so far his opinions have aligned with mine quite nicely, so a lot of our one-sided talks are congratulatory and without criticism. but sometimes he procrastinates on booting a banshee i loathe, so i get a little riled. for instance: after brad completely ignored a skinny dipping solisa, he kept her around long enough to ignore her lap dance with the dull-eyed expression of a man who didn't own a lap. i'm glad that he had the guts to ditch the jersey girl despite the fact she fell down the steps. she was arguably the least attractive woman to ever grace nonpublic access television. i could tell she wanted a cigarette for two episodes. finally, by the end of the last show, he trimmed the fat in a very acceptible way, by canning jade. and as long as he continues to favor jenni, the dancer for the phoenix suns, i probably won't fling my laptop into oncoming traffic.
fannie and i were emailing after i watched the show. paragraph after paragraph, disecting the remaining women. pounding away at my keyboard, send. more pounding, send. "i feel like abc.com is trying to trick me. they want me to like jenni, and then there is going to be a twist. jenni isn't going to win. i hope they aren't trying to trick me. they really have chemistry." it was delightful. weeks earlier i was talking to jcrew on the phone but was in the middle of something and pled: "wait. let's pick up this conversation about the bachelor some other time. i really want to talk about it some more."
because i did. and i do. all i want to do is talk about the bachelor. my tirades about the show, by default, become the white noise that turns chuck's eyeballs glassy. and if i'm watching, he may hide in another room under the guise of, like, scrambling eggs or something.
i want to take each of the weeping rejecteds aside and say, "listen lady. you're sad because you lost a competition on national tv and my laptop and so your ego is pulsating. in three days, when you are falling down someone else's steps, you will be fine. you didn't love brad." in the meantime, their confusion between game-show contestant and future mrs. brad makes for a great 42 minutes.
i haven't been this stoked about a glorified dating game since the jesse palmer bachelor incident of season five.
don't get me wrong. this isn't my only reality tv interest: i'm thoroughly enjoying this season of the hills. and real world: sydney has it's moments -- as long as they don't include parissa. newport harbor was okay, but the selected someone not quite vindictive enough as a star. in fact, the show has been over for two weeks and i can't remember anyone's names, but would still order a "team kristin" shirt from season one of laguna beach if the opportunity presented itself.
i am exactly reality television's target market. i am a certified gawker. or, as the ladies of lourdes high school ['94] liked to call me when i turned around to ogle the blue hairs creating a ruckus in the back of the church with their electric wheel chairs and tin walker-clanging, i'm a rubber necker. for me, the only thing better than a teen drama with witty dialogue, an emo soundtrack and a heroine with a fantastic swath of bouncy hair, is reality tv. i could bore a hole through a fourth-street domestic. and so, when its equivilent crops up on my tv or laptop -- pass the wheat thins and a chunk of sharp cheddar and block all incoming calls. i'm all eyes-and-ears for the next 42 [or 17, as the case may be] minutes. just let me slip into my clownish pajama pants.
this all started with eric nies and season one of the real world in 1992. he was endlessly fascinating right up until he segued into hosting "the grind." but seeing real people on tv, scripted or unscripted, was an amazing thing for me. [my landlord always says "real world, my ass. more like fake world." this, if you know or do not know my landlord, is a classic quote.]
i remember that one disappointing thing about turning 25 was realizing i'd missed the window on becoming a real world cast member. then i found the internet, posted a few drunk photos of myself, and decided that was good enough.