Get real
MTV and I have never really had a good relationship, though in truth, we’ve barely had contact with each other. That’s by design. Once the network switched formats to reality programming, the allure of seeing rock stars playing commercially viable material lost its luster.
But MTV wasn’t finished with me. As a journalism student a decade ago, I attended an Associated Press convention which included a day-long presentation, fueled by hand-wringing over the future of newspapers, from several companies who had succeeded in luring in new customers with unorthodox strategies. The MTV spokesperson, Michael Cunningham, presented a predictable glorification of the cable channel’s inception and subsequent success story, glossing over things like the racist policy that once prohibited showing videos by black artists.
“But,” said Cunningham, from his podium, “with all our successes, we have to be wary of the future and its velocity for change, keeping in mind how to maintain the illusion of cutting edge programming.
“We at MTV” he continued, “recognize that we do not have total saturation of the youth market. In fact, there are approximately 20 percent of the population that do not watch our network. We have divided these people into three subsections and are currently working on ways to lure these factions to our product.”
Cunningham first described the interests and actions of my crazy ex-girlfriend, who at the time was still my crazy girlfriend. I thought this was pretty funny, because I knew I could go home afterwards and tease her about the MTV bogeyman being out to get her. Next, he described my photographer, who I pointed at in mock laughter, whispering, “You’re next!”
But then, he described me.
I don’t mean physically, although I’m sure if pressed he probably could have. He did, however, describe my hobbies, my interests, my political and social views, my general outlook on life, even my shopping habits and sense of humor. When he was finished, I camped out in the hallway, waiting for Cunningham to exit. When he did, I told him that he and I were going to sit in the hotel bar and have a conversation, or I could just beat the crap out of him right there.
“What do I have to do,” I asked him five minutes later at the bar, “to get you to leave me alone?”
“It’s too late,” Cunningham replied. “We’ll get you sooner or later.”
Fast forward 10 years, and The Real World, now filming for its 23rd season, returns to Honolulu for casting. No word is given where the participants will reside (Albuquerque? The Love Canal? Afghanistan?). I’m surprised upon arriving that the site of the auditions hasn’t hit America’s Next Top Model-ian proportions. Then again, in the age of Tila Tequlia, Flavor Flav, Bret Michaels and a seemingly endless parade of the whoreables, The Real World is almost quaint.
Being too old to audition myself (presumably because after you reach 24, you can handle your liquor, along with being leery about catching hepatitis), I brought a few friends (pictured above). None of them fit under what MTV has publicly stated that they’re looking for—a bulimic, an orphan, an immigrant and other various baggage. But if any of them are cast, I suppose I’ll watch. Maybe.
