Monday Night Lameness

schadenfreude (n.) pleasure derived from the misfortune of others

You know, I swore this would never happen again. After surviving the fiasco of the first season of Big Brother, I swore off reality television. No Survivor for me (which apparently makes me un-Cincinnatian). No Amazing Race (sorry, GeekMan), and in the name of all that is holy, no American Idol. I will admit to seeing one episode of the first season of The Bachelor and occasionally having Fear Factor on as background noise. I'm not sure which disgusted me more.

And then I saw the previews for Joe Millionaire. And I couldn't stop laughing.

I suppose it was the premise that got me. Most reality shows don't come right out and tell you that they're going to humiliate someone in front of America for the sheer entertainment value of it. Most try to suck you in with the drama of the alliances and the back-stabbing in hopes of winning the prize. And yeah, there's drama and alliances and back-stabbing, but there's no prize. Well, unless you think that Evan, in all of his not-too-bright, beer-drinking, fast-food-eating backhoe-using glory is a prize.

And oh my, is Evan ever as dumb as a box of hair. I mean, he honestly thought he was going to find someone who liked him for him and not the money, despite the fact that it meant lying consistently to the competing women? The shallowness of it hit him a few weeks back, and the realization was tragic and funny at the same time. Apparently he was so weirded out by the situation that they called up a producer to talk to him, and yes, they filmed the whole "private" conversation. My guess is that the producer reminded him of the contract he signed, and then went back to his hotel room to have a good evil laugh.

(And before I go any further, I must explain that all of my perceptions are based on the editing of this show. The editing is manipulative and brilliant. Anyone who saw the first episode with the selection of the dresses knew that Heidi was being set up to be the mega-bitch, and Zora was being set up for the Cinderella role. Kudos to the guys in the editing booth!)

Actually, it probably is for the best that Evan is stupid, because if he was intelligent, it would decrease the entertainment value. If he had two brain cells to rub together, he'd come off as a skeevy manipulative jerk, and would've probably spent more time trying to bed as many of the women as possible.

And the women. Where do I begin? There was a initially a bit of flak at the beginning of the series about the show being anti-feminist, since the women were being portrayed as ignorant gold-diggers, which meant that all women were being portrayed as such. Apparently that battle is still raging on some discussion boards. I choose to look upon it this way: yes, there are some women who are money-grubbing hos that get all excited when immense amounts of cash are mentioned and jewelry is being distributed. Some women. Not all women. That's entirely too broad of a generalization (about broads, to complete the bad joke) to make, and someone who could make and believe such a stereotypical assumption is pretty much as shallow as the stereotypical gold-digger. I prefer to be in the party that would never do anything as ridiculous as signing up for a program like this (I promise, Mom!), but still gets a chuckle watching human stupidity in action every once in a while. And nothing was as funny as watching Heidi speak nonsensical French when she got booted. ("I have no happy. You no find bread luggage.")

So here we are, down to the big two hour finale (unless you want to count the "aftermath" show next week). Two girls left. Zora, the Cinderella story, the substitute teacher who has no heat in her apartment, who won't talk about her past and seems to be uncomfortable about the money situation, the girl who seems to deserve a happy ending. And then there's Sarah, who seems to have Evan snowed about her self-centeredness and obsession with the non-existant money, the eeeeevil two-faced girl who trash talks about everyone on her smoke breaks outside the chateau, has a history of light bondage and foot fetish films, is single-handedly keeping Cover Girl in business by drawing on her eyebrows, and may or may not have secured her position in the finals with her slurpfest in the woods.

Who am I supposed to root for? Or more to the point, what constitutes winning on this show anyway? Not getting the guy, and escaping with your dignity intact? (Oh wait, dignity is forfeit as soon as you agree to be on this show.) Or winning the guy, and finding out he's a construction worker/underwear model/would-be wrestler?

The decision to accept or dump Evan is very much a catch 22 for the woman who "wins." If she dumps him, she's conveying that money is all that matters, and all of her glowing compliments about what a wonderful guy Evan is are pretty much rendered bullshit. If she accepts him, she is willing to be involved in a relationship that was completely based on a lie, so honesty isn't a big issue for her.

Decisions, decisions. It's all a big psych experiment gone wrong. And we're all lab rats here. Evan, Sarah, Zora, the audience.

Oh, and then there's the matter of the twist ending, which was confirmed by Paul the butler last week. What is the twist? Did FOX really cough up a million or two so Evan really would be Joe Millionaire? If so, will the money be awarded if the girl accepts him (as bribery to continue in a relationship with this lunkhead?) or only if she dumps him (as a parting "neener neener neener" for not wanting the poor construction worker?), or will they be fair and award the hypothetical money no matter the outcome? (FOX? Fair? I crack myself up.) There's also a rumor circulating that Zora is really wealthy, which is why she refuses to talk about her difficult past. So if Evan picks her, he "wins," but if he picks Sarah, he "loses."

There's also a theory that everyone on the show was an actor, and that the entire show was scripted. I think that theory can be thrown out the window. Evan is a very bad liar, and it's quite obvious that most of the time he's thinking nothing more complicated than "Boobies!" Also, I've seen a clip from one of Sarah's cinematic "masterpieces." I certainly hope that broker's assistant position is working out for her, because i don't foresee Miramax calling her anytime soon.

I personaly believe that, whatever the twist may be, the ultimate joke is going to be on the viewers. After all, FOX has suckered us into this trainwreck. They had me convinced that Melissa M., the mercenary of malaprops, was a decent person at first. (I suppose I couldn't see how evil she was because she was standing too close to Heidi and Mojo.) They tricked the audience into sitting through last week's episode, which was nothing but an hour of filler and clips from past shows. (Well, there was a lot more Paul, and he did seem to be a bit tipsy on his trademark cognac.) They've all but monopolized the talk shows; every person who has known Evan Marriott for longer than thirty seconds has been interviewed for Access Hollywood and Entertainment Tonight. (I swear I saw an interview with his fifth grade teacher last night.) The Smoking Gun has "uncovered" stories about Evan driving through a toll booth without paying, his modeling career for California Muscle, and Sarah's movie career. Other sources have dug up dirt on Paul, and message boards are packed with "friend of a friend" anecdotes about the Joe Hos.

And seriously, folks. What is the deal with our "host," Alex? She's been on the show for less than one minute every episode. How does this constitute "host?" There's a theory floating around that her appearances on the show were just plain awful, and her portions were edited out and replaced with Paul's Mastercheese Theater (tm Television Without Pity) fireside commentaries. I'm not complaining there. Paul is by far the best part of the show.

I shouldn't be enjoying this. This insipid excuse for entertainment is killing my brain cells. I feel dirty after each episode ends. The show is a not-so-shining example of the dumbing down of America. And yet, every Monday night, I'm glued to the television. Yeah, it's a trainwreck, but it couldn't have come at a better time. With rumblings of impending war, the failing economy, snowstorms shutting down half the country, and the unspeakable horror that is Michael Jackson monopolizing the evening news, I need a little mindless entertainment right now.

And at least I'm not alone in my shame. Judging from the various websites that I frequent, the bar car seems to be packed on the express train to hell, and we're all enjoying the ride.

So tonight, Zappagirl's coming over. Cheap champagne and cheese will be served (as well as the traditional BBQ chicken pizza), as well as leftover Valentine's Day cookies and candy. We'll probably make up new rules to the drinking game. Wackiness will ensue. I will probably end up wearing my tiara, to keep the "fairy tale" motif going.

Zappagirl: Fairy tale! You said fairy tale! Drink!

Myo: Aw, crap. Give me a beer. I'm all out of champagne.

Damn you, FOX.

Security Blanket

Just in time for Valentine's Day! A really sappy post!

I lived on the fourth floor in my old building. As a result of the scientific fact that heat rises, it was always uncomfortably warm in the apartment. I still recall a winter where the snow piled up on the balcony and the temperatures plummeted to record lows, yet I had windows cracked for much of January and February. I would bundle layer upon layer around myself when I went outside, but inside it was downright tropical. I would lounge around the house barefooted in a tank top, watching reports of school closings and brutal wind chills.

As a result of this, I've not had a comforter on my bed for some time. When I bought my futon, I simply made do with a loose weave thermal blanket. I didn't need anything more.

This changed when I moved to my new apartment and the temperatures dropped considerably in late January. It's not that the new apartment is cold per se, but the numerous windows in the place make it a bit drafty at times. Now I find myself constantly wearing the striking ensemble of a fuzzy powder blue bathrobe and rainbow striped Powerpuff Girls slipper socks. Classy, no, but only the cats get to see me like that, and they don't point and laugh at me. Well, not much.

The other night, I finally threw in the towel and graduated to something thicker than the thermal blanket. After shivering under the thin covers for a few minutes, I stumbled into the dining room and opened up the closet to retrieve the Ugliest Comforter in the World from the top shelf.

The Ugliest Comforter in the World does not exactly belong to me. Technically it belongs to Roger Mexico, but after three and a half years I don't think he's all that concerned about getting it back. He was working for the cruise line over that summer, and had asked me to store it for him, along with some camping gear, the god chair, and his cat. I happily obliged; I was still giddy in my feelings towards him, and thrilled that he hadn't moved to Albany after all. Even though he would be even farther away that summer than he would have been in New York, I didn't mind. He would be coming back. He had to - I had his stuff.

The comforter was thick and quilted and light brown with a leopard print on one side, the reverse side being a zebra print bordered by the leopard spots. It screamed "single man." (For some unexplainable reason, it seems to be a rule of thumb that women wear animal prints and men decorate their homes with them. There is seldom any crossover. Don't ask me why.)

Over the summer, the Ugliest Comforter in the World got buried beneath dirty clothes and squabbling cats, forgotten in the hazy warmth of July. Upon his return (and almost immediate departure), Roger Mexico left it behind. He simply took his cat and left. Weeks later, when I returned the other things that had been left behind at my apartment, the comforter slipped my mind. I didn't even realize I had it until that winter. By that point, we had patched things up and settled into a different phase of our friendship. I wasn't sure how to even tell him I still had it without feeling like an idiot.

I finally decided not to say anything. He didn't seem to miss it, and anyway he had a new bed and the Ugliest Comforter in the World was the wrong size. I stuck it into my closet and forgot about it. Until a few weeks ago.

The comforter technically doesn't fit my bed either (it's a twin and the futon is a full), but as a blanket to keep one person warm, it serves its purpose. It still feels strange falling asleep under the thick quilting around my shoulders. It's a feeling that I associate with his bed, not mine. It still feels slightly foreign, but reassuring.

Over the last few nights, the Ugliest Comforter in the World has kept out the chill of February that seeps through the windows. It reminds me of helping him pack for his brief move to Albany, staying up and taping boxes shut until four in the morning, when exhaustion set in and we collapsed for the evening. He had already given his mattress and boxspring away (it didn't fit in the U-Haul), so every blanket and pillow in the house piled one atop the other served as bedding for the night. Somewhere in the pile - the Ugliest Comforter in the World. For several nights I fell asleep next to him, too tired to do anything else, overjoyed that I had met someone so wonderful, but dreading saying goodbye. (I relive that moment every time a visit with him draws to an end. It doesn't get any easier.)

And even though it's been in my closet all this time, the Ugliest Comforter in the World seems to have retained some part of him. Memories of late Sunday nights texting each other during ER and The X Files. Phone calls from Puerto Rico and Miami, while his ship was in port. Late nights curled up on his couch, watching whatever movie I'd grabbed from my video library. Conversations about movies, music, politics, ethics, everything and nothing, fueled by coffee, beer, wine, whatever our substance of choice was that evening. Listening to his internal symphony at its genesis, losing myself in the music that wrapped itself seductivley around my brain. Empty promises of breakfast at Proud Rooster. The reassuring even sound of his breathing as he drifted off to sleep, while the sun began to peek through the blinds. The warmth of his skin against mine, the feeling that - if only for that moment - everything was right with the world. The Ugliest Comforter in the World holds these memories, and envelops me in them at night. It serves as protection from the not-as-happy times, times when everything seemed to be crumbling around me and he was the only thing that kept me from losing myself completely. The shame of having him see me like that, grasping frantically at my sanity, terrified that he would decide to stop wasting his time dealing with me. I huddle beneath the Comforter, reminded and amazed and thankful that he never did make that decision, and that made the impossible bearable.

And on nights when the distance between us seems infinite, when our next meeting is faraway and uncertain, when late-night phone conversations only reinforce how far away 496 miles really is, the Ugliest Comforter in the World brings him closer. It serves as a physical reminder that I still carry part of him within me, deep within my heart and mind, never farther away than a thought. Time and space cease to have meaning. It is now, it is here, and the spirit of my friend is with me, whispering soundlessly in my ear.

Comforter. Such an appropriate name. So much better than duvet or bedspread or eiderdown.

It may be in my possession now. It may be spread across my bed. He may have forgotten it ever existed. But the Ugliest Comforter in the World is still his. I only hope I never have to give it back.