I had 15 minutes of fame and what did I do? I threw up on national television — well, MTV anyway.
A month ago, my roommate, two of my friends and I were filmed for the show that MTV had a casting call for in March. The show’s working title is “FM Nation” where “it’s all about the music.” Or so I was told.
After seven call-backs, I was told to take the weekend off from work and let the guys in my group know we were picked. Three other groups were picked as well. Each of the groups had a different adventure.
“Who in the hell would pick me,” I asked. As far as I knew, I wasn’t MTV material. I’m not buff, I’m not tan and I do not own any articles of clothing with the word “Quiksilver” plastered on the front.
If you don’t know what I look like, I’m sorta short, have a little chub and am as pale as the paint that covers the walls around campus.
Why would MTV want to follow me around?
I guess they liked my plot. I wanted to tell this girl that I wanted to be with her. Another guy in the group wanted to say the same to a girl he’d been pining after.
I was confident that if picked, I’d get some courage and tell this girl that I wanted her.
One slight problem — she was taken. She had just started dating some guy. So, my timing was off, but I wasn’t about to let that get in my way.
That night, the producers strapped us in, microphones, cameras and lights everywhere.
I wore a dorky multicolored sweater that one producer thought was “slimmer”-looking than my favorite shirt — a yellow button-down dress shirt.
And the night started off rough. MTV was gracious enough to buy everyone margaritas at dinner the night before. Being only 20, it was an offer I couldn’t pass up. I think I had five strawberry ones. Later on that night after a few rounds of beer and hard liquor, I passed out in the hotel they put us up in.
So I had already started the night hungover.
The point of this show is to see where people go in their cars on Saturday nights. Being it was all about the music, we had to listen to a dubbed CD with random songs. After the CD was finished, the radio was kept off. It was quiet in the car for the rest of the night.
After wandering aimlessly around southwest Bakersfield, we wound up at a house party near Ridgeview.
My roommate, bless his soul, called the girl and asked her to drop by. I was terrified, so what did I do? Drink.
I probably had four beers in 20 minutes and by the time she showed up I was three, no, four sheets to the wind. I pulled her aside and tried to remember what my friends told me I should say. With cameras in her face, she nodded her head, asking if we could talk about it next week.
Dejected and worried that her boyfriend — who happened to show up as well — would want to fight, I drank more. By the time my group left with our missions complete, I was out of commission.
As we rolled up to another kick-back, I was sure I was going to need some time with the porcelain god.
Thank God MTV’s cameras and producers were there, in the bathroom, filming my every move. I might not have survived. I can see it now with a commercial saying, “Watch dorky Dan puke on MTV, tonight at 10, 9 central.”
Hindsight is 20/20. I wanted to be on MTV for the same reason you want to be on MTV — it’s MTV. But now that I reflect and go back to drinking steady, I’ve realized that being on television isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.
Whether or not I come out looking dumb has yet to be determined. We didn’t get paid for our time. We did get alcohol. I don’t know if that makes it OK. I do know I may have a video clip of me throwing up for someone to find in 30 years, when I run for governor. Always something to look forward to.
Fifteen minutes of fame and what did I do? I made an ass of myself to a girl I still have no chance with and, as an added bonus, vomited on TV. My mom will be so proud.
Figuring some advice might make this column complete, I’ll tell you what I told a friend who wanted to be on TV. Simply put, go for your 15 minutes, just don’t throw up.