Jennifer Weiner

And MTV, she knows, can make it happen. MTV turns regular people
into superstars and grants them their fondest wish: an audience that will watch
them just basically being themselves. Didn’t the music network pluck 19-year-old Jesse Camp from
obscurity and homelessness and give him a job and the $25,000 prize, which he parlayed into
a recording contract? Isn’t David Holmes, last year’s wannabe runner-up, still
on the air? Isn’t former “Real World” cast member Rachel Campos currently in
contention for Debbie Matenopoulos’ old job on ABC’s “The View”? And so what if
Rachel’s castmate Puck is in jail in California, and New York “Real World” homeboy Eric
Nies went from co-hosting “The Grind” to … well, nothing? It can happen. It’s
happened before. It could happen to them.

“It’s destined for me to be famous,”
says 20-year-old Cole DiBiaso from Rehoboth Beach, Del., a community college
student with big blue eyes and a spill of honey-blond curls. She doesn’t
dance or sing or act. She just wants the world to watch her, and she thinks
that someday soon, it will. “I believe in creating your destiny,” she announces
proudly. “I just created mine.”

You would like to believe that you are different from Jackie, and from the rest
of this crew of wannabes who have driven and flown and paid all kinds of money to
be in Times Square to court the network’s gaze. You would like to think that you
have more reserve, more dignity and, dammit, more pride, than this cavalcade of
exhibitionists, this parade of the pierced and tattooed that have waited like so
many punked-up sheep for hours and hours, all for the privilege of a purple
wristband, a packet of forms and two minutes of Viacom’s videotape.

You - OK, fine, enough with this Jay McInerney second-person stuff, I - would
hope that there was a vast and yawning chasm separating me from the giggling hordes of
19-year-old, Britney Spears-listening, WB-watching, butterfly
hairclip-wearing starry-eyed wonders who, if they found themselves in their own
version of “The Truman Show,” would be perfectly thrilled. And really, I was doing
OK, until I got in front of the camera with that MTV microphone in my hand.

Here’s how the “Wanna Be a VJ” search works. You show up. But if you show up after
8 a.m., forget about it, because MTV had its designated 2,000 contenders by 8.
(By the end of the second afternoon, the network will have auditioned 4,000 wannabes.) Then you wait. And wait.
And wait. The whole process can take more than eight hours, which means auditioners
can be on their feet for more than 24. You fill out a bunch of forms, forms
that seem to peer directly into the innermost souls of anyone who’s ever been convinced of their own
fabulousness. “There’s something about you that people flock toward,” the first
one begins. Then you go up an escalator, five at a time, and
it’s star treatment time. Somebody powders your nose. Somebody else snaps a
Polaroid. And you sit in a small booth with those bright lights beaming down
on you and a camera trained on your face, and you do your thing.

Lucky for me, I know what MTV is looking for, because I watched “Young, Loud and
Skinny: A Year in the Life of Jesse,” a half-hour exegesis on the life and times
of outgoing “Wanna Be a VJ” winner Jesse Camp. Perhaps you’ve seen
Jesse. He looks like a younger, cuter Keith Richards after a radical starvation
diet, and he sounds like he might either be drunk or mildly retarded, possibly both. All
tattered rags and spiky hair and androgynous Leo-charm. Jesse is the
quintessential rags-to-riches boy, the show says, the perfect example of a
young lad who was plucked from obscurity, met his idols, lived his dreams and walked
away with a million-dollar recording contract.

In fact, Jesse’s
story might not have been so simple. After his win last April, friends and
neighbors gave interviews saying that MTV’s anointed slack-jawed superfan was
actually a former prep school drama geek, and that his homelessness was more a
matter of choice than sad circumstances. No matter, said MTV executive vice
president David Sirulnick. “With Jesse, I felt that it was not a shtick. It
wasn’t: Let me do all this stuff to get a job.’ If he didn’t win, he’d be
walking down the street, looking just like that.”

Sirulnick was absolutely full of encouraging advice. It’s not about looks,
he said, but “watchability” - that ineffable something that MTV, like a Supreme
Court justice, will know when it sees. “It’s somebody who can express their passion for music. Somebody with lots
of personality. And somebody who can be on TV, and you want to keep watching. You
want to see what they’ll do next.”

So, OK. Watchability might be out of my reach, but I could do rags to riches. Instead of Jennifer, reporter and dog owner, I tell MTV that
I am Jennifer, dog walker/writer. Let them groove on my humble beginnings, I think. MTV has dictated
that you must “appear between the ages of 18 and 28.” I pin a small
rhinestone barrette in the shape of a ladybug in my hair to make up for the two
weeks that have passed since my 29th birthday. My disguise is complete. “Why do you
think you’d make a great VJ?” asks the form. “Because I am bitter and disaffected,”
I scribble, “and there should be more people like me on television.” “What makes
you stand out? What do you do better than all the other people in line?”
“Put-downs,” I write. “Also, I think I’m older than most of them, and I know more words.”
“Without swearing, give us your favorite term for sex,” asks the survey. “Breading the love
cutlet,” I invent. Hee hee! Now I’m having fun … until I come to the section of
“last five CDs you’ve bought.” And even though I pay more to Columbia House than
to, say, my electric company every month, I go totally blank. Liz Phair, I
finally come up with. Then it’s time to submit to my destiny.

“So, you’re a dog walker,” says Robin. “That’s right,” says I. And technically, it
is. I have a dog. I walk him. I occasionally walk the dogs of others. “See,
here’s the thing,” I say, leaning toward the camera as if I’ve been magnetized.
“Once you’ve had to cope with a big Rottweiler taking a dump on a rich person’s
lawn, and you’ve got the rich person on one side and the Rottweiler on the
other … well, you can pretty much cope with anything. Like rock stars.” Robin is
smiling. I’m on a roll. “Dogs are great training for life,” I tell her. “You’ve
got your big dogs, your little dogs, your poofed-up Pomerainians, your dogs that
basically just want to hump your leg …” And suddenly I don’t even know myself.
Suddenly I have morphed into this performer, this glib, chattering, gesturing
extrovert. It’s like I’m channeling Oprah. Or possibly Janeane Garofalo. Things
are coming out of my mouth that I have no control over, but I guess at least a
few of them are amusing. “Have you ever done stand-up?” asks Robin. I say other
stuff. I remember singing a snippet of “Summer Lovin’” from “Grease.” I introduce
a video by Korn. I do not know if Korn is a band or an invidual. I hope MTV can’t
tell. Then it’s over, and Robin is ushering me not to the exit, but to a secret
back passageway where eight or so other people sit. “Good luck,” she tells me.
I’ve made it to Round Two.

Of course, the high doesn’t last long. Sitting next to me in this narrow
passageway is Daniel J. Kerness from Florida, who works for a television station
and looks a bit like a younger, shorter Tom Cruise and can belt out a cappella gospel.
On my other side is Jennifer
from Long Island, tall and thin and gorgeous, who is wearing a Scary Spice-style
catsuit cut low enough to display the heart tattooed on the small of her back.
Next to her is a girl in flared snakeskin hip-huggers, wearing not one but two of
my exact same barrettes. Everyone looks at least five years younger than I, plus
three points more attractive on the 1-to-10 scale. Be myself? Forget it. I want
to be Jennifer in the catsuit with the tattoo. Funny, I think, isn’t going to cut
it. In short, I am screwed. And, predictably, I choke. I can’t think of a thing
to say about Stevie Nicks, even though I put her down as one of my favorites.
When the camera starts rolling, I can’t think of anything to say about Rick Springfield, my professed guilty
pleasure. The lights are blinding, the producer looks bored. I read a cue-carded
intro for a Joey McIntyre video, then slink out to the sidewalk. Jackie
MacMillan is still in line when I leave. “I can do this,” she says, her lips set
in a tight line. “It’s about being yourself, and getting paid.”

And really, I think as I walk away, if she can’t be herself, who can? So I’m not
going to be famous. I’m not going to be the next Jesse, or even the next Dave
Holmes. This, I decide, is probably OK. I’ve done my part. I’ve made my
contribution. I’ve looked that big camera in the eye without flinching (much).
I’ve passed for younger than my actual age. And if the kids start talking about “breading the love cutlet,” just remember:
You’ve got me to thank.

So it went at the 16th Video Music Awards on Thursday night in Manhattan, where fashion and
politics and irony and rap and rock and Buddy Hackett came
together in one big pre-millennial wet kiss. The awards
themselves, of course, mean nothing. The annals tend to read like a “Where are they now?” casting call (paging Jenny McCarthy).
Take home an Oscar, and you spend the rest of your life as “Academy Award-winning-(your name here).”
Win a Moon Man, and you’re A-Ha.

But if the Oscars are all about honor, then the Video
Music Awards are all about spectacle. The Oscars are hushed
and reverential, freighted with gravitas. The VMAs are
backstage fistfights, bleeped blue language, Howard Stern’s
pimply bare bottom descending from the heavens and disgraced
kiddie TV star Pee Wee Herman mincing onstage to ask if
we’ve heard any good jokes lately. The 1999 show didn’t –
couldn’t — offer us any of those memorable moments. The
world has changed too much. Courtney Love’s cleaned up. Axl
Rose has calmed down. Siniad O’Connor’s been
ordained. Madonna’s presumably arranging play dates instead
of S&M photo shoots; the feel-my-pain of grunge has been
supplanted by the sugary pop of the Backstreet Boys. And
given that the Clinton presidency has survived the whole
nation knowing what he did with that cigar and That Woman, a guy
masturbating just doesn’t seem that perverted anymore.

The biggest shock of the night wasn’t Chris Rock’s barbs
or Lil’ Kim’s boobs or Renee Zellweger’s evident lack of underwear; it was
a newly brunet David Bowie taking the stage to introduce
Lauryn Hill, who was looking exactly like Courteney Cox.
Other than that, it was all about the love. Everything was “in the
house,” everything was “off the hook” and many things were both
at the same time, according to the stars. MTV balloters loved Lauryn Hill
and Ricky Martin, awarding them
five and four Moon Man trophies, respectively. (Among their other triumphs, Hill’s “Doo
Wop (That Thing)” won for best video, best
female video, best R&B video and best art direction;
Martin’s omnipresent “Livin’ La Vida Loca” won for best pop
video and best dance video.) Will Smith and Jada Pinkett Smith
loved their nephew Kyle so much they felt compelled
to deliver nonstop shout-outs to the 9-year-old birthday
boy, thus turning the red carpet into a real-time version of
your local radio station’s all-request and dedication hour. Martin loved him some Armani. This we learned after he
won the first award of the night, for best dance video, and
dispatched his choreographer to the pressroom. “What are you
wearing, Tina?” bellowed a reporter up front. “I’m wearing
Armani,” she said, “because Ricky wears Armani, and I’m with
Ricky.” Makes sense.

Pamela Anderson Lee loved formerly
estranged husband Tommy Lee, and wasn’t shy about sharing.
“Is it good to be back together again?” asked MTV News’
Chris Connelly during the pre-pre-show interviews. “It’s so
good,” gushed Pammy, clad in sequined pants, a corset and
a fuzzy pink Cat-in-the-Hat chapeau. “It’s all good.” The
press corps got excited when the Lees made their way
backstage. Finally, here was a chance to ask that old
chestnut — “Have you stopped beating your wife?” — and
have it actually apply. Trouble was, we never got to ask
anything. As soon as Pammy took the podium, moving in the tiny
stutter-steps that were all her skintight pants and hooker
heels would permit her and starting to talk about who’d
designed her get-up, Tommy dashed into the room, flung
open his trench coat and bared his naked body to the
Pamster’s approving eyes. “I’m too distracted!” she
announced, chasing her spouse offstage.
Puh-leeze … like nobody’s seen that before.

Everyone loved everyone else — except for host Chris Rock, who had nothing nice to say about anyone,
and said it all anyhow. Among the notable disses: New York’s Metropolitan Opera, site of this year’s ceremony: “I
may be the first black man to be on this stage without a
mop.” Jennifer Lopez: “She came in two limos: one for her,
one for her ass.” Kid Rock: “You see Kid Rock? He looks like
a substitute pimp!” Fatboy Slim: “Looks like White Boy
Retarded.” (“Better than Fratboy Slim,” quipped the artist
backstage.) The Backstreet Boys: “Didn’t you see New Kids on
the Block? Don’t you know how this movie ends?” No doubt
this was all meant to be edgy and ironic, but show me a man
who complains about everything and I won’t be impressed by
his sharply honed urban sensibilities — I’ll just
think he’s been spending too much time with my grandmother.

If you wanted real angst and real anger, you should have
hung out with the press corps covering the stars’ arrivals.
Corralled into a series of narrow gated holding pens beneath
threatening skies, toting cameras, crates, stepladders,
microphones and those little fuzzy purses that New York
girls have instead of pets; penned up for over an hour with
nary a star appearing: It wasn’t long before the assembled
reporters turned on each other. “These word people!” shouted
one photographer, gesturing at the writers blocking his view
of Christina Aguilera’s entourage. “Get ‘em out of here! Put
them way in the back! They’re only word people.” It got
ugly, as some of the word people used a few choice bits of
their vocabulary on him.

And then it started to rain. Hard.
The reporters retreated to the press tent, where we’d spend
the next three-plus hours engaged in what felt like a game
of Bizarro Jeopardy. With photographers screaming on one
side and TV sets blaring live feed from the other, it was
impossible to hear each other’s questions, so we had to
figure out what they were from the stars’ answers. In some
cases, that was easy: When somebody said, “In December,”
they were either talking about a new album or a new baby.
Likewise responses like “Armani,” “Versace” and “What really happened was, I walked her out to her car and kissed
her on the cheek and the next day the tabloids said we were
in love.” (That last was from Sugar Ray’s Mark McGrath,
putting the lie to the rumors that there’s something going on
between him and Madonna.) But sometimes it was next to
impossible. “I’ll tell you the truth: I was taking a shit,”
said Eminem, in response to I have no idea what.

And on it went. Jay-Z said he’d be working on his acting skills in the
new millennium. “Anything I do,” he pledged through a
walnut-sized wad of bubblegum, “I want to do well.” Gavin
Rossdale says that his next video’s going to be based on
shao-lin Kung Fu. Opera moppet Charlotte Church says she’s
had movie offers but will be sticking with the singing for
now. Jay Mohr said he’d never appear on “Friends.” “Hell, no,”
he sneered. “I’m on funny shows.” Stone Cold Steve Austin
bemoaned his bad knees and beer belly. Wyclef Jean pleaded,
in a tone that sounded only half-joking, for someone to
please ask Lauryn Hill to take his phone calls. Mary J.
Blige disclosed that she’s still “looking for love in all
the wrong places, and you know what, I haven’t found it.”
(She does seem to have found a prolific tattoo artist, however.)

Tupac Shakur’s mother is publishing
a book of his poetry in time for Christmas; Biggie Smalls’
mother is working on a biography and a screenplay about her
slain son’s life; McGrath blames the carnage of Woodstock on
people who charge $4 for water; he also has his little dog’s
pawprint tattooed on his arm. And Ricky Martin? He’s doing
a lot of meditation and a lot of yoga. He’s wearing a lot of
Armani, which is sponsoring his next concert. “The one thing
I want to keep in touch with is my emotion,” he says
sincerely. Oh, and he’s hard at work on the video for “Shake
Your Bon Bon.” Amid this treacly gale of good feelings, it
fell to Will Smith to inject the tiniest dose of irony and
reality into the proceedings. Do you see yourself focusing
more on becoming a serious actor? a reporter asked. Smith
rolled his eyes. “What do you think I’ve been doing?” he
demanded. Did he mind only winning one award, for best male
video? “Im excited any time I can get on  as long as I
don’t have to sit there with the dumb face on for the whole
show.” And finally, was Chris Rock too harsh on poor Jennifer Lopez?
Smith considered. “He went at her ass a lot tonight,” he opined, “but she knows, and he knows, too, that
she’s got a beautiful thing going there.”

It was, as the music channel endlessly reminded us, the last
Video Music Awards of the millennium.