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.
salon.com | April 14, 1999

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