Sunday, October 31, 2004
Reality Bites
I have been watching a Real World marathon for the past few hours and I can honestly say that it has made me dumber. I have been seized with a sudden desire to take my top off or refer to agressively contemporary decor as "off the hook." I want to launch into a tirade about someone eating my hot pockets and then blame it all on racism or having been touched inappropriately in my bathing suit area. More than anything, however, I feel the need to malaprop incessantly while making desperate sexual overtures at any eligible human (or even reasonably attractive household appliance) in sight. See, who says television isn't a teaching tool?
The Real World and I have a sordid history. Since I grew up in a home without cable (my parents weren't Amish but they enjoyed the lifestyle; I can't really complain because I always had freshly-churned butter), the earliest seasons are sort of a blur to me, pieced together from snippets I saw in Kathy Yu's basement when we were bored with studying chemistry and the marathons they ran instead of actual music television while I was in college. Later, as my insanity deepened, I actually began making an effort to watch new episodes as they aired, even contemplating a fan letter to one New Orleans Kelley. But just as I found myself trying to be home on Tuesday nights to catch new episodes the minute they first aired (I believe this is what substance abuse counselors refer to as "rock bottom"), the second New York season sapped any semblance of my interest just in time for TLC and The Disney Channel to become freshly interesting.
And yet here I am. Could this be the start of a reconciliation? Based on Landon and MJ's matching David Hasselhoff haircuts, I'd have to say no.
I have been watching a Real World marathon for the past few hours and I can honestly say that it has made me dumber. I have been seized with a sudden desire to take my top off or refer to agressively contemporary decor as "off the hook." I want to launch into a tirade about someone eating my hot pockets and then blame it all on racism or having been touched inappropriately in my bathing suit area. More than anything, however, I feel the need to malaprop incessantly while making desperate sexual overtures at any eligible human (or even reasonably attractive household appliance) in sight. See, who says television isn't a teaching tool?
The Real World and I have a sordid history. Since I grew up in a home without cable (my parents weren't Amish but they enjoyed the lifestyle; I can't really complain because I always had freshly-churned butter), the earliest seasons are sort of a blur to me, pieced together from snippets I saw in Kathy Yu's basement when we were bored with studying chemistry and the marathons they ran instead of actual music television while I was in college. Later, as my insanity deepened, I actually began making an effort to watch new episodes as they aired, even contemplating a fan letter to one New Orleans Kelley. But just as I found myself trying to be home on Tuesday nights to catch new episodes the minute they first aired (I believe this is what substance abuse counselors refer to as "rock bottom"), the second New York season sapped any semblance of my interest just in time for TLC and The Disney Channel to become freshly interesting.
And yet here I am. Could this be the start of a reconciliation? Based on Landon and MJ's matching David Hasselhoff haircuts, I'd have to say no.
