Before trying out for "The Mole," I regarded cast members of reality shows like "The Real World" and "Survivor" in the same light as Kato Kaelin. These are people, I thought, who have managed to jam their snouts under the sneeze guard of the celebrity buffet. They gorge themselves on the limelight and the prestige that should be off limits to all but the most talented, dedicated or physically stunning members of our herd. In the cotton candy Twilight Zone of Hollywood, people like Richard Hatch make Pamela Anderson and William Shatner look genuine.

These were the sort of smug musings that would be my downfall. I considered "The Real World" a whinery. How different could "The Mole" be from "Boot Camp," "Survivor" or any other unscripted, televised dysfunction? The answer: now it could be my televised dysfunction. I became enchanted, simple, at the notion of my own star rising. Like a Florida panhandle yokel transfixed by a nighttime satellite launch, my jaw dropped and my eyes rolled back. Mouthbreathing and grunting at the prospect of celebrity, I began shedding journalistic objectivity like a woolly Neanderthal stranded in the tropics.

My fall began harmlessly enough, as I downloaded the 10page "Mole" questionnaire. I wrote glib answers to probing questions. What is your worst quality? Spotty ergonomics. Have you been treated for any mental illness( es) in the last ten years? If the Syndicate says you're better, you're better. Sizable parts of the survey concerned a hopeful's aptitude for deception. This seemed appropriate given the nature of "The Mole."

Contestants are given tasks to complete for cash. However, one of the members of the cast is a Mole, who attempts to sabotage the efforts of the group. Contestants are eliminated based on their ability to correctly answer questions about the Mole.

"[ The Mole's] tension tends to come from having to work together, yet not being able to trust everybody because somebody is working against you," said Matthew Marcus, vice president of mar

keting at Stone Stanley Entertainment. With my assignment, to go undercover as a wannabe contender for a show hinging on manufactured intrigue and deceit, I figured my chances were good. But what chances were good? My chances for an interesting story or my odds of getting on TV? Standing among hopeful housewives and bronzed musclemen outside of B52 Billiards, my brain was wracked with conflicting loyalties. As my wait in the sun stretched to nearly an hour, I realized that my questionnaire answers could not be taken seriously. I grabbed a new set of papers and wrote fabricated, but probable, answers for my profile. My name was Keller Bevans. I wrote ad copy for a living.

Finally, I was ushered up to the second story of the club and sat down in a lounge. I thought of Tim Roth as the undercover cop in Reservoir Dogs, rehearsing his train depot bathroom story to sling at the robbery crew. I was Donnie Brasco in Brooklyn. I was Ollie North on Capitol Hill.

"Keller Bevans!" announced a casting assistant.

I was Keller Bevans, sitting down in an empty room, alone with the casting director.

The casting director asked me if I was a sneaky guy. I said I wasn't sure. The casting director asked me if I was resourceful. I said I once lost the basket of a ski pole on a powder day, and rigged a new one out of the bottom of a 7Up can and some duct tape. (I did.) Then the casting director asked me if I do crazy stuff on dares. I told the casting director I once jumped out of the Seattle Hotel Edgewater into Puget Sound on a bet. (Yeah, right.)

The casting director told me to come back Sunday morning at 11. I blinked and said, "Okay."

I'm not sure I came off as plausible, but certainly I was amusing. I had completed the first step toward my rightful place as a KwikE celebrity. In no time, I would be pitching Dr. Scholl's gel inserts and sitting just 12 rows back and an aisle across from Julia Stiles at the Blockbuster Entertainment Awards.

The next day I came primed, ready for my close up. The casting room, with tape marks and professional lighting, was even made up like a movie set. I was

repeating my initial responses from Saturday into the camcorder, as Keller Bevans, when it spoke.

I'm not sure if it was conscience, but I'll call it the innervoice of Andrew Wells, steadfast reporter. "You've got to tell truth," said Andrew, the squealer, "so you can get an interview with the casting director for story background."

"Shut your simpering pie hole," bellowed Keller. "I'm not gonna ditch my chance to debate missile defense with James Brolin on "Politically Incorrect" just so you can ape Mike Wallace."

"We wouldn't even be here if our editor hadn't told us about this casting call."

"Just listen to ourselves," cried Keller, "we're going schizoid! We're practically a star already!"

The casting director asked what was the most deceitful thing I've ever done.

"Something clever! Tell him that we impersonated a Shriner, jacked a minicar and..." Keller had tried to say.

"We've never done that!" said Andrew. "Exactly! It's all about deceit." "Keller," Andrew paused. "Tell the truth! What could be more dishonest and underhanded than that? This Hollywood guy will be impressed!"

"Jesus man, you're right!" Keller said. "We're actually doing an covert investigation of this whole casting call. We've been burrowing under the Mole!"

So I told the casting director who I was, that I didn't really write ad copy, that I covering this story for a column I wrote. "And I'd like to get an interview with you after this taping is over," I said.

The casting director didn't move his eye from the viewfinder. I might as well have told him that I wasn't really a waiter, but an actor.

"So, do you still want to be on The Mole?" the director asked.

"Yeah, I guess so," I said, sounding bored.

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