Not a Drag...

Hi. My name is Holly and I'm a reality television-aholic. I never realized I had it this bad. Until tonight. Tonight I have to fully disclose this addiction.

At first, it started out with an occasional episode of Survivor, maybe a little Fear Factor here and there in the early 2000s, but as reality shows became more popular, I found myself watching more. Soon, I learned I needed more reality television, campier reality television, the more awful reality TV the better, to get my fix. In my life, I have sat through entire seasons of bad reality shows like Top Design, Shear Genius and even The Pick-Up Artist.

I have seen entire marathons of MTV's My Super Sweet 16, three seasons of Rock of Love, every dance show out there: So You Think You Can Dance, Dancing with the Stars, Randy Jackson Presents: America's Best Dance Crew. You name the reality show, and I've watched at least one episode. I watch back-to-back episodes of America's Next Top Model, Project Runway, Tori and Dean. On occasion, I watch lesser-known reality shows like MTV's True Life or Two-a-Days or A&E's Vegas Showgirls: Nearly Famous, sometimes even Bravo's Work Out will satiate my craving. Occasionally, I will watch a show on television, while watching another online-- only occasionally though.

I have watched Britney Spears' Chaotic. I have watched Cathouse. That said, I do have standards. I will not sit through anything with Scott Baio, Dr. Drew, any married Bradys or combinations thereof.

I believe my love for reality television started way before the reality trend of the early 2000s. It's possible my obsession began in the 80s with Battle of the Network Stars. I used to watch those stars in their glittery leotards while they flew through the air with the greatest of ease, and I would sometimes pretend I was a competitor. Sometimes I still dream of glittery leotards and wish I was an American Gladiator, but that's more disclosure than I would like to admit right now. I can't pinpoint the precise time when I first started consuming reality TV, but I know I can't stop. I know I've seen it all. That is, I thought I had seen it all until tonight.

Tonight I saw something that boggled my mind. It rocked my reality television world. I will never be the same. Tonight, I watched my first episode of RuPaul's Drag Race.

RuPaul's Drag Race, where I heard RuPaul say that the winner will be the next drag superstar and be, "hotter than Tyra wearing a fat suit in July." Yes, RuPaul tells the would-be stars to "work it, girl." And I want to "work it" as well. If RuPaul's Drag Race is wrong, I don't want to be right.

The basic premise of the show is that the girls complete challenges, then are judged by RuPaul in a final lip synch show where they "lip synch for their life," and in the end, one queen is eliminated. It's your basic reality show formula, but in this show, the loser is told to "Sashay away."

So my reality television obsession continues, and one day the desire might be quelled. Until then, I will stick with RuPaul. Yes, I will "Shantay and stay."

Love Bus Lowlights

Just when the Rock of Love franchise couldn't get worse, the producers at VH1 decide that putting a bunch of slammy, drunk bitches on a tour bus is a good idea. And God love 'em for it! Last week, we learned that there are some things too much even for Bret Michaels (I won't say where one of the lovely ladies stuck a shot glass) and this week, I'm giddy as the stripapalooza heads to Indiana.

For the first challenge, the hos write wedding vows for a fake walk down the aisle with Bret, and then present him with a gift. I didn't find it at all surprising that none of the girls chose a white wedding dress. What I did find surprising was that the gift that Bret seemed to appreciate most was a freshly-removed vaginal piercing.

The group proceeds to drink heavily and play a friendly game of "Who is smarter than a rock star?" which is a little like the blind leading the blind. Very few questions get answered.

The three girls who won the wedding challenge go on a hayride and lunch with Bret. Two wear extremely short skirts, which can not be comfortable when sitting on bouncy hay. The date was pretty uneventful, however impressive that none of them seemed to itch.

Finally, the rest of the episode sucked, and at this point nobody is worthy of my support-- yet. Next week one of the girls allegedly gets their implant popped.

Here are some key lines from this week's episode of Rock of Love Bus:
"I'm from Utah and there are Polygamists and Mormons and guys who marry, like, 10 girls... so bring it on, I'm used to this."

"If ever a tear falls from your perfect face, I will kiss it away..."

"I wrote these vows like if we were already in love..."

"I promise to cook you the best, rockin' food... and not ever wear panties."

"Getting a plaster mold of someone's torso is a little creepy."

"My mom loves me, and my family loves me and I WANNA' GO HOME!" (sob, sob, sob)

Molecular gastronomy day

Kitchens never cease to amaze me. Maybe it's because I suck in the kitchen, but I am fascinated with cooking shows. I watch the Food Network, get inspired and really believe I am the next Julia Child. When it comes down to it, though, I end up eating fat-free Triscuits and Laughing Cow lite cheese for dinner. (But, add a glass of wine to that and it's actually very French!)

Ever since Marcel (a.k.a Spike, from Gremlins) was on Bravo's Top Chef, I have been aware of molecular gastronomy. The best way I can explain it is that you take regular foods, sauces and the like, and then create various chemical reactions to get foams and crazy juices. 

I maintain I could get foams and crazy juices in food without either 1) attending culinary school or 2) trying, but that's just my amazing kitchen prowess. For instance, yesterday I caught another burner on fire with a Pasta Roni boilover, therefore, I created effortless foam.

Today on Good Eats, Alton Brown made souffle, all the while explaining the chemical reactions that must occur in order for optimum finished food fluff. (I came up with that alliteration, not Alton, but he's welcome to it for a consulting fee.) I figured I could give it a whirl, after all, how hard could it be to bake puffy eggs?

I kept trying to whip egg whites and it just wasn't working. When I finally got a few of them to sort of form stiff peaks (which always makes me laugh when I say "stiff peaks"), I thought that would work. "Nay," said the little chef; a dozen eggs later, I had a gooey egg mess that had partially solidified to only one side of the baking dish. Damn you molecular gastronomy, this is why I shun the sciences. Chemistry is not my friend and eggs are dirty bitches.

I went to the gym, I went to the grocery store and despite my best efforts earlier this evening, I ate fat-free Triscuits and Laughing Cow lite cheese for dinner. Merde totale.

It IS Funny

I had on good authority that this skit was "one of the funniest on SNL in a very long time." It's true, and since it has to do with Rock of Love 2, it was even better.

Only in Los Angeles

Like a heroin addict looking forward to a flame and a spoon, I look forward to Rock of Love 2. I'm not proud about it, it's just something I do. I didn't think it could get scarier and scarier each week, hell, I didn't think the ladies could get scarier than last season. As I watched tonight, though, I saw something so hideous and out of control I couldn't stand it.

I'm talking about the restaurant where Bret took some ladies for a date; a trendy West Hollywood eatery called Opaque where they tout "dining in the dark." From their Web site, Opaque will heighten your senses as you dine in a completely pitch-black setting, while being served by "specially-trained, visually impaired individuals."  It was great for Bret Michaels, as we saw from some risque night-vision footage. For me, the mere concept combines too many fears.

It's like "Dinner on Elm Street."

Not only am I scared of the dark, but I'm scared of food. I also don't necessarily like a surprise on a plate, and even though people frequenting Opaque choose their menu while in the light, who knows what one would actually get to eat? I instantly had horrible visions of the dinner scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where they sit down to a feast of eyeball soup followed by a monkey brain entree with a side of dead bug puree. 

Maybe it's just me.

First off, I don't like my foods to touch each other on the plate. I have to properly separate it and make sure that my gravy-less mashed potato does not co-mingle with the dinner roll, which in turn does not converge with the plain turkey. I do not like sauces, I do not like things that are "squishy," and I've got the gag-reflexes to prove it. That alone would freak me out at Opaque.

Secondly, I am afraid of the dark. For the first few years of my life my parents would put me to bed at night, and just as they turned out the light, I would scream "I DON'T WANT TO GO TO BED!" I would continue to scream for several hours until the neighbors grew concerned I was being tortured. To me, the dark was torture. This behavior lasted until just before I got my "big girl bed," when an escape from Alcatraz-like climb ended up in a face-first biff out of my crib resulting in a fat, bloody lip. As my dad iced down my face, thinking of how to tell my mom when she came home from work, his guilt took over and he let me fall asleep with him on the couch each night before carrying me to bed. This behavior lasted clear through several seasons of Miami Vice until I was nearly in junior high. (For those doing the math, Miami Vice ran from 1984 to 1989.)

Stick the two together in a "sensory dining experience" and for me, you've got a meal anxiety case study for any seasoned psychoanalyst. And then what if there are ghosts? I'll bet they haven't even considered the ghosts.

I want to open a restaurant called Bright Light. At my restaurant, you open the fridge-like door and are bathed in florescent glory. After donning sunglasses and a nice slather of sunscreen, you choose from a highly specialized, yet limited, menu of grilled cheese sandwiches, Special K with Red Berries and Diet Dr. Pepper. For dessert, you have Tropical Chex Mix and blueberry vodka. You know what to expect, no surprises, no Freddy in the corner. At Bright Light, you know what you're getting into, and the only people freaked out are the Mogwai.

Make me a match...

I made the mistake of watching Millionaire Matchmaker tonight. This is a Bravo TV reality show about this woman owns a business that finds rich, socially inept men and pairs them up with women who double as flotation devices. Matchmaker Patty Stanger acts as the expert in hookups, telling the men just how they should dress, act and decorate their homes, sometimes in not so delicate ways.

She's also not so delicate to the women whom she interviews and hand-picks to meet said various millionaire men. And, after watching tonight's episode of Millionaire Matchmaker, I'm ashamed to admit I felt even worse about myself than I already do this week. Patty's "tough love" sucks, and maybe I'm just a little bitter tonight, but maybe if she was a little less difficult to gaze upon, she'd have some ground on which to stand.

At one point Patty told the women, "Come on ladies, if you have short hair, grow it. Get extensions." She continued, "Guys want something they can run their hands through." I disagree with Patty Stanger; simply, that's bullshit. Has little Yenta Patty ever actually had hair extensions? Let me tell you, folks, I just got rid of my extensions. If I didn't feel my scalp for four months, and missed that a whole lot, I am here to tell you that nobody, no man, is going to be able to run his hands through that action.

And should a night of, shall we say, "excitement" happen, those lovely hair extensions will most certainly turn into a impenetrable rat's nest hair wad of epic proportions. 

Dating is hard. Damn hard. I should know as I've been doing it for quite some time. But is this what courtship has become? Exactly who are these women trying to impress-- the men they wish to date, or the women who judge them? That said, if she wanted to set me up with a few of these guys, I probably wouldn't complain.

Separated at birth?

As I'm ditching the gym for the Top Chef: Holiday Special and Grey's Anatomy tonight, I couldn't help but think of two more people separated at birth.

Top Chef's Marcel and Spike, the evil gremlin, from Gremlins. I even like Marcel because of his quirky overconfidence and his ability to make an edible foam out of vienna sausage. But the resemblance is too uncanny.

It's funny because it's true.

Separated at birth?

I used to really like Tim Gunn the first seasons of Project Runway, but since he's taken on Tim Gunn's Guide to Style, he's starting to sound a lot like Stuart Smalley. I was particularly taken aback by the latest promo on Bravo when he's introducing a woman to Top Chef's Padma Lakshmi because they both have heinous, bubbling arm scars.

Tim says, "See Padma? You both have a scar..." Just the way he says it is so... well, Stuart.

I was waiting for him to say, "You're good enough. You're smart enough. And doggoneit, people like you." Tim Gunn should just stick to "making it work" because it works better for him.

Grammar police

After making the unfortunate mistake of watching a rerun of "The Real Housewives of Orange County" tonight, I came away with but one simple request: If you're going on television, please use proper grammar and/or vocabulary words. Well thought-out sentences might also be nice.

Here are things that made me cringe after just one episode:

• "I needed to excape from things..." (Second biggest grammatical pet peeve on the list just after people who say "expecially.")
  
• "I don't really know the 'pacifics' of what happened." (I think she meant to say, "I don't know the specifics of what happened.")
  
• "I have had some trouble with the Hummer. What can I say? It's a Hummer."
  
• "She's doing good."
  
• "We're going to the ranch... if you wanna' come out to the ranch, we'll leave the clicker." (I still don't know what a "clicker" is. Garage door opener, perhaps? Remote control? Small chicken?)
  
• "I started taking 'rill' estate classes..." (Pronunciation is our friend, too.)
• "We're sisters, but we don't fight... I don't think we've ever foughten."

These are the same people who complain that moving into a $1.9 million home after living in a $3.5 million home is "downsizing" and an example of falling on unsuccessful "hard times." I should have known better than to continue watching.

Little beauties

I hurried home for lunch today for about 40 minutes to eat a Lean Cuisine and numb my brain with a little daytime television. When I turned on the TV to find last night's decision to watch VH1, I found one of the most disturbing shows I've seen in a long time: Little Beauties-- Ultimate Kiddie Queen Showdown. Of course, I couldn't take my eyes off the train wreck of a show, I had to watch it until I finally went back to work.

This show lets viewers delve into the seedy underbelly of child beauty pageants, and actually made me a little sick to my stomach. These little girls are six-years-old, yet their stagemothers are hell-bent on hairspraying them straight into painted adulthood. I don't have kids, but judging from the looks of many of these little girls, they'd probably rather be playing with Barbie than acting like her on stage.

Not only do many of these little girls sport dyed hair, and faces spackled with troweled-on makeup, but since some are losing their baby teeth, they also rock fake teeth retainers called "flippers" which give them that Colgate grin. A phony little smile costs the parents a pretty penny too, as they willingly shell out $200-$300 to temporarily fill in any gaps.

The costs don't stop there, a wardrobe can cost thousands of dollars while each individual pageant charges a hefty fee just for putting a tap shoe on the stage. (Many girls attend five to ten pageants a year.) Don't forget the essential spray-on tan and pageant coach to get the extra edge over the rest of the competition. (One article I later read quotes a woman revealing "I know people who have spent so much on pageants, they lost their trailers.") Are the judges looking for natural beauty or the biggest bank account to build a beauty?

I won't even discuss the swimsuit competition. Swimsuit competition!? These girls are six-years-old, do these pageants really build their confidence or do they set them on an early fast-track to lifelong disappointment? 

Far be it for me to speak out against something a little girl would genuinely aspire to do, I started dancing at three-years-old and still haven't stopped, but how can these girls be encouraged to display the same behaviors that often get grown women ridiculed? Clearly I've been mulling this over in my head for the better part of the afternoon and have come to the conclusion these pageants aren't glittery, they're gruesome.

Praise the idiot box

The only thing I’m liking about this time of year is all the new television shows I’m finding. As a self-proclaimed reality show junkie, I’m pleasantly surprised at the new dramas I’m finding this season. First, the premiere of Grey’s Anatomy last week rocked. After a crappy season finale, I feared for the future of Grey’s, however this year’s first show left me hopeful; and made up for the fact that Kate Walsh’s spin-off show “Private Practice” sucked.

I’m giving “Grey’s” another chance this season. After Meredith was thrown into the water in a slightly pithy three-parter last year (sorry for the spoiler, but if you haven’t seen it by now, give it up. Just start fresh with season 4), I still tuned in even though I was just about over it. This year’s new characters are familiar, the old characters have new problems, and Meredith and McDreamy are still just plain hot together.

Hats off to the CW who is finally channeling their inner WB. I knew it was in there! Just because you became the CW doesn’t mean you didn’t have a good drama in you. I had a hate affair with the WB after “Dawson’s Creek” ended, and have to admit the CW’s “Gossip Girl” is my new guilty pleasure. This is a show from the creators of “The O.C.” and has all the elements of when “The O.C.” was great, before Marissa died, before it sucked. “Gossip Girl” is the classic “Pretty in Pink” dichotomy of rich vs. poor where all the rich kids drink, do drugs and have threesomes and the poor kids are the moralistic salt of the earth. But it’s updated; the guys are beautiful, the clothes are amazing and it’s just something you hate to love. The show is tied all up by a narrator calling herself Gossip Girl who airs the secrets of the characters in her personal blog (kind of like a voyeuristic “Wonder Years”).

What I’m most surprised about this season is the CBS network. When did CBS become almost hip? I’m used to the CBS of oldendays which programmed for “Touched by an Angel”-loving grannies, but CBS has made watching TV on Fridays nearly acceptable by running what I’d like to coin “Freaky Fridays” by showing paranormal delight “Ghost Whisperer” and my new favorite vampire drama, “Moonlight.”

“Moonlight” is about a freaking hot vampire private investigator who uses his powers for good while trying to keep the identities of the “vampires who walk among us” a secret. Sure it’s hokey ("As darkness falls, a hero is born?" who writes that stuff?), but I am who I am, and I am a sucker for a good vampire show. Remember “Kindred: the Embraced” that short-lived Fox show in the mid-90s? It was good, but didn’t catch on, and I’m afraid “Moonlight” will have that same fate. Until it goes away, I will enjoy my Freaky Fridays on CBS, even if I have to tape it. (Yes, “tape.” I’m taking donations for a TiVo, though.)

Two things I didn’t particularly like about my new favorite show “Moonlight.”

1.) The use of an Evanescence song during a particularly “sentimental” scene. I feel the usage of popular (term used loosely because I detest Evanescence) music in an already trendy television show is a very delicate balance. From day one, Grey’s Anatomy found this balance, as did The O.C., however not every show can do it well. Music has to be part of the script, and not just make a cameo appearance just because the director thinks it will “make the show cool.” The best usage of music as part of a TV show script is throughout the series “La Femme Nikita,” God rest its soul. I’m reminded of season 4, before Michael became a total pussy, when Madeline and that chick from Red Cell were trading posses in an empty football field. The whole scene was set in slow-motion to an Enigma song-- and it was beautiful.

2.) Number two isn’t so much something I didn’t like about the show, but more a tip of what not to do during a new television show you’re enjoying. Do not, I repeat, NOT, consume an entire can of fat-free Pringles because you’re so drawn to what you’re watching. The Olean they use to make the things so damn tasty is like colon silicone come 2:34 in the morning.

See what happens when I feel sick and stay home to get better and watch television? I am glad I'm getting over the sickness and my reality tv obsession at the same time.

Reality Show Pondering

The other week I gave in to my addiction of reality television and actually watched Simple Life Goes to Camp because I felt like watching a train wreck. This particular episode featured a boot camp-like instructor who tried to break people of being high-maintenance. Attending camp was a particularly annoying Hollywood woman named Yoi who eventually ended up leaving early because they wanted her to eat crickets. Paris and Nicole said, "Good riddance" to Yoi, which made me think, "Wow, you must be really annoying if Paris and Nicole are bidding you 'good riddance.'"

Tonight, I was watching a bit of "More Swimsuit Secrets Revealed" on the WE channel, and wouldn't you know it? Good ol' Yoi was one of the featured women in search of a new bathing suit. Apparently Yoi is a media whore hopping from reality show to reality show. Damn, dirty Yoi!

What's worse? Giving more reality show rides than Greyhound OR watching enough stupid reality shows to actually realize the same chick is hopping from reality show to reality show?

Nails on a Chalkboard

I never really minded when first-grade classmates would scratch their nails down the chalkboard. I never understood the "eeew" factor in chewing tin foil.

But if I ever see another Sharpie commercial again, I will go postal.

Have you seen them? You know, where the narrator of the commercial is writing a letter to "someone," presumably, their significant other, their kid's teacher, and then they get fed up with the wordiness of it all and whip out a Sharpie which spells out the real message of the thing? But there's the sort of squeaky markery sound that happens with the commercial, making the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

Sharpie commercials are also extremely painful. For instance, as I was watching "Who Wants to be a Superhero" this afternoon, my new favorite TV show, I had the Sharpie commercial forced on me. Frantic, I lunged for the remote to change the channel before the squeaky markery sound happened, ending up sprawled out on my ottoman screaming in pain from a stubbed toe. And I still caught wind of the squeaky markery sound.

Just when you thought there wasn't anything worse than "Who Wants to be a Superhero," there is; the Sharpie commercial.

British Invasion

As I sit here watching Victoria Beckham: Coming to America, I am ashamed that I am not only starting to like her, but that I am actually sitting here watching Victoria Beckham: Coming to America.

For some reason, it's not nearly the trainwreck that Hey Paula has turned out to be, and I think I'll actually tune in next week.

For a little bit.

If I'm house-bound.

Posh Spice actually has a bit of a personality, which one would never know by the pouty-faced paparazzi look. Dare I even add that she might also actually have a sense of humor? I'm slightly sick, but that has more to do with eating three hours' worth of kettle corn this morning than Victoria Beckham: Coming to America.

Who knew? At least I'm off to dance.