Entertainment
I Competed Against a Serial Killer on the Dating Game
And went on to win a lovely Naugahyde briefcase
I was abducted by The Dating Game during the spring of 1972 and went missing for over a month. The Dating Game was the televised equivalent of Match.com, back before the internet was even a twinkle in Al Gore’s eyes. Produced by Chuck Barris — who went on to popularize other mega-hits like, The Gong Show, How’s Your Mother-in-law? and The Newlywed Game — it first aired on December 20, 1965, and was televised off and on until the late 1980s.
At the time, I was a daft twenty-one-year-old ski instructor living in a mountain community outside of L.A., so I was an easy target for the gorgeous production assistant who promised me women, wealth, and a lovely Naugahyde briefcase with premium vegetable-tanned Italian leather, a Buroni opening, and twin Cagiva combination barrel locks.
During a mock-up version of the show, they brought three of us onto an empty stage and sat me down in bachelor number two’s chair centered in between two guys that smacked of Alec Baldwin. Several P.A.s started grilling us with the types of intellectual, thought provoking questions we’d likely encounter if we were selected to appear on the show:
- “Bachelor number one, if you were peanut butter, would you be chunky or smooth?”
- “Bachelor number two, if you were a peach, would you be the fruit or the pit?”
- “Bachelor number three, if I were a Twinkie, what would you fill me with?”
The interrogation went on for more than an hour, with one brain-cramping query after another until they eroded our self-esteem lower than a semen stain on the back seat of my mother’s Pontiac.
“Thank you, gentlemen. We’ll give you a call if we want you back to tape an episode of the show.”
“Bachelor number three, if I were a Twinkie, what would you fill me with?”
Ashamed and humiliated, I thought, I would have liked to see how Tom Selleck or Burt Reynolds would have handled questions like those if they were on the show. As it turns out, both were. They appeared years before they became famous — along with Steve Martin, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Michael Jackson, David Cassidy, Robin Gibb, and condemned Los Angeles serial killer, Rodney James Alcala.
Through some screening faux pas, Alcala managed to slip through the cracks and won, despite being previously convicted of raping an eight-year-old girl and murdering four women.
Sheryl Bradshaw, the unsuspecting bachelorette who chose Alcala, dodged a bullet by bailing out of their date. Nobody knows why. Either she figured out who he was or didn’t care much for Magic Mountain.
Several weeks later, I got a call from the show congratulating me on making the cut. I was going to be on The Dating Game!
Back in the green room, I sat face-to-face with my two competitors. I was to be bachelor number two again, while bachelor number one was a bronzed surfer; a cross between George Hamilton and Jeff Spicoli. Bachelor number three wore a pocket protector in his short-sleeved shirt and had a slide rule hanging from his belt.
Through some screening faux pas, Alcala managed to slip through the cracks and won, despite being previously convicted of raping an eight-year-old girl and murdering four women.
With five minutes to go until taping, the P.A. escorted us to our director’s chairs on stage. Then, the music started to play.
As the stage revolved to Herb Alpert’s Whipped Cream blaring from the studio monitors, I felt myself slowly devolve from a relaxed ski instructor to a pillar of salt. Beginning with the tips of my toes, the paralysis crept upward until it froze my face into a sheepish grin. I knew I was smiling, but I couldn’t feel my face.
Then, the bachelorette went in for the kill:
- “Bachelor number one, if we were both homeless and living in the same shelter, where would you take me out to show me a good time?”
- “Bachelor number two, if I came down with projectile diarrhea on our first date, what would you say to me to make me feel better?”
- “Bachelor number three, if a group of the Hells Angels hit on me while we were on the dance floor, how would you turn the situation around?”
Ultimately, the bachelorette chose George Spicoli. It wasn’t until later that I found out he had won twice before and was on the studio’s list of ringers to supplement their never-ending, sub-standard river of mediocre contestants. But, I didn’t care.
I heard through the grapevine the bachelorette was entering a Tibetan convent at the end of the month and the studio would be sending me a lovely Naugahyde briefcase with premium vegetable-tanned Italian leather, a Buroni opening, and twin Cagiva combination barrel locks as a consolation prize.
I waited for over two years, but never saw it. I wasn’t disappointed, though. After all, what’s a ski instructor need with a Naugahyde briefcase, anyway?
