It is hard to gain credibility as a rock critic in Johnson City, a small East Tennessee town with virtually no music scene, so when I heard I was going to New York City for the annual CMA journalism conference in March I thought I was “movin’ on up.”Little did I know that hours later, I – one who abhors MTV and everything it stands for – would be enlisted in the rabid legion of Tiger Beat readers who make up the network’s “Total Request Live” (“TRL”) audience.

In the late ’80s and early ’90s when I was in my tweens, I would commandeer the remote from my parents’ grasp in hopes of glimpsing Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer” or Aerosmith’s “Janie’s Got a Gun” on MTV. At one point I started recording my favorite music videos on a VHS tape that I had swiped from my mom’s catalog of “Days of Our Lives” episodes. Sitting in front of the television with the patience of a 40-year-old virgin, I would wait, VCR remote in hand, ready to record the next piece of meaningful rock art, that alas, has long since faded as MTV has succumbed to reality-based staples like “The Real World,” “Laguna Beach” and “There and Back.”

Now the few times I see music videos on MTV it is either in the a.m. after most everyone is asleep or during “TRL,” where MTV devotes more time to shots of pubescent teenage girls giving a “shout out” than to broadcasting music videos in their entirety.

I was in New York City for the journalism conference at the Roosevelt Hotel, and I found myself with a few hours to kill before my 3 p.m. check-in. While searching for free swag, I found a booth allowing conference goers to sign up to be studio audience members for television tapings in the New York City area such as “Good Morning America,” Fox News and MTV’s very own pop juggernaut and unofficial flagship program, “TRL.” I quickly dismissed the “Good Morning America” broadcast. I’d have to be ready to go at 5:30 a.m. and for a person who normally falls asleep 30 minutes before then, the odds of that seemed pretty dismal. Finally after some mental argument I decided to venture into the belly of the beast that has nearly destroyed the very basis on which rock ‘n’ roll was founded. I thought “why not” as I scribbled my name down beside countless “TRL” hopefuls, of which only 20 would be chosen.

After I grabbed lunch at some random burger joint I headed back to the hotel for the “TRL” drawing. As the drawing started, the man with the bag of names imposed another condition – no one in dark-colored clothing would be allowed to attend. It stated clearly on the printout, he said, that you had to wear brightly colored clothing and be ready to go when your name is picked. I quickly approached a woman who had a handful of bright green shirts in her hand-freebies, but all in babydoll-cut girl’s size medium. I began to negotiate with her in hopes of scoring one of the shirts, if my name was drawn. No asinine MTV dress code would stop me from peering into the inner workings of the network I loathed so intensely.

With all but two names to go, I was still waiting and beginning to feel dejected. Then, like a governor’s last-minute reprieve to a death row inmate, he called my name. Nothing has ever sounded sweeter!

I stretched into the bright green babydoll-cut girls T-shirt and was on my way to Times Square. Before we could be whisked upstairs to the room where such musical legends such as ‘N Sync, the Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears and Korn have performed, we had to get our MTV “TRL” wristbands. After a lady, who was more excited than a 3-year-old who had just snorted a Pixie Stick, gave me my pass to Tiger Beat mecca I waited patiently to enter the Hell mouth that is MTV Studios. Upon entering the studio I was stripped of all my possessions and berated by an overweight rent-a-cop for attempting to call my girlfriend so that she could catch my moment of glory on live television. I fell in line like a cow waiting for the slaughter.

Minutes before going live, the Pixie Stick buzzed woman asked, “Who wants to dance for some free stuff?” Figuring there is nothing funnier than the moves of a skinny white boy who lacks rhythm, I raised my hand. I did the funky chicken, the moonwalk, the Macarena and my piez de resistance-the worm. The crowd cheered; girls swooned; I got to make a fool of myself and pull a muscle all at once. After a dancing exhibition no one has seen since John Travolta strutted his stuff in “Saturday Night Fever” I was reward with an oversized “TRL” T-shirt.

After “TRL” went live, I had grown tired of the green T-shirt cutting off the circulation in my arms. With “TRL” veejay Damien Fahey and special co-host Amanda Bynes standing in front of me I decided to relieve the problem, not by removing the T-shirt like a common man but like the manliest of men, Hulk Hogan. After pre-ripping a hole in the collar, I shredded the shirt on camera directly to Bynes’ right.

After Natasha Bedingfield’s performance of her smash hit “Unwritten,”a brief appearance by Gideon “indie” Yago and the presentation of the number one video, I was led out to collect my things and my dignity. As I walked away from Times Square, all I could think was that I came, I saw and I sold out for a lousy T-shirt.

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