I realize at this point in my blogdom that I've spent a disproportionate amount of time writing about television. Being that I'm a mom, a wife, a student, a teacher and recently moved into beautiful Sonoma County, one might think that I would be busy mothering, wifing, studying, working, or going on a lovely nature walk in Sebastopol. One might be partially right.
I spend 90% of my day being productive and/or living life to its proverbial fullest. The last 10% is spent glued like a three-toed sloth to the couch, devouring my brain-rotting stories like a junkie finding a rogue bottle of opiates in an Applebee's restroom. I'm not saying I've ever found pills in an Applebee's, I'm just saying it could happen.
Anyway, that was a weird digression. I love my TV time. I love it in a way that would make all those "Kill Your Television" advocates out there look me up and down with a false smile, non-verbally communicating their decree that I'm just a lemming lost in loser-ville.
Among the shows that keep me riveted: Modern Family, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and Law & Order: SVU. The list is quite lengthy and arguably ranges in taste and quality. I thought I'd reached my bottom of the TV barrel when I actually found myself watching the clock so as not to miss the "Rock of Love" finale. I'm talking the sequel, folks.
No, no. No. The Bad Girls Club has revoked Bret Michael's crown, is now officially my guilty pleasure, and is also the new thorn in Glenn's side. He can't quite stomach that "bleeping" sound that accompanies profanity on TV. We both agree it totally worked with The Osbournes, and then it got old, fast.
Back to those Bad Girls. I'm caught in a weird bind with them; I want to heal their pain, but I also have schadenfreude issues (don't we all?). Therapy would ruin everything; they'd have some understanding into their collective need to constantly defend themselves, to make people think they're invulnerable, they might find histories of abuse or molestation behind their promiscuity and sex addiction, and they might even find serenity with a recovery group or four.
As someone who lives to witness people in their healing processes, finding their voices, discovering the roots of their pain in order to recover--I find a disturbingly large amount of satisfaction watching these girls writhe around in chaotic oblivion. Maybe it's because I identify with the train-wreck each girl is; I used to be a mess of a 22-year-old, and although I was never as venomous as some of these vixens, I definitely had my morally questionable moments. Or maybe it makes me feel better to know I'm not one of them. Perhaps I enjoy getting to formulate tentative diagnoses left and right, knowing that I shouldn't, but that inevitably they're not my responsibility to help...which is both a relief and a missed opportunity.
Annie, Kendra, Flo (I'm nursing a strange crush on her despite my best efforts to resist), Natalie (clearly the front-runner for Most Vile Player), Amber, Portia and Kate. Ever since Flavor of Love (which arguably started this fiasco when The Surreal Life cast members Brigitte Nielson and Flava Flav got their flirt on and spun out some spin offs), reality shows have this annoying tendency to slap nicknames on women, such as "Pumkin," "Paradeez" and "Bootz". These girls don't escape the trend, with surnames such as "The Control Freak" (Annie), "The Socialite" (Natalie), and "The Pistol" (Portia). I'm thinking this helps viewers to get a quick glimpse into the depth of these young women's psyches; a nutshell reminder about the motivations, passions, and aspirations these girls all possess. Yep, that must be it.
Above all else, these girls bum me out; I wonder what will become of them. Maybe they'll look back on these episodes and cringe, do their best to keep family and friends from watching them. Or maybe they won't make it that long. Bottom line, these are some seriously disturbed and troubled women. TV producers are making a killing exploiting people in this society with reality shows like this, and what's worse...I keep watching.
If you're even slightly curious about this delectable debacle, here's the reprehensible round-up of season four:
Beware all ye souls who enter here.
TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: For the love of Ray J., go shut off that damn TV already.
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