And Then There Were....

You'd have to pay me to watch The Bachelor, I recall vowing to one of my friends who was investing in the odds.  Well... while it's not much, a blogger-friend has actually offered me financial remuneration for a few snide comments and speculations.  She's getting stale, she complained, Season 23 taking its toll and she's pretty much used her verbal ammunition several times over-- not that anyone remembers.  Despite spin-offs and the desperate appearances of the hard-core reality-show whores,  these girls are pretty much a flash in the cultural pan.

But for me, it is a bit of novelty.  Sure, I remember the Dating Game, but these were blind interviews and resolved between commercial breaks.  The couples rode off in their sponsored limos and were never seen again, for the most part.  Here, it seems to be an obvious promotional vehicle for some of these misinformed women who are ID'd onscreen with their age and profession every time they get a little cameo.  It's like a three month video audition selfie, with the terms 'rollercoaster', 'skeptical' and 'I'm not gonna lie' recurring in nearly every scene.

America loves a contest.  We watch Top Chef, Project Runway, The Voice, Dancing with the Stars... week after week we tune in to see the paring-away of players until a winner is crowned.  The Bachelor, as I see it, is like Miss America with one judge who gets to sample the contestants.   It's every man's fantasy, in the sexist old-style world.  What woman do I know who would submit herself to this kennel show?  And the prize?  A ready-made husband.  Pre-fabricated happiness.  Essentially all the women are pretty homogeneous-- no one is short or ugly or handicapped... their hair and make-up are perfect, their teeth are straight, their wardrobes are similar... no one talks about politics, no one reads, no one does much of anything but sit around with the other boring girls gossiping and waiting for the next opportunity to see this Colton, who is very un-Americanly a virgin (!).  Is this more or less than we wanted to know?  For me it's a red flag.  How can anyone who is parading themselves in a bikini before audiences of millions be on the same page as this guy?  Oh... there is one girl (eliminated) who had never been kissed.  How she got through middle school is beyond me.  Really? Frogs have done better.

So the final episodes have filtered out all but three women, and the bachelor has gone to their hometowns to meet their families whom we see in staged home settings.  Three women-- one of whom will become his fiancee and eventually his wife in a few short weeks... and he is still kissing all of them, using the words 'falling in love'... and wary about getting his heart broken, needing to be certain his feelings will be reciprocated, and the girl is not in it for the media attention.  There seems little doubt anyone on this show has any other motive?  But still America watches... believes...
We believe in love, don't we?  Despite statistics, betrayals, perversions, secrets, duplicities, plastic surgery and the fickle nature of this internet age, we believe.

So there is one girl in the final three... she is young, naturally and wholesomely beautiful, has cascading blonde hair and looks great in her bikini-- obvious chemistry-- the guy can't keep his hands off her on their one date... and you can't blame him.  But there is something reticent and unsure about her.  She is perhaps there for ulterior motives-- not too smart-- but knows exactly how she looks when she pouts or cries... she's immature and cannot even lie that she is ready for marriage because she still needs to ask her father to make her decisions...  I suppose this is a kind of honesty, there... I mean, who can swear eternal love after three weeks of television shoots and zero intimacy? So she is the one who admits that she is 'on the fence' which is either a ploy for more on-camera dialogue or a bold-faced strategy.  And it seems to work, because despite the main premise that he must select the 'one' who is also ready to reciprocate, he not only does not eliminate her, but refuses to accept her resignation.  

Here we have it-- not the Aesopian moral of sour grapes, but the American male obsession with the one that 'got away'.   He is now sure, throwing the whole show under the bus, before the scheduled countdown, that this is what he wants, and this is what he wanted the whole entire season, while he went through motions of bonding with 20-some-odd other women.  From the get-go...he wanted the doll-- the surfer Barbie, the blonde bride on the cake in realtime.  Sound familiar?

I have a hard time imagining how he can kiss so many women-- I mean, at my most promiscuous, in my prime.. when we were all sampling and curious-- there were maybe 2-- maybe 3... at a time.  Especially this stupid pantomime when he knew from day one what he wanted... when he apparently and admittedly made a judgment based purely on the physical 'layout' of flesh and features, as nature calls... and the fact that there was a slight hesitation on her part-- either she is smarter than we know, or he is just fulfilling the old prophecy of dating lore-- that he must have the one who doesn't really want him.  And for her, clever dumb girl, she has left the game... and somehow I sense she will feel insecure and sorry... and maybe the drama is totally calculated because isn't she really the truest player, the winner?  The one who left while she was in first place?  Who broke his heart and made it impossible for anyone else?  I predict there will be a sequel-- she will return because there must be a twist now, America is bored of the game-- there has to be a coda, some drama... or else ratings will plunge.

And is he looking for love--- or a job?  His football career was over... he has obviously been groomed for TV, seems a little more on-camera comfortable than he was as a contestant... his hair is thicker, his abs are better.... he relishes his own shower-cameos.  Maybe he is in love with himself.   It's a little suspect that the guy has never had sex, although this is television-- who knows?

I can't help remembering once this very handsome guy used to come to my gigs... handsome like you rarely saw in NewYork City downtown... beautiful.  He tended bar midtown in one of those clubby cavernous side street places with a famous name.  He was in an off-Broadway play.  He begged me to come by the bar and I reluctantly looked in one night-- surrounded by great-looking women, he was... but he went crazy when I came in.  I went to his play... he was good.. more than good.  He took me on a romantic picnic in Central Park... made love to me, begged me... but something about him... lying there underneath this guy that everyone stared at... I just stalled out.  And then... as I pulled away.. the guy went nuts.  Showed up everywhere.. followed me, stalked me, delivered flowers and gifts...  It was like he had this picture... of me and him.. already on his mental 'mantel'... the New York City thing... me, the Bohemian musician girlfriend.... And he was getting famous... and still I had more interest in some rat-faced guitar player at the time.  Anyone.  It killed him.

The guy married a well-known actress who was equally beautiful... they moved to LA... I'm sure he was happy... I didn't deserve him.  I never earned him.  It was nothing but the one that didn't want him-- the challenge, the competitive conqueror thing... I don't know.  I don't know what I want half the time, and most of what I wanted didn't exist yet.  It was not in another person, but it was waiting for me to create it.

The perfect fairytale reality-show couple thing... yes, you ride off into the sunset... but then what?  You and your beautiful mate on a desert island without a camera.  I guess then you make babies and you do some other kind of dysfunctional couples-therapy reality show.  I think it's a little sad to be The Bachelor.  Like pin-up of the month.  In a few years you get old and no, you don't lose your hair because they fix that now... but there you are with your decision and the ring that the sponsors have bought for you... your fantasy televised wedding and your celebrity Instagram... and you are yesterday's model.  Without the Bachelor Culture, courtesy of this Chris Harrison who is determined to be a media mogul, you are nobody.  You are last year's Ken in the Bachelor Barbie game.

I used to work in a club Monday nights.  Bachelor night.  Okay... so now I am underemployed and earned enough from my catty blog-comments to buy a new guitar strap.   Am I culturally enriched?  I felt like a voyeur and cringed during kissing scenes.  Afterward I lost my appetite.  I felt sorry for the women.  I even felt sorry for the bachelor.  I never felt sorry for Miss America but I already felt Colton Underwood's pedestal crumbling.  And he cried.  That was maybe unscripted.   He cried because he maybe wasn't winning anything, especially not his 'queen' but is himself a pawn of the entertainment conspiracy and this is the end of his fifteen-minute road. Surely she'll be back, Colton... maybe even as soon as next week.  Or, as an ex once said to console me during a heartbreak-- Somebody will.

Cash in the Attic

When I was small I believed in ghosts. I had seen ghosts. My old house was filled with them. In the attic they slept—white sheety things covering old secrets. At night when we were supposed to be sleeping they drifted around, creaking and whooshing. They weren’t necessarily scary, they just reminded that things you did-- things you had abandoned, didn’t necessarily just go away, they just lay waiting in your attic.

American mortgage lenders have been caught more or less with their pants down. A crisis which has been brewed by greed and a super-sized real estate market. A segment of our economy grotesquely ballooned into a distorted image of Uncle Sam now threatens to collapse its ugly self onto our bad dream. Wall Street this week behaved as though this were not the case, although the more ghost-fearing among us were certainly listening. I was actually wondering if I shouldn’t buy stock in mattress-manufacturers. These could become the only reliable banks.

And who should accept the blame for this? The aggressive mortgage lenders, promising us our dream castle for a fairy-tale down payment and a manageable monthly payment? The banks, bestowing money like no tomorrow? The credit card companies who happily issue more and more cards for us to order furnishings and Jacuzzis and pools to go with our mansions and new clothing to wear when we entertain our neighbors? The government-- the ones who spend and decide and speak in theoretical sums with abbreviated zeros? The same government that demonstrates how the number on our bank statements has nothing to do with spending, that available capital has no ceiling?

I’d like to know why the newly inflated price of a gallon of milk has put a wrinkle in my household budget, why I am living with a leaky ceiling and no dishwasher, stretching my meager honest income further and further every week, cutting a luxury here and there, with a bit of emergency cash in the bank and no debt. Because I read Aesop’s fables with unusual attention in grade school? Because I barely passed physics in high school and remember for every action there is a corresponding reaction? Because I believe in ghosts?

Here’s one thing I believe. I don’t lack sympathy for poor people, although I have a certain skepticism when it comes to the rich. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the one that bails out these people who decided they wanted to live in a house with a spiral staircase and a skylight and a tennis court. And their real-estate agents who took that infommercial course and made $100,000 a month sitting on their sofa, flipping real-estate to poor schmucks who wanted to impress their family, their neighbors, themselves. These people lived like fatcats for several years while I didn’t. These people charged up Prada and True Religion and Hermes to go with their fancy houses and new lifestyles and simply declared bankruptcy. So now what? They are going to be forgiven? Ghosts everywhere are stirring.

If you are up at 4 AM every night like I am, you will eventually come across this charming British show called Cash in the Attic. Where people decide they want something beyond their means—not things like the Queen’s diamond brooch, but like a trip to Australia to visit their dying brother….new cabinets for their kitchen—a modernized bathroom. An antique expert comes to their house and looks through all their possessions and heirlooms and the flea-market stuff they’ve collected and comes up with enough merchandise to bring to a local auction house where inevitably and tediously they come up with the necessary cash. Pound by pound. It’s charming…and it usually has a happy ending. In fact, I have a secret crush on the host. He has the most adorable dimples and genuine laugh…okay, he might be gay, but I love the guy-- the way he enjoys these people, the way he becomes intimate and yet doesn’t invade.

Let’s bring him to America and let him find some cash in these people’s attics—the ones with the collapsing sub-prime mortgages who will have to auction not just their attic but their house and their children and still won’t come up with the money. But hey, it may make for some entertaining reality television and it might, as opposed to My Super Sweet Sixteen and all the rest of the toxic media messages here, give America a lesson in self-reliance and consequences and personal economics we seem to have forgotten.