2001-07-29 :: 4:53 p.m.

the homeless, MTV, and my endless loop of crappy living conditions

Soundtrack: none

No computer at home and reluctance to punch in any URL with "diaryland.com" in it at work means I'm suddenly very taken with my paper journal. I don't know what I want to discuss here right now, just a general sort of sadness that came over me last night. Yesterday I had some kind of weird Dr. GoodNews (of Nick Hornby's How To Be Good) moment and gave away $9 (in total) of cash and food to homeless people. The four of them I gave food to were easy and quick and it felt good, even if I knew it was just something small. But the last one asked me to sit and talk and for some reason I did, and her story was just heartbreaking, full of cancer and depression/suicidal thoughts and the inability to collect a cheque because she had no residence. She kept showing me scars and discussing things so openly and disgracefully that it hurt to listen. Because I guess this is the only way she can get money, tapping into guilt with brutal soul-shredding honesty. And because I now heard what she wanted (namely, $22 to get into the shelter -- I have no idea if this is for real, though she claimed I could go down with her for proof, and once she had her cheque she could pay me back double, as if I really want to become a homeless person loanshark), nothing short of actually going to the shelter with her and paying $22 to get her in would really make me feel good. So all the money I gave (not that we are talking about a lot here, but you have to remember that before today I literally never gave money to the homeless, ever, I did the New York stare-at-the-ground and mumble "Sorry..." bit) didn't feel like it meant anything.

I hate this, I hate this worrying that she could be lying, playing me for a sucker, I want to believe that $22 would do it, would fix her up for a while, because it's nothing to me in the long run, $22 will not make or break me. As I wrote in my journal last night, it's a little under two hours of work right now (after taxes!). I don't know where this sudden charitable streak came in. The food was so easy. The talking, that's another story. What's the right thing to do? How can the exchange have any dignity? In Judaism the highest form of charity comes when you give without being known at all. I can see why.

This morning I watched three episodes of Ultra Sound on MTV (I really am overdosing on television), and they did three generations of VJ's in "How it was to be a VJ, and what I'm up to now" sort of stuff. You can imagine how that was. That was pretty depressing too, but I couldn't stop watching. These people got made and then turned into dogfood once MTV was done with them. I mean, it's not like showbiz was ever meant to be pretty, I know. It's just that all of a sudden MTV produces a show about MTV (how much more meta does it get?) and these people are back, and Kevin Seals is saying "That's right, you spotted me, I was MTV VJ Kevin Seals," and the lady across the road in his town says "Who?" and he says "Give me a hug," and she does, then says "Who are you?" And it's sad somehow, this is what Kevin Seals (who I don't ever recall seeing on television, it's not the point) has come to. To become a self-parody.

Only Adam Curry seemed to have any kind of success, though Caroline (was that her name?) the average-girl-next-door has a perfect average-girl-next-door life in Aspen. Right, and Cindy Crawford didn't do too badly, but when did you hear about her since she had her baby (besides the time Shaq said he slept with her and then they both denied it?). (Not that I'm feeling bad for Cindy, I'm just saying.) It's not really too sad -- I mean, they are VJ's, not the homeless -- but I did feel for the first season VJ "family", it sucks to have your baby taken from you and put in someone else's hands.

I have such a weird fascination with MTV. I don't know how to explain it. How it creates pop culture and comments on itself, repackages its past and sells it again -- I don't know why that appeals to me, but I would work for them in a second.

Most of the VJ's seemed like life was sort of "eh" now, and they were coasting on memories of the high life at MTV now that they were relegated to infomercials and radio spots. I was putting more dishes in the pile on the sink and wondering what satisfies me, makes me happy for longer than a blip. Because giving to the homeless people was satisfying, but in a blip kind of way, and certainly worse after the talking debacle. My summer job is fun and pays nicely and whatever, but it's not the kind of software I want to work on when I'm out (I don't think). And it seems to me that the only things that give me lasting satisfaction lately are A) writing and B) nothing else. A relationship probably would have that B) slot, I suppose, but there's not much to add to that. So what, I'm not exactly running towards being a professional writer.

Somehow my job had let me stop worrying about the world for a while, because I was tired, and my big concern was making my trains in to work and back home. And then this. I want a milkshake and clean laundry and a clean heart. I can't reconcile the ability to spend $120 on books and CD's in a weekend and the bewildering mixture of wanting to give and being suspicious of who I am giving to. I don't know why I expend energy on the homeless and washed up VJ's and believe that everyone I'm talking to is sane when I've got a pile of dirty dishes in the sink and laundry that needs doing and piles of little paper bits building up again and no furniture in my room. It's a familiar scene, I know it.