Editor's Note: Fame in the Name
IT STARTED LIKE MOST JOURNEYS DO, full of idealistic hopes and dreams. MTV was having a contest --who would become the next Jesse Camp? Why not us? Why not me and my associates, Josh Simon and Aaron Cohen? Who could resist the charms of three scrawny Jewish kids moonlighting as veejays? Or, at the least, one scrawny Jewish kid. We would soon find out. Here is our story.
The highway
12:00 A.M.
We meet our ride outside 14 Plympton at 11 p.m. on Sunday night. It's a BMW 5-series, all-leather interior, CD-carriage in the trunk. A pleasant surprise. Next we meet our driver. It's Daniel, a 5'3" Asian-American boy with wire-rim glasses and a mouth full of orthodontic gear. He's a friend of a friend. As we watch him empty his back seat of miscellaneous papers, books and WWF action figures, we wonder--the first of many such doubts--what the hell we are doing. "Daniel," Aaron asks, "How many car accidents have you been in?"
"Only five," Daniel responds confidently.
"Five?!?"
"Well, more fender-benders obviously, but only five serious ones."
"Well, what exactly happened?"
"Mostly, I fell asleep behind the wheel." Perfect. We roll out of Cambridge close to midnight as a cloud of fog begins to descend on I-95. Daniel is looking sharp and alert behind the wheel.
Cramped in the back seat like a dozen undergrads in the Widener stacks elevator, Aaron, Josh and I reach a tacit understanding early in our journey. If we want to survive, we're going to have to keep Daniel awake, we're going to have to make a lot of noise. We have a few options. One is to boisterously exchange tales of sexual conquest. We opt for karaoke.
The radio is far from cooperative. Teeny-Pop and Femi-Rock abounds on the airwaves and after shouting down Josh's demands for 94.5, we turn to Daniel's CD collection. He announces that he has an `80s mix, and we react favorably. Track One: Eric Clapton's "Change the World."
"Daniel, I thought this was an `80s mix," Josh inquires.
"It is." No use arguing. We cycle through some Michael Bolton, Mariah Carey, Chicago, and best of all, the rousing Linda Rondstadt/Aaron Neville duet "Don't Know Much." We find ourselves drifting off to the soothing sounds of a Kenny G sax solo, when all of a sudden there is panic in the front seat.
"Oh shit!" Daniel exclaims, his head dropping below the steering wheel and frantically scanning the floor. The car begins to drift across the lane divide.
"Daniel! What the hell are you doing? Watch the road!"
"I lost my lucky charm! I lost my lucky charm!" Recalling Daniel's less-than-perfect road record, we all immediately decide that this is not a good thing. We must find his lucky charm. As Daniel's head continues to bob up and down, and the car continues to horizontally vacillate across the breadth of the highway, we hit the dirt. Searching for his talisman, we sift through the pile of traffic citations at our feet. Then it occurs to me:
"Daniel, what exactly does your lucky charm look like?"
"It's a nickel," he explains. I pull a five-cent piece from my pocket and hand it up to our shaken driver. Daniel receives it gratefully, drawing it to his mouth and delivering a full-bodied kiss. He breathes a deep sigh of relief and settles serenely into his seat. The car's path straightens and achieves a perfect pitch of vibration as we lock in the cruise-control at 107 mph. Next stop: Times Square.
HOUR 1
3:00 A.M.
AT 3 A.M. WE AWAKE AS DANIEL EASES THE CAR INTO a spot outside a pawn shop on 45th street. Eager to stretch our legs, we bound out of the car and onto the sidewalk. Good thing our moms told us to bring our jackets. It's a brisk 35 degrees outside, and there's a healthy, gusting wind along with a steady rain. We cling to the pawn shop window, taking shelter under its awning. Josh, who has brought along a change of clothes in order to avoid pre-audition wrinkling, decides that it is time to get dressed. We remove his garment bag from the trunk, and Aaron and I acting his valets, Josh strips to his skivvies. A homeless man whistles his approval.
Once Josh is sufficiently pimped up and ready to go, we head over to Times Square, the center of the world and the site of MTV headquarters. We look for a large sign, a line, some indication of where precisely the festivities are to take place. All we find is a disorganized mob of scantily clad, wig-wearing divas, pierced, goateed deadbeats, and gelled, coifed and primped daytime drama kings, 8 by 10 glossies in tow. They're all shouting the same question we have: "Where's the contest?"
After a few minutes of milling about, and coming to the quick realization that we are seriously out of place, an MTV employee suddenly appears and declares, "Line up here!" Chaos erupts. We try to hold our own, we throw our elbows left and right, we fight tooth and nail to reach the front of the forming queue. When the fracas settles we find ourselves on the corner of 8th and 45th--Times Square is no longer in sight.
HOUR2
4:00 A.M.
AN HOUR LATER, A STEADY FLOW OF PEOPLE CONTINUES to round the corner looking for the end of the line. The rain has gathered intensity. We are positioned outside the window of the Celebrity Deli. Inside the darkened window a Mexican gentlemen sweeps the floor. Cured meats hang from hooks. Pickled vegetables float in jars. We stare forlornly at the warm, empty booths.
By now passing cars have started to take notice of the crowds and many slow down to stare, others actually ask what's up, and others just heckle. A delivery van stops at the light, and its door slides open.
"What's happening?" a gentleman inquires. The wet mob gazes blankly at the interlocutor. No one steps forward to respond.
"Come on, what the hell is going on?" he tries again. Finally, a representative from our group emerges.
"Fuck you," our spokesperson announces. The delivery van shuts its doors. We all mutter our approval. We're too cold to applaud.
We slump against the wall. Two people back stands a large black woman. Perhaps MTV is looking for the next Star Jones. In front of her is a lanky fellow in full EMS get-up. Every now and then, we catch his beady eyes peering out us from under his hood.
In front of us are a pair of normal-looking guys in blue jeans and fleeces. One decides that he is restless. Unfortunately, there isn't much to do in midtown Manhattan at four in the morning. Fortunately, the one option that does exist is exotic dancing. Across the street an enticing neon sign announces "The Playpen." Our friend decides to check out the toddlers.
Ten minutes later, he's back, and there is no blood in his face.
"Dude," he says, shaking his head, "Some guy just asked me if I wanted a blow-job." We resolve to ask Let's Go: New York to amend its description of "The Playpen."
Another car slows down near our section of the line. It's a late-model black, Nissan Pathfinder. A window rolls down and a middle-aged woman with a perm, heavy eye-liner, and a flashy adornment of jewelry scans the crowd.
Suddenly she shrieks, "Jack-e-leene! Jack-e-leen! Jacqueline!" Jacqueline, a Long Island, South Shore hootchie 20 feet down the line, snaps to attention.
"Mom?" she shouts.
"Jackie!"
Jackie bounds into the street, ignoring oncoming traffic, and gives her mom a big hug.
"I just wanted to make sure you were okay," Mom gushes. Jackie turns back to the group of strangers now transfixed by this spectacle of familial bonding.
"She just wanted to make sure that I'm okay!" Jackie relays to us. Of course. Jackie's mom is now holding up a sizable chunk of traffic and the honking horns have reached a crescendo. Mother and daughter exchange a parting kiss, and the Pathfinder takes off into the night.
"Isn't she adorable?" Jackie asks, returning to her place in line. No, Jackie, she isn't.
Unexpectedly, the line begins to move.
HOUR3
5:00 A.M.
WE TURN THE CORNER BACK ONTO 45TH STREET BUT QUICKLY grind to a halt once again in front of a closed theater. The marquee advertises a play starring Judd Hirsch, George Wendt and Joe Morton, the heroic sheriff from "Blazing Saddles." We smell a Tony.
A four-foot tall, crippled drunk beggar works the line. He's not having much luck. Some of the VJ wannabees are getting testy. An MTV staffer, charged with keeping the line orderly, observes the commotion with a smirk. Gesturing toward the hunch-backed bum, he launches into a sidewalk sermon:
"Can't you guys show a brother some love? This brother's working hard tonight, out in the rain, trying to scrape together some food money. Show the man a little kindness. Show him some love."
There is a moment of calm. The panhandler, the impromptu preacher, the line-dwellers, we all wait for an outbreak of generosity, for people to delve into their pockets and shovel over hoards of change. It is not to be. I make the preacher a proposition:
"Why don't you give me your MTV-logoed North Face parka, and I'll cough up a nickel for your disadvantaged friend." No deal. The line again shuffles forward. We bid Judd Hirsch adieu and greet the cast next door.
HOUR4
6:00 A.M.
WE ARE BORED. VERY, VERY BORED. Also, cold and wet. When we hear the first bars of music emanate forth from a nearby boom box, our spirits soar. Thank god someone was resourceful enough to bring a radio. We're too tired to wonder why they haven't employed it before. We're ready to groove to some tunes.
The first song is a remix. In fact, it's a custom remix. The owner of the jukebox has cooked up this diddy all by himself. From the looks of the fellow, we have high expectations. He's clearly very hip. He's wearing a bright orange, Sunkist rain coat. He carries a sign that reads, `I'm Kurt Loder's love child." Very creative.
The song gets rolling, "One, two, three...one, two, three...one, two, three four...one, two..." For the next seven minutes we listen to audio clips of artists counting to four. When it's over we find ourselves wishing for the sweet hum of New York City traffic. Sunkist boy has other ideas. He punches the repeat button on his box. The counting recommences. For the next three hours it continues uninterrupted.
"One, two, three, four, get your..." orders Coolio. "One, two, three, four, c'mon baby say you..." sings Gloria Estefan. The rest is unrecognizable. "One, two, three...one, two three...one, two, three four...one, two..."
By the fourth rendition of the Sesame Street jam, I am beginning to appreciate the psychological factors that drive people to commit violent crimes--the fatigue, the desperation. I eye Sunkist boy's kneecaps. I envision what it would look like to shatter them with a crow bar into many tiny pieces. I suspect that such an act will harm my chances of successfully becoming a VJ, but at this point I don't give a damn.
Mother Nature saves my sanity. I gaze up through the corridors of skyscrapers and notice a light glow in the charcoal sky. Sunrise. The promise of warmth, of a new day. I am overcome by a wave of serenity. A smile draws across my face.
"One, two, three...one, two, three...one, two, three four...one, two..." The smile fades.
HOUR5
7:00 A.M.
AN MTV STAFFER APPROACHES AND GREETS US: "HEY BOYS,
MY NAME'S BOOGIE." WE check out Boogie. He's a large black man with a black stocking cap. Two young women stand at his side. "And these," he continues, "are my friends Tatyana and Delia." We check out Tatyana and Delia. One looks like Tootie from "The Facts of Life," the other, Jackee from "227."
Boogie explains, "These two ladies are gonna join you in line. Okay?" We nod our assent. "Okay," Boogie confirms. Boogie has a bad case of wandering hands. While he stands and chats with his friends, he massages Delia's rear. She doesn't object. Boogie buries his head in Delia's inviting locks. "Ooooh baby," he moans, "you've got a nice weave." Tatyana roars in amusement. Delia is not pleased.
"Why do you have to tell everyone I've got a weave!" she objects. "Now the whole freakin' line knows I got a motherfucking weave!"
"Sorry, baby," Boogie consoles her, grabbing her left butt cheek. "It's all good. You're still beautiful." Boogie turns to us, "Now I've got to go work. You boys take care of my ladies."
By this time our position in line has greatly improved. We can see where MTV has set up rope corrals and a stage where, later in the day, there will be live entertainment. A woman in "Wannabee a VJ" garb raises a megaphone and addresses our section of the queue:
"All contest participants must present proof of eligibility to work in the United States. You must have either a passport or a driver's license AND a social security card. If you do not, you will not be permitted to proceed any further."
Panic erupts. My daddy once told me never to leave home without my social security card on my person and so I am golden. Aaron, Josh, Tatyana and Delia are not so lucky.
"Fuck."
"Oops."
"Sheeyat."
"Lord-have-mercy."
What to do? Who can solve our problem? Who can pull some strings, move some mountains? Our savior is obvious: Boogie.
"Hey, Tatyana, maybe Boogie can hook us up," Aaron suggests.
"Yea," she replies, "maybe he can. Boogie! Booooooogie!" Boogie comes running.
"What's up, baby?"
"We don't have IDs. Can you get us in?"
"Oh baby. That's a problem." Boogie takes a moment to think. He takes his women under his arm. We stare at him pleadingly. He whispers something to the ladies and disappears. Whatever scheme has been hatched, we are clearly not going to be the beneficiaries. A few minutes later, Boogie returns and fetches his friends. We watch as he ushers them past the checkpoint. Bastard.
We watch Momma's Little Girl, Jacqueline, pass through. We watch the Playpen patron pass through. It's our turn. At this point we have stood on a Manhattan sidewalk for five hours in the freezing rain and have accomplished absolutely nothing. If Aaron and Josh are turned away, our entire odyssey will be for naught. Our bouts of pneumonia--which we already feel coming on--will be in the name of no higher cause. In short, we will have to return to Harvard, cold, wet and beaten.
The MTV officer requests our IDs. Hoping to buy my companions some time, I hand over mine first. In the middle of the exchange, Aaron has a brainstorm. He decides to overwhelm the inspector with a hailstorm of paperwork. He tosses out his driver's license, his school ID, his credit cards, even his USTA membership card from the 10th grade. Josh follows suit, emptying his wallet on the unsuspecting bouncer. The line begins to back up. People start shouting. The bouncer panics. He shoves all of our IDs back at us and slaps on entry-bands. We're in. We've crossed the Rubicon.
HOUR6
8:00 A.M.
WE ARE NOW IN OFFICIAL MTV TERRITORY. WE ARE HERDED INTO A COVERED PAVILION WHERE WE ARE EACH HANDED each handed a manila envelope. Its contents: a sheet explaining the audition process (incidentally the first piece of hard evidence assuring us that we are actually in line to become VJs), a complicated and unwieldy set of release forms, an assortment of questionnaire-survey-applications and a leaky Papermate pen. Written on our envelopes is our official audition number. Mine? 24601.
The crowd comes to life and so do we. It's show time, time to strut our stuff, to flex our creative genius. If we're going to win this thing, it's clearly not going to be on the basis of our rugged good lucks. We need to demonstrate some intellectual spark. We tear into the application.
After the usual background questions, I hit the first substantive query: "Why do you want to be an MTV VJ?" Pretty standard. I should have seen it coming. I have no idea what to write. I skip to the next one.
"What makes you different from all the other people on line today?" I survey the motley crew surrounding me. This should be easy. I wrack my brain for a witty response. I've got nothing.
"List the last five CDs you've purchased." All right, a factual question. I start writing.
"Van Morrison's Greatest Hits, Steve Winwood's Back in the High Life, Miles Davis' Round Midnight..." This doesn't exactly mirror the play-list on "Total Request Live." This isn't going well. I glance over at Aaron's app. He's cruising.
What makes him different? "I am the only guy here who has been kissed by Debbie Matenopolous."
What was the first record he ever bought? "The Aaron song by Captain Kangaroo." How hip, how irreverent. I'm very jealous. I check in with Josh.
"Josh, what are you writing?"
"I know what they're looking for," he assures me. I peruse his answers. The words "Puff Daddy" appear in every one.
While we work our magic, the ropes guide the line back-and-forth. I begin to fantasize that our ordeal will culminate in a ride on Space Mountain, but I am sorely disappointed. Instead, our reward for successfully navigating the rat maze and completing our applications is a good old-fashioned strip search. At the very front of the line, a team of security guards is closely inspecting each auditioner. Apparently MTV is concerned that someone may try to beat some humility into Carson Daly's smug noggin.
I show the guard the contents of my backpack and raise my arms. For the next minute I enjoy a rough full-body massage as he pats me down looking for automatic weapons. Next to me, Aaron is not doing so well. I hear the familiar snap of latex and avert my eyes.
HOUR7
9:00 A.M.
ONE WOULD THINK THAT AFTER SUBJECTING US TO INVASIVE MEDICAL PROCEDURES, MTV MIGHT HAVE LET us move inside and out of the rain. No such luck. We still have one more hour on the sidewalk. Now, however, we are out on Broadway beneath the windows of the MTV studios, and in an effort to suck every last drop of free publicity out of our suffering, we are offered "Wannabee a VJ" signs to carry while we wait. We decline the honor, but those around us embrace their servitude with glee.
From across the street, a camera crew approaches the line. It's a reporter from the local Fox affiliate, the lowest rated newscast in the Tri-State area. He's looking for some losers to profile in the requisite 6:22 human interest segment. He finds Stiles.
Stiles has carefully sculpted platinum blond hair. He's also ripped. Really, really, ripped. This guy's chest is broader than my current seed of a thesis topic, and he's just itching to bare all. He steps up to the mike.
"So, why do you want to be a VJ?" inquires the intrepid reporter.
"Now MTV is great. They know what's up. But you know what? They need a new style. And that's me," he roars, "cause I'm Stiles!" At this point Stiles tears off his shirt revealing body paint which reads, "MTV Styles!" The reporter chuckles and moves on. Unfortunately for Stiles, the public spirit that embraced Hulkamania is no more.
Slowly but surely, the entrance to the Viacom building draws closer and closer. Ahead of us in line, Jacqueline decides that it is time to change into her performance gear. She tears off her jeans and paints on a pair of black pedal pushers. She kicks off her sneakers and straps on a pair of platform, open-toed shoes. She peels off her sweatshirt and buttons on a white, scoop-neck blouse. Jacqueline's looking hot. She's also shuddering from hypothermia.
Just as her cleavage is starting to turn eggplant-purple from the cold, Jacqueline is invited inside. We steadily inch forward. Our mission is almost complete.
THE AUDITION
WHEN WE ARE FINALLY ESCORTED INTO THE LOBBY OF THE VIACOM BUILDING, IT TAKES A MOMENT FOR OUR bodies to adjust. Like infants experiencing our first encounter with gaseous oxygen, at first our lungs cannot process the warm, dry air. As we struggle to gain our bearings, we are directed to proceed upstairs. What precisely lies upstairs is as of yet unclear. All we can see is a two-story escalator ascending into the distance. We walk toward the foot of the escalator.
"I'm sorry," a doorman intervenes, "you guys have to take the stairs." We start climbing. We immediately discover that our time outside has left our knee-joints frozen solid. We simply can't bend our legs. It takes 30 minutes to drag ourselves up to the mezzanine.
Our first stop is makeup. A short funky British woman lunges at my face with a powder brush. I instinctively recoil in horror. I don't like to share cosmetic products. I try to protest that my natural complexion is so smooth and vibrant that I don't need makeup. Spice Girl will have none of it and proceeds to plaster my countenance with blush and bacteria.
Next, the hall of horrors--a corridor lined with mounted TV monitors, all of which feature the same programming gem. It's everyone's favorite vagabond nut-job, Jesse Camp, offering some words of encouragement to those aspiring to take his place. I am not amused.
At the end of the yellow brick road is the studio--the site of our audition. The same set where Ananda hosts her popular music video program has been divided into 15 separate booths. My companions and I take a moment to huddle and take stock. We say a brief prayer to the spirit of Sammy Davis Jr., and head off to our separate booths in search of fame and fortune.
"Hi, I'm Tammy, welcome to MTV. Have a seat in front of the camera and pick up the mike." I make myself comfortable and get ready to spin my charm.
"So, why don't you tell us a little bit about yourself..." I lean forward toward the camera and prime myself to unleash a storm of charisma. Then, I reconsider. I reflect on the seven hours I have spent waiting on the street, I consider my numb extremities, and I peer deep within my exhausted soul.
"I'm a student. Ask your next question." Tammy is taken aback. Her instruction sheet does not provide any guidance for dealing with disgruntled auditioners. She has no choice but to proceed.
"What's your favorite video?"
"I don't watch MTV," I declare defiantly.
"Okay. Well, what music groups do you like?"
"I like Neil Diamond." Tammy has no idea what to do with this one.
"Hmmm. Well, why don't you pretend that you're introducing a video from Neil Diamond," she offers.
"Neil Diamond doesn't make videos," I politely inform her. Now Tammy is starting to get nervous. I'm clearly a loose cannon. She decides to move things along to the final, cue card portion of my interview.
"Just read this card," Tammy instructs me gruffly. I recite some nonsense about Marilyn Manson and Tammy directs me to the exit. I pick up my free T-shirt and return to the lobby. My audition lasted a total of two minutes. Aaron and Josh, who I discover were slightly more cooperative with their interviewers, join me a few moments later.
"So, how'd it go?" I ask. Josh just shakes his head and sighs.
"I think it went really well," Aaron reports. He is about to launch into a full-scale retelling, but by the look in our eyes, it's clear that we're not interested. We head back out onto the street. The sun is high in the sky and the cloud cover has dispersed. We squint and stumble around the corner.
Soon, we find ourselves back in front of the Celebrity Deli, the site of our original location on line. Again confronted with those warm, inviting booths, we head inside and order some breakfast. Before our whitefish salad arrives, we've all passed out. I dream of sugar plum fairies and Downtown Julie Brown.
Noah D. Oppenheim calls it as he sees it and tells it like it is. Joshua H. Simon and Aaron R. Cohen just go along for the ride.