My Kind of Reality

I can handle the writer’s strike if it means the outrageous proliferation of new reality shows continues ad infinitum.

Last night was the ultimate: Celebrity Detox.  How Dr. Drew pulled off this magnificent display of dysfunction I’ll never know, but I would like to bow down & genuflect in his direction.

From Jeff Conaway of Taxi fame convulsing in his wheelchair to porn star Mary Carey emptying her bag of dildos and strap-ons, this show climbed its way up the reality show ladder to the top rung instantaneously.

I also watched the second episode of Make Me A Supermodel.  Loving it!  I just don’t understand some of the choices the judges make, but then that’s always the case. 

Donald Trump’s Celebrity Apprentice may be on its way to the best season ever if Gene Simmons can continue to kick Omarosa’s ass.  Just checking out her poorly chosen wardrobe with thigh-high minis is reason enough to watch.  Ivanka looked great last night, but I still can’t forgive her for deforming her body with those ridiculous breast implants.

I thought it was an interesting mix to catch both Marilu Henner and her castmate, Jeff Conaway, appear on two separate shows within two hours, 25 years after they had seen real fame and fortune.  Reality is so much better than Taxi could ever dream to be.

Big Brother will be coming back in February.  If there was a reality TV court, I would surely be sent to rehab for my BB addiction.  I rarely miss a show, and follow it on-line through digest reviews daily.  It’s a habit that wastes hundreds of hours each season.  Last summer I was a total Dick fan.  Are you surprised?  It got to the point where I could barely discuss the show with family and friends.

Any chance you saw Wife Swap this week?  Spectacular.  The father with the golf cart was my favorite male on that show ever, only beaten by the screaming she-devil of least season.

Rock of Love returns this Sunday.  I watch it only in an attempt to catch Brett Michaels without his bandana.  He looks so silly.  Shave your head already!

Still a fan of The Amazing Race.  I’m rooting for the young guy and his grandfather.  OCD kicks in when I watch the contestants rip through their envelopes before each task, tossing the remnants to the ground.  I can’t stand that!  They’re representing America and tossing trash across the planet.

While reading the NY Post yesterday I noticed an article in the Real Estate section.  A musician had purchased a loft in Tribeca and was keeping it television free, in favor of playing his guitar on the fire escape or having people over for conversation.  He felt a TV would change the flavor of the place.

For a moment I considered how lovely that would be.

But how many songs could I possibly learn on the guitar?  And after my husband spoke his average 250 words per day, what in the hell would we do with one another?  Would I run behind him while he mows the yard on his John Deere tractor?

I quickly came to my senses when it came down to missing an entire season of Celebrity Detox to sit on a fire escape. 

I must acknowledge my vapid and shallow nature, embrace it with gusto.