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by D. Cashon Klein
Hello. My name is Debbie and I'm a
realaholic. I can't get enough of reality shows. Back in the days
before this illness took over my life, I had a TV that could only
get two channels when the rabbit ears were adjusted correctly. I
felt superior with my two channels that I rarely watched because I
read books. I worried about my sister. It seemed she was always
watching reality shows. She'd mention her shows at family
gatherings and parties to see if anyone else watched them. She had
a need to feed the addiction by seeking the approval and input of
others. If no one was available to discuss a show with her, she'd
chew her fingernails, frantically needing to rehash the events of
the latest cooking show. Then I upgraded my phone and computer
package to include cable because I couldn't justify purchasing a
silly, little box that I would have to hook up to my set just so I
would be able to see TWO channels, (three if my daughter was in
town). I didn't want to be blacked out entirely which I would be
once everything went digital. So I have cable now. It's the
beginning of a long spiral downward into the depths of no
return.
I friggin' LOVE the reality shows! But
not all genres, mind you. I only love the shows that challenge
people to create, whether it's fashion, interior design, food, or
hair... I don't care. It's fabulous TV. What could be better than
12 people with 50 bucks in their pockets who have to create fashion
from stuff bought at a hardware store... in an hour... blindfolded?
The celebrity judges rip them apart at the end because they
couldn't make something totally awesome out of washers, copper
wire and air filters. "Domenic, it appears that your model is
slightly uncomfortable... do you think the barbed wire was a wise
choice for a bustier?"
Don't get me wrong... when I say I LOVE
reality shows, I do NOT mean the game-type shows like that
gladiator thing. Or entertainment shows like Dancing With the C
List Stars and Washed Up Jocks. I don't watch Survivor, because
the people end up killing something for food when we know perfectly
well that there's a total production crew in massive
air-conditioned Airstreams who have plenty of food just a few feet
away. And what's up with the whole fireside-tribal-ritual shtick?
It reminds me of the secret ceremonies we made up when we were kids
at the picnic table in the back yard. Someone would make a "magic
stick" or a "special cape" to signify that he or she would be
"master" of the neighborhood for a week. There were alliances that
pitted the oldest kids against the youngest. I remember when Johnny
and Janice Cummings put a garden spider in my purse. If that had
been a reality show I would have had to eat the damned thing.
I also couldn't care less about
housewives from any county. I don't care about bachelors, or
bachelorettes. My friends would be more interesting. I can see it
now, "Lunchroom Lives." Sylvia is talking about her cocker spaniel
Buster who managed to get into a locked kitchen cabinet and eat all
of the bread products, plus a spare package of razor blades for her
husband's electric shaver. (Why are they in the kitchen?) Buster
gets yet another bout of pancreatitis from eating a LOT of stuff.
Camera cuts to Buster at the vet AGAIN. He has a hot pink Mohawk...
Buster, not the vet.
Or we're around the lunchroom table,
(this is always the anchor shot), and sweet Kathy sits at her place
at the end. She always sits there because her wryneck has gotten so
bad that her head twitches side to side like a sprinkler head. Her
glasses are askew on her nose because of the Xanax. Cut to sweet,
pleasant Kathy who never says bad things to anyone. She is lunging
over her doctor's desk. "What do you MEAN you don't know what to
do? You can't be SERIOUS when you say you can't see me again for
TWO MONTHS! Why don't YOU try living with pain that feels like a
butcher knife through your neck you sleazy little bastard?!" I made
that up. Kathy would never say bastard.
There's Sandy who loves shrimp and
sparkly things and finishes sentences with yada yada yada. She
always has a great tan and jewels on her toes. And Carol who tells
us she was so worried that her daughter had gotten into a serious
car accident one night that she put all the things in the kid's
room away so they wouldn't be painful reminders. Her daughter
drove to the mall and was an hour late getting home... another
lie... TWO hours. She came home to a basket- case mother and her
stuff packed in the closet. You can't make this stuff up!
So now I spend hours on the phone with my
sister rehashing who did the best and worse interior design for a
room in a whorehouse in Reno and the woman who's a great cook but
she can't talk her way out of a paper bag but the guy that can
talk can't cook so the person that will end up having their own
cooking show will be the guy that's mediocre at both. Then
there's the runway gown that made the model look like she was
pooping fabric and the hairstylist who cried over everything and
missed his wife and the dog groomer who isn't very nice to dogs
and insisted on giving a poodle cut to an afghan hound...
I'll stop watching these shows next
year... I swear. The books are in sacks by the door for a
fund-raiser at work.
Debbie Cashon Klein is a Safety Harbor
resident.
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