by Hank Brockett
This bachelor has found his Bachelorette.
Reality loves? Oh, I’ve had a few. The second season of the Real World featured my favorite cast, including a raging drunk Irishman and a singing cowboy. And the reality show known as television news (both feature fake people scratching their way to more fame) always made an appearance at the dinner table.
But things inevitably turned south, the way these stories always do. That Real World season included an infamous ejection from the house. While the drama made for emotional stuff, David was replaced by Lesbian Beth, who had no other characteristic than reminding people she was a “llllllesbian.”
“Clean the dishes? Why, because I’m a llllllesbian?” she would say in scenes probably excised for redundancy.
After that, I gave up on reality love. A mournful acoustic guitar played as I kicked a can down the rainy streets of prime-time television. Friends said the love would come again, and even attempted to set me up with new shows sure to show me a good time.
I know what a good time is, and three 20-somethings getting drunk and arguing about who slept with who isn’t a good time (that’s a Saturday night in a fraternity house).
I passed the time ever defiant, but with upturned eye. I’d always deny it, but an infatuation grew strong for Blind Date. Its open mockery of the airheads depicted made me laugh, the shortest path to this heart.
Sure, the new potential objects of affection seemed cool, but something just didn’t click. Survivor? Too dramatic. Big Brother? Too dorky. Temptation Island? Too ... much.
But while my new satellite television service offers plenty, I’ll remember it for hooking me up with a whole new reality just last week. How long it lasts, we’ll never know. But at least we have Wednesdays at 9 p.m., 8 p.m. Central.
On ABC Family, my brother Neal and I caught The Bachelorette: Special Edition. Both of us had heard the relentless hype, which echoed from two successful Bachelor jaunts. However, where emotionally unstable women pimping themselves out made us steer clear, this new version drew us in with a wink and a smile.
The difference? Men fighting over the girl instead of vice versa. This is reality! It’s almost enough to forget all those “ABC shows are so bad ...” jokes that have built up since Regis took the money and ran.
We’re two episodes in, and already I’m hooked on Trista and her search for Mr. Right. With memories of great first dates gone south, I hesitated just for a moment. Then, I picked up the remote and dialed in the reminder on the television. Like I’ll need it.
Veterans of the reality scene know Trista’s story. She was one of the last two contestants on the initial Bachelor, before losing out to another girl with less spunk and evidently more ... assets that attract us.
Such a scenario is hard to fathom the way the Bachelorette cameramen treat Trista’s curves like a wet mountain road. They move slowly and linger on every turn. For safety’s sake, of course. The fact the former Miami Heat cheerleader obliges with plunging necklines wouldn’t be news to Stevie Wonder.
While Trista’s fine, it’s the men who make this show more than a collection of rose ceremonies and outrageously lavish dates.
For those unfamiliar with the concept, Trista must choose a potential mate among 25 suitors. After two episodes, we’re down to the Elite Eight in this precursor to March Madness (January Joviality, perhaps?). Already, it’s clear this is the format to really say something about interpersonal relationships in the 21st century.
With the aid of deft editing and a helpful format, each suitor is given a personality or a “choose-your-own-hook.” For instance, one of the last eight is Bob, otherwise known as Funny Bob. He’s the type of guy who has honed his jokes to make up for a larger frame and a love of Journey. He’s also a godsend to the other guys who are too busy thinking up angles to crack a smile on their own.
I like Bob, and I hope he wins. He definitely would represent the “teen comedy” winner, where the likable sport gets the girl (but usually the friendly beauty instead of the gorgeous snob). Which description fits Trista remains to be seen, but Bob seems happy.
Veterans of the dating scene will recognize the rest of the guys. There’s The Guy Who Tries Too Hard, The Take-It-Or-Leave-It Guy, The Guy Who Somehow Finds A Way To Take Off His Shirt and even The Black Guy. Yes, “Black” Jack made the final 15. And I’m convinced the only noticeable person of color made it solely on the willpower emanating from the Brockett house.
Maybe Trista is fooled, but these all are angles (except Jack, I’m pretty sure he was really black). The beauty of a short series like The Bachelorette is that it’s the perfect timeframe for a man to grow weary and actually act like himself. From those sorry sorts, Trista will pick a man whose next stop could be the altar.
And the audience? We’re picking just the same, and agonizing over the next cut. Whether “our guy” wins or loses means very little. It’s the relationship that matters, bringing with it the strange urge to settle down ... on the couch.