turn off... that music starts up again, that glittery '70s disco ball is turned back on, and unspeakable horrors take place. "Now, who wants to guess where Uncle Bob wants to get a spanking? The winner gets all the money in Uncle Bob's pocket! Ooh, that's a good guess! Higher... higher... lower... lower... higher... LOWER... HIGHER! LOWER! Doris, spin the wheel! Spin that fucking wheel, Doris, for the love of God!"

Listen, Bob! I'm on to your sick little game! When those senators were all calling for ratings on TV shows, we all know who they were talking about, don't we! Well, forget it! I'm not joining your perverted little leather fetish club! I won't heed your oh-so-cleverly coded come-on line, "Please get your pets spayed and neutered!" You hear me, Bob Barker? I'm taking you down! Down, I say!

Jesus, I hope my agency finds me work soon.