Let’s make something clear right out of the gate. If you are looking for an article bashing the decline of intelligent television programming, than this may not be the page for you. I unabashedly love Reality TV and yes I know it’s largely contrived but there is something about lying on the couch on a snowy afternoon watching a Real Housewives marathon that really hits the spot for me. Clusters of wealthy women from various cities around America that shop, stir shit, shop, bitch, redecorate, record songs ,manipulate, connive and bitch some more. It’s an unbeatable formula and I could watch hours of it.
That said, I do admit to being a bit of a reality TV snob. I don’t want to see any organized competitions a la Survivor or American Idol. Not interested in any goals or any prizes at the end and definitely no voting mechanisms. I also don’t want to watch 20 something’s drink, scream and screw as in Jersey Shore or The Hills. What I do want to do is indulge in the minutiae of pretend everyday life where some of the biggest decisions are whether to wear the hair up or down. But even within that, I have my standards. I actually feel dirty and ashamed of myself if I succumb to a Saturday night episode of Cheaters.
Being a working girl and self- employed, I am always on the look out for a good way to make money, a catchy idea so I watch these women with a somewhat dumbfounded awe. The Housewives are a no-brainer. They don’t really need the money but have jumped on for a chance at the Page Six brass ring. They are playing along chewing up the scenery and are all but winking at the camera while doing so.
The Kardashian sisters flummox me because as far as I can tell, they really do absolutely nothing. They have managers, agents and personal assistants to schedule numerous events and appearances for the sisters doing absolutely nothing. They take their inertia filled gig on the road in any venue that will have them. I mean at least the unrecognizable drag queen Bruce Jenner ( the sisters hapless step father) is a former Olympian but he barely gets airtime to scrape the shit off their Manolo Blahniks. Of course we all know the Hilton sisters started this Tom foolery but instead of shutting it down right then and there, we watched as Paris and Nicole humiliated poor people from small towns across the mid-west. We encouraged a second season and looked the other way when they developed a solo vehicle for Paris to find a new BFF.
We then graduated to Anna Nicole Smith but somehow as tickled as I was at the prospect of following that train wreck, when it came down to it, it was just too easy. There was no element of surprise watching her slather and slur her way through another drug infested day. And when she died, it all just felt terribly wrong.
Since then, there has been a trend to move to reality shows that follow working people. Real people leading real lives with real jobs and really big problems. I remember years ago thinking I had hit the jackpot when I fell upon a documentary on A&E featuring a couple who ran a bounty hunting business. Of course I am talking about the “Dog” and smelling a good thing they were quickly snapped up for a regular gig. Like everyone, I was initially blinded by the size of Beth’s breasts that started at her chin and ended just above her pubic bone and the shockingly bad mullet that Dog sported. After I got past that and Dog’s blatant insincerity, I started focussing on the other members of the team, particularly “Baby Lisa”. Now Baby Lisa deserves some thought. She looks like a ferret, has a couple kids with no signs of a partner around and lives daily with the slightly queasy making moniker of “Baby Lisa”. On the surface your garden variety trailer trash. If it wasn’t for the family business, I could easily see her leading a quiet life working part time at Target. But as I sat watching her in eager judgement, it occurred to me that Baby Lisa was banging down doors with known felons behind them. Baby Lisa was kicking ass. Baby Lisa was not only getting paid to do her job but likely had an agent or manager negotiate a tidy sum from A&E. So as I sit and mock and wonder how I’ll pay the phone bill, Baby Lisa is having a well-earned butt and Old Milwaukee on a patio in Hawaii.
But eventually that wasn’t real enough. To really bat it out of the park, enter Jon and Kate plus Eight.
A seemingly mundane suburban couple headed by a monumental control freak with a ridiculous haircut. A haircut a dear friend of mine coined the “One Man Band. “In order to keep viewers tuned in, you now had to have no less than eight children. Other shows quickly followed, 12 children, 18 children. TLC basically surrendered itself to the large family and little people channel 24/7. But try as they may, nothing could compete with the flat out implosion of that sweet little couple from Pennsylvania. In solidarity, the “One Man Band” was popping up on heads all across the nation. I admit, after sitting through a few episodes watching Kate drivel on about matching fall jackets, toilet training and homemade granola I was about to bail. But as the kids grew and the camera crew became part of the family, things started to unravel. We watched anxiously as Jon’s nuts were fed into the blender on a weekly basis. We licked our chops as Kate’s veneer began to crack and she took off like a runaway train of melt downs. As Kate roared, Jon took on the look and personality of the Pillsbury Dough Boy and rolled himself into the foetal position. By the final season it was like a real life version of “War of the Roses” with hourly updates including mistresses, tantrums, lock outs and law enforcers.
Fast forward a year and sweet little Kate has gotten hair extensions, horrified us with her dancing, guest hosted talk shows, negotiated a new TLC show and basically torpedoed around with a bodyguard close at hand pitching diva fits that would make Faye Dunaway blush.Jon on the other hand has simply gotten drunk and slept with questionable women. What happened to the granola? What happened to the kids?
So the gauntlet has been dropped. My dreams of a camera crew trailing me as I procrastinate, piss and moan, feed the dogs and watch TV are fading into nothingness. Not a complete loss though. A tradition has been passed down, lessons have been learned. I must confess, I get a little misty when I hear my 12 year old son bellow from the living room, “Mom, five minutes until Celebrity Rehab!!”
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