Squawking heads

Fifty opinionated individuals vie for a place on Politically Incorrect

by Chris Wright

URBAN EYE

The parking lot of Channel 5's Needham studio isn't usually a rowdy place at six on a Saturday morning. But this isn't your usual Saturday morning. Among the dishes and antennas, a large and vociferous crowd has gathered, here to audition for a "regular citizen" spot on the TV show Politically Incorrect.

Many have been here all night, having come from as far away as Buffalo, New York. Out of the 100 or so people who showed up, only 50 will be picked to audition -- first come, first served. Which might explain the jostling, the cries of "Me! Me! Me!" The unpicked skulk off. "Their loss," says one guy before climbing into his car. You can almost hear the coffee slopping into his lap as he peels away.

At around 8 a.m., the chosen ones are led from the parking lot into a waiting room. "Fifty people who can't shut up," is how one hopeful describes the congregation. Yet the conversation is subdued, cautious. One guy refuses to tell me his name. "I don't want to be lumped in with the crazies," he explains.

There's nothing patently crazy about the people here, though they're a wildly mixed bunch: hip teens and aging hippies, techno-geeks and business stiffs. Blue collar, white collar, no collar. One thing unites them: the belief that millions of TV viewers will tune in to listen to their opinions.

The hitch is, only one of them is right.

After filling out paperwork, it's on to a conference room for the initial round of auditions, in which the 50 will be whittled down to 14 finalists, who will then be divided into two groups, each of which will perform for Politically Incorrect host Bill Maher. One person will be flown to Los Angeles to tape the show with a panel of celebs.

The first five file in and sit before an associate producer, who advises them to "discuss, defend, dispute." And they're off. Well, they're certainly not on, tripping through social Darwinism and the perils of nuclear power with a courtesy bordering on tedium. "They agreed too much," concedes the associate producer when the session is over.

Subsequent groups tread their topical minefields less cautiously. A young guy causes a stir when he says that welfare recipients shouldn't be allowed to own "luxury items" like TVs. Arguing against gun control, one man admits he's had guns stolen on three occasions, which incites another to scream, "You! You're why we have gun control!"

But the really juicy stuff takes place downstairs, where rejected contestants are informed of the unthinkable before being escorted from the building by an armed guard. To a person, rejectees believe they should (or could) have been contenders. "I thought I was really good," says one woman. Another laments that she was "put in with such loudmouths." A guy named Ralph agrees: "They didn't want to hear you," he says.

What would he do differently next time? "Scream."

The fervor wears off as the day wears on. After four hours of welfare, Kosovo, gun control, health care, Kosovo, drugs, term limits, gay rights, Kosovo, abortion, teen pregnancy, Kosovo, Kosovo, Kosovo . . . well, even some of the rejectees seem happy to leave the building.

Finally Maher arrives, and this inspires renewed urgency among the weary contenders. Which isn't necessarily a good thing.

Maher says that Politically Incorrect is successful not only because of his ability to "find the people who have a gene for arguing," but also because it's "the only late-night show that prizes people saying something interesting." As the final sessions demonstrate, though, the arguing gene and the ability to say something interesting don't always go hand in hand. In fact, in the presence of the big guy, the contestants speak longer and louder while saying decidedly less. Maher, meanwhile, sits back and watches the squabbles unfold with a satisfied smirk.

"My theory," he says, "is that people are funny when they get mad, when they are arguing."

Which might explain his enthusiasm for Gary, who appears to be his favorite (though the final decision has yet to be made). Gary looks like an aging Young Republican, but his viewpoint and manner are anything but conservative. Eyes popping, fist slamming into palm, Gary argues that life imprisonment is inappropriate, whatever the crime. "People change!" he bellows. Maher just giggles, rolls his eyes, jabs his thumb, and says, to hoots of laughter, "Ted Kennedy isn't liberal enough for this guy."

Given all the Maher appreciation going around, perhaps the most politically incorrect statement of the day comes from John, a real-estate agent who bears a striking resemblance to Maury Povich. Not only does John believe he should have been picked, he says, "I think I should be the host." And then he adds, referring to Maher, "He's lousy."