The actual studio is in a corner of the building, thus maximizing the view from the building's huge glass ceilings. The crowd has gathered outside, and is clamoring for a wave from Carson, from the studio manager, from us. I wave feebly. They wave back. Some are holding signs. The man from Puerto Rico is back, holding his daughter and a huge sign that says: "Carson we came all the way from Puerto Rico to see you! Let us up to give you a hug!" I'm wondering if the "us" in the sign includes the dad. From the look on his face, I imagine that it does. He looks terribly excited.

Soman and I are moved to the front of the audience and separated - probably to make the audience a little more, er, representative. The girl next to me is angry because she wanted to sit next to her cousin. Kelly tells us that she - that all of us - are going to be on TV. The girl quiets down. I get all giddy, Soman seems to sink a little bit more into depression. Enter Carson. More squealing.

Carson looks bigger than he does on my small-screen TV, wearing a lot more makeup and even more hair gel. He seems pretty smooth, reading over his lines and joking with the crew, and with Kelly. I know that all the girls are remembering their earmarked pages of Seventeen that declared the much hoped-for break-up of Carson and Jennifer Love Hewitt. The girl sitting next to Soman calls a hesitant Carson over.

"How's Quinn?" She doesn't ask. She shrieks. Quinn is Carson's sister. It frightens me that I know who she is.

Carson looks confused, as he often does. "Quinn? How do you know her?"

The girl's face crumples into tears. "Because I'm obsessed with you." She can't stop weeping. Kelly comes over to console her. Soman looks disgusted. Carson looks bewildered. He is called over to take a picture with a lovely looking family.

"That is so sweet that he does pictures! " I sigh to the cameraman.

"That's his boss," the camerman smirks. He gives me the "I do all the work around here but he gets all the credit and hot chicks" kind of look. I give him my best "I understand" look. And I really do.

The show is about to start. We are roused to applause by a dinky and wholly unnecessary "Applause" sign. These girls would applaud for anything. My ears start to hurt from pre-pubescent screams. I get in a few shouts here and there, but my voice starts to hurt and my hands burn from clapping. I'm too old for this.

It's cool to watch a live show, to see how everything happens, to think that you could yell out something and instantly 1 million viewers could hear and see it. Kelly glares at those talking and silence falls as Carson gets the show going. He seems less charismatic in person, a little tired, a little ready to go home. The first video on the countdown in Metallica.

Kelly asks for volunteers to request a song. On TRL, at random intervals, emails pop up plugging songs, as well as faces of people saying why they requested a certain video. I want to do Backstreet Boys - the girl next to me looks like she's about to cry again when I say that. She does Backstreet Boys. I get 98 degrees. Soman decides to gear up for Christina Aguilera. Kelly nods as I practice what I'm going to say.

During a commercial break, Carson chats with Kid Rock on his cell phone. It's just another phone call for Carson, but we all sit in silence, impressed and anxious to overhear. Girls ask him to sign dollar bills, t-shirts, old receipts, anything that they have on them. One girl in a binding tank top gets him to sign her hand. A smart-ass friend of hers reminds her that she'll have to wash her hand eventually. I can't tell whether the girl is going to cry or punch her friend in the nose. She rubs the writing to her face.

Soman had noted that an hour and a half would be a long time to sit there and watch without being able to get up. I had disagreed then, but soon I understand. My eyes start to droop. I start to get jealous of the girls in tube tops because my turtleneck is starting to get really hot. And itchy. But, alas, finally, my turn comes to request my song. I haven't been so nervous since my sixth grade flute recital. My fifteen seconds of fame. My fifteen seconds of fame. My fifteen seconds . . .

"And 5, 4, 3, 2 . . ." the stage manager points at me. I clutch the microphone.

"My name is Deirdre Mask and I'm from North Carolina, and I wanted to request 98 degrees because I think that they are sooooooo hot!!!" I cheer. The girls cheer. I'm finished. Watching the video, they look hotter than ever. So many beautiful people. Sigh. Soman is up shortly after. He requests Christina, and comments on her utter "fineness." Cheers. Squeals. Still 40 minutes to go.