The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Today on Nerve's TV blog: Dance, Hipster, Dance! Plus: our latest NewsCrush — and why one army brat is breaking up with Army Wives.
DISPATCHES
posted 8/2/2001
Every once in a while on MTV's The Real World, you'll see a cute girl emerging from the bathroom in a robe, looking dazed and just-been-laid. She's not a regular but a walk-on, there because she hooked up with someone in the cast. A title at the bottom of the screen reveals her identity: "Ravynne, met Drake in club last night." Over the ten-year run of The Real World there have been hundreds of such publicity whores, both male and female, and after their one scene, they disappear forever — or at least until the next re-run.
My assignment was to attempt to become one of those girls: to get in the house, get busy and get out. This was a banner year for the show: the first time The Real World had returned to Gotham, its original setting, where MTV began creating "reality TV" before anyone had ever used the term. I was up to the challenge of busting in; I'd been feeling hot lately, with newly blond hair and a newly pumped bod, and I wanted to see what kind of spell I could cast on the himbos. But it wasn't meant to be: what began as a lark soon became an obsession, one that threatened to tear my self-respect to shreds. When you mess with The Real World, no one respects you in the morning.
Monday, March 19: Nine p.m. I got the location of the house from an Internet gossip site that included photos and an address: 632 Hudson. I wasn't sure the info was good, but when I spotted the house I knew I was money. Small, bright floodlights were attached to every window, shining in, and the names on the buzzer seemed deliberately fake, like "B. Gimbel."
A young woman was standing outside talking on a cell phone — sure sign of a P.A. "They shooting The Real World here?" I asked casually.
"No," she said, with a too-wide grin.
"I heard they were shooting here."
"There are so many rumors!"
The man in the door of the deli next door winked at me, so I went inside. "She was lying, right?"
"Yeah," he said. "They are shooting here, and they come in all the time." His name was David al Maroosh. He was twenty-four and he had a bright, sweet smile. "You want to see them?"
"Okay," I said, wondering where this was going.
He reached up to the security video monitor and rewound the tape. He pointed to the screen and showed me three of the four broads on the show. They were ordering sandwiches in front of the counter: a buxom, light-skinned black girl, a hot possible-Asian with a messy middle part and an ambiguous-race girl with no strong features. He said the black girl was Nicole and the other two were Lori and Coral. Mission one accomplished: I'd scoped out the skirts.
Tuesday, March 20: At eight p.m., I went for a cocktail near my apartment with my friend Jen, a petite blond actress who often auditions for stripper roles. When I told her my assignment, she said, "Oh my God! I just had a dream I was going to hook up with one of the guys on The Real World!" So I dragged her along.
Since there didn't seem to be any action at the house, we decided to go into Bar & Books, the pub down the block. Then I noticed the light was on in the hair salon next door, so I popped my head in. "Have you seen any of The Real World guys?" I asked the stylist, who was cutting another guy's hair.
"Yeah. The black guy is kind of cute. He has big hair. Personally, I think the crew's hotter than the cast."
I thanked him and went inside the bar. Suddenly Jen and I spotted a guy with a huge Afro and two white guys, one frosted blond, one brown-haired and wrestler-y, passing by. We beckoned for them to come in and high-hair did. "Are you on The Real World?" I asked.
"We're not supposed to say," he said, then lifted his shirt and showed us a battery pack.
We ran outside and followed them to the door of the house. Jen was wearing a
tight Boston Celtics T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. She smiled like a chippie and said, "Can we come upstairs?"
"We're not supposed to let anyone up," said high-hair.
"Come on. Just for a little?" I said. They shook their heads. "Then why don't you come down and have a drink with us?"
"Okay," said high-hair. "Give us a little while."
We went back to the bar and waited. Ten minutes went by. Twenty. Thirty. I began to feel like I was being stood up by someone I actually cared about. I wondered whether I should've gotten my mustache waxed before I came.
But suddenly, I saw the guys pass by, cameras trailing them. I chased down the street, Jen not far behind. "I thought you were going to drink with us!" I shouted.
"We're going to the Chelsea Grill," said the blond.
one brown-haired and wrestler-y, passing by. We beckoned for them to come in and high-hair did. "Are you on The Real World?" I asked.
