It seems like only yesterday that all my problems started. I guess you could say I began to lose touch with The Real World.
My first mistake was to even ask what seemed like a reasonable question at the time: Why am I watching a houseful of sophomoric brats argue about who should rightfully wash the dirty dishes? My second mistake was to so hastily assume such a preposterous excuse for Television programming could never catch on. Well, that was some fifteen years ago. Suffice to say this brand of Reality broadcasting has become so pervasive, Orwell himself could not have predicted a Big Brother so nightmarish. In fact, so ludicrous has this altered Television Reality become, I truly feel as if Ive been Punkd.
Not only can I still watch the petty squabbles and sticky pursuits of so many dumbstruck dormitory dunces, even iconoclasts of academic rebellion now aspire to regress to such stunted developmental stages, simply for the chance to have a million-dollar cam era document their every meaningless move. How aghast I was when I watched Motley Crues bad-boy drummer hang up his leopard-skin thong to join the ranks of ordinary campus co-eds in Tommy Lee Goes to College. Then again, I realize how tragic it is that rock legends like Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and Jim Morrison were never taken seriously in their time because they hadn't completed that pesky baccalaureate degree before their untimely deaths. And, if nothing at all else, Mr. Lee will now have an opportunity to stand tall before the world and proudly proclaim that hes finally read The Iliad. Or at least had his buxom, scantily-clad tutor read it to him. And no one will ever be able to take that away.
Of course, using this undergraduate credential to find real work would oblige the gangly, unkempt has-been to cut his hair, button up his tank top, and endure a sixteen-week job interview, which also qualifies as Reality Television these days. Call me crazy, but Im please d to say Ive never had a job interview thats lasted more than sixteen minutes. How gullible have we become when were willing to sacrifice our blood, sweat, and tears for the privilege of being reviled and then fired before weve ever been extended the courtesy of being included on the payroll? The Apprentice emeritus nips that right in the bud. They report in with their suit jacket pressed and their briefcase in hand, well-groomed and ready to go that extra mile to promptly demonstrate how incompetent and unqualified they truly are as a contestant on Fire Me.
In this climate, to say that as a reasonable, responsible employee I feel a little obsolete would be an understatement. Its enough to make a civilized person want to throw in that proverbial towel and run away to some remote island in the Pacificfar away from all the corporate shills and product placement, smug comb-overs and back-stabbing confrres. But, alas, even this fanciful notion has lost its charm.
It seems you cant go anywhere these days without being followed by a production crew. Funny thing is, we can now only long for more logical days, when the cast happened to be a lost band of misfits and screw-ups who couldnt get OFF the island. Hard as it is to believe, nowadays its become fashionable to actually compete for the honor of transforming oneself into the bane of the Skippers existenceon The Real Gilligans Island. In my humble Opinion, this is a development that would have been difficult to imagine for even such a visionary as the Professor.
The painful truth is there is no escaping this trend of Reality Television and there is seemingly no end in sight. And I have to admit, its taking its toll on this already beleaguered spirit. Although Ive never actually squandered any real talent, or flushed any considerable wealth down the toilet, I know all too well what its like Being Bobby Brown. Albeit with a full set of teeth.
Ill never forget how devastated I w as when I learned I could no longer depend on even the most incontrovertible of truths in this crazy, mixed-up new world. Once upon a time we held our collective breath as a chaste and unsullied princess eliminated one by one her potential suitors with the promise of love conquering all in the end. Or, at the very least, a made-for-Television wedding to air during prime time. Sadly, these days months of anticipation and countless rose ceremonies yield little more than insignificant personal insights and inexcusable revelations about wishing to remain single, as was the case with Jen Scheft in the disappointing last season of The Bachelorette. Although this Average Joe still has network hits like Bridezillas and Beauty and the Geek to restore his faith in romance, gone are the days when we all gathered round the gazebo to witness Trista profess her undying love for Ryan, before riding off into a commercial-free sunset to reclaim the anonymity she complained shed lost. After o ne final encore, that is, as a prima ballerina on Dancing with the Stars.
The skeptic in me wants to lash out and chide her for such hypocrisyso uncharacteristic of quality individuals who have no question about who they are and what they want. Those honorable folks who are not afraid to stand up and declare I Want To Be a Hilton, and/or I Want To Be a Soap Star. But when such cynicism begins to rear its ugly head, I remind myself that sometimes even a loser like Rob can catch a winner like Amber, and that after one more requisite appearance on The Amazing Race, perhaps domestic bliss really is the ultimate Survivor. This is particularly reassuring in the wake of Martha Stewarts abrupt departure, which I know changed my life foreverat least where folding napkins and pruning ferns is concerned.
On the other hand, heaven knows there is no shortage of culinary advice wafting from Hells Kitchen these days. Trouble is, its so peppered with profanity and chock-full of unsightly confrontation that its become anything but palatable. In fact, there is now an entire network devoted to the preparation, consumption, and career possibilities inherent in food. But had you told me ten years ago that the professional paths of not merely aspiring chefs, but hairdressers, babysitters, and home repair subcontractors alike would make for compelling Television, I would not have believed you. I only hope I live to see that glorious day when custodians and typesetters are given the season in the sun they so richly deserve.
Whats worrisome is the sheer volume of Reality shows finding their way into the pages of TV Guide. Those programs that are so presumptuous as to showcase and reward genuine talent are a perfect example, such as American Idol. Im just not sure that a star in ones eye and a song in ones heart are still enough to carry a career tune. Baring ones soul to an international audience once held the promise of an actual recording contract. I can even understand and appreciate the considerable skills necessary for greenhorn clothing designers to survive The Cut on a program like Project Runway, where they compete for their own clothing line. But what can possibly be the crowning jewel of a show like So You Think You Can Dance: Gettin jiggy wid it? It certainly cant be a plaque inscribed Worlds Greatest Choreographer. This is a job title requiring at least a modicum of education and trainingif only to pronounce the word. Of course, it doesnt take The Scholar to realize this is definitely not a problem faced by any contestant lucky enough to be named Americas Next Top Model.
Yes, gone are the days of father knows best. Frighteningly enough, weve relocated to a global village where, apparently, Hogan Knows Best. I would say Welcome to the Neighborhood, but mark my words: With The Osbournes living next door, property values are most certainly going to plummet. And what concerns me even more than the prospects of selling our collective soul at half its original value is the effect all of this Reality Television will have on the unfortunate generation that finds itself Growing up Gotti. When individuals are willing to stand in lines that stretch for ten city blocks for the chance to partake in a sixteen-week job interview, while complaining that the more traditional sixteen-minute garden variety involves too much real work, the cultural harvest we are going to reap will be decidedly unreal.
Call it the age of poor taste or The Surreal Life, it may take longer to clean up this mess that just 30 Days
My name is Jeff Kulick. I grew up in a small Midwestern hamlet in the heart of America's Dairyland. I currently reside in New York City, also known as The Big Apple. I guess I instinctively gravitate toward those destinations I know can be found in any grocery aisle. I've had a few brushes with greatness over the years, like the time I received my AFTRA (American Federation of Television and Radio Artists) union card after playing drums in a music video for the singer Laura Brannigan (of Gloria fame). All right, it was one brush with someone else's greatness. In the end, it turns out my real passion is writing. Admittedly, my work is quirky, at best, and downright cynical at its most disagreeable. At least that's what I've been told. But I hope in its own humble, albeit carpish way, it can provide an alternative to that old, worn-out conventional wisdom that's found us here in this capricious 21st century: consumed by prescription pharmaceuticals and processed food, cable Television and video game consoles, nanotechnology and 24-hour news networks.
Author:: Jeff Kulick
Keywords:: Reality, Television, Humor, Opinion, Editorial,
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