Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

15 Minutes of Shame

Andy Warhol was right.  The year was 1968.  These were the words: "In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes."

Long before social media.  Decades before 24 hour cable news would take over the airwaves.  Light years away from the proliferation of reality television, Warhol looked across the landscape of humanity and called it.

Like roaches to a sugary crumb, we humans scurry fast and furious towards the klieg lights when they switch on.  Whether it is an eye witness interview, a major lottery win, or weather related devastation, we are attracted to the idea that many will see us, that we have something to say.

Once reality TV planted a flag in our consciousness, an entire generation was swept up and away by the idea they, too, could become famous for, well, nothing really.  While early purveyors like Survivor made one suffer for their 1/4 hour of fame, shows like The Real World made it possible to just show up and be filmed.  Naked and Afraid offered bragging rights for enduring exposure. And to their credit they taught us that a naked body becomes quickly unappealing when it is covered bug bites, sunburn, and twenty layers of ass sweat.  Real Housewives flocked to the cameras in cities all across the nation, showcasing their nip/tucked bodies in bandage dresses and flipping tables in an attempt to get more screen time.  And we watched, loving to hate them, hating to love them, and meme-ing them as they deserve.

Performance shows brought us vocal talent, dancers, magicians.  We tuned in, cheered, cried, voted, just thrilled to be a part of making someone else's dreams come true.

And then the dating shows came along.   We were there with our remotes, cheering on our favorites as they tried to marry a millionaire (who wasn't), win a rose (for best performance in a hot tub), or date while naked (but not afraid or ass sweaty).  The Bachelor captured the hearts and Prince Charming fantasies of millions of fans willing to ignore how truly disgusting was the premise and copious bodily fluids being traded for a flower.  The Bachelorette proved turn about was fair airplay as a woman took the bouquet and dated a bevy of bachelors.

For all its popularity and endurance, I have always been turned off by those particular shows.  I raised two women and the last thing I would want them to think is that catfighting and crying over a man they barely know is any kind of "fame" to be seeking, much less that lasting love was going to be the reward of outplaying and outlasting the other girls.  (And let's be honest - the track record on lasting reality TV connections is as low as today's stock market.)

But in hindsight, those hot tub dates, waterfall makeouts, and rose ceremonies were quaint in comparison to where we find ourselves in 2020.

Welcome to Love Is Blind, Netflix's latest offering to the reality TV dating zeitgeist. 

I had seen it in my periphery when Chrissy Teigen tweeted something about it a few nights back.  By the next morning, one of my daughters rang me up with an Oh-my-God-you-have-to-watch-this-shitshow phone call.  Being the amateur social anthropologist I am, I queued it up and settled in to watch the first episode.  Not even through that ONE, I was pausing and calling her to shriek my incredulity and immediate feedback.  Soon my son was texting us:  This is trash.

But we were watching.  The car crash quality of not being able to look away was firmly in control.

For those who have not yet gotten wind of this stinker, Love Is Blind's premise is this:  can love be found by removing the face to face, hot for your bod reactions of first impressions, and rely on conversations alone to connect? 

Enter 15 females and 15 males from the Atlanta area, all professing disgust with the dating scene, swiping left and right, and ready to find a deeper, lasting connection with a faceless stranger.  All straight with the exception of one young man who has dated both men and women in the past.

Sequestered in an Atlanta production warehouse, they live on opposite sides of a set up called the pods, soundproof rooms with a couch, blankets, pillows, and alcohol.  Starting on day 1, they each speed date by entering a pod on their side, and speaking to someone of the opposite sex inside a pod on their side.  They each have a notebook to keep track of who they talk to, who they connect with, and who they would like to chat with again. 

OK, I can roll with that.  Removing the physical means they actually do open up more, share more, and TALK more than any loud barstool set up would ever allow.

But here's the first thing that stands out.  While the show repeatedly touts the Love Is Blind theme and how the physical doesn't matter, it is obvious the physical matters a whole awful lot.  Not a single single is less than a 7.  They are all hot bodies with Zoom whitened teeth.  The men are buff and coiffed.  The women come with suitcases full of bodycon dresses and four inch heels for pod dates IN WHICH THE GUYS CANNOT SEE THEM.

But onward.  The goal of all this pod time is that through ten days of winnowing down who they truly feel a connection with, they will become engaged, sight unseen, and in 30 more days MARRY EACH OTHER.

Oh, holy night...

The contestants have vague occupations like "Content Manager" (Lauren),  "General Manager" (Damian), "NBA dancer" (Diamond), "Business Owner" (Giannini,) "Fitness Trainer" (Mark), "Engineer" (Barnett, now to be known as F*ckboi), "Former military tank mechanic" (Amber, who will now be referred to as Batshit).  There is even a scientist (Cameron) thrown in for good measure - who, quite frankly, should really know better.    

As a grown up watching this - yes, a grown up, because these are children.  If I could have birthed them they are CHILDREN - I found myself open mouthed repeatedly through the episodes, shouting at the TV.  And when the first proposal happened on DAY FOUR?  I'm surprised you didn't hear the vein pop in my head.

Once that proposal happened, the guys started dropping like flies ... to their knees, facing the wall between them, and pledging their undying, REAL TRUE LOVE to the women on the other side.  Tears! Hyperventilating! 

In all, 8 proposals took place - do that math.  15 possible combinations, and SIXTEEN of these people bought in, proposing, saying yes, and only finally seeing their betrothed afterwards.  Those reveals are special.  Watch as they stand at opposite ends of a hallway, their futuristic doors slide apart and they are left to combine a voice with a face and body for the first time.  Some run to embrace, caught up in the heat of Thank-God-you're-not-a-troll.  Some walk slowly, taking in the other, finally doing an ass out hug, not getting too close.  Some cry, some laugh, and the guys all take a knee again and put a giant rock on their girl's hand.

Next step?  Day 11 finds 6 of the couples whisked away to a Mexican resort in Cancun where they remain in their bubble of young heat, no phones, and paid for vacay.  They picnic, they go up in helicopters, they drink, they get horizontal, and then... they realize all the other couples are there too.  Awkward.  They have all "dated" one another, and you can see  some buyer's remorse as they see who they could have ended up with because, let's be honest, no matter how great the conversation, we are human and physical attraction matters.

Throughout the five days of fun and fiesta, they do what you do in the beginning.  They are all sweetness and light.  They all are putting their best flip flop forward.  They are all lusting in new-to-each-other heat.  All the while the clock is ticking down to their rapidly approaching nuptials.

Vacay ends, and surprise!  They are all sent back to Atlanta to live together in the same apartment complex.  Stress fractures are immediate.  But then, with no true foundation, what does one expect?  They fight, their feet get cold, they make up.  Some couples continue to settle all awkwardness by turning out the lights and doing it some more.  Some haven't been physical at all.

Next hurdle?  They must see where they each live.  Watching the 34 year old see where her 24 year old fiance lives is exactly what you would expect.  Scientist man has a HOWSE.  She is clearly impressed and talks about a spare room being for the baby.  OY.  Jesus, take the wheel.

Once that is over, they must all meet the parents.  Parents who have zero idea what has been going on until their cherub shows up with a fiance and spills the tea on how they met.  There is more side eye than all seasons of Drag Race combined.  The looks on F*ckboi's parents' faces when they meet Batshit?  Worth the price of your Netflix subscription.

As the wedding date approaches the guys have a bachelor party, the girls frolic with their besties.  Stereotypes are thrown to the wind, however, as the men convene at an art gallery for a quiet night of passed canapes and blackjack, and the girls employ a stripper, visit a drag dinner show, and drain the alcohol supply of all Atlanta.  Again, that Netflix autodraft is worth it when Batshit and I'm-34-he's-24 slobber all over each other at the bar.  

Suits are purchased, wedding dresses tried on, and soon the day arrives.  Yes, they all march down the aisle.  But will they say I do?  I won't spoil it for you.  Just watch.

The final episode dropped at midnight and I literally woke up telling Rudy, "It's garbage day!"  I am all in, and seeing it through.

I will say this.  From a voyeuristic standpoint, great viewing.  And if you find yourself questioning your own life choices, tune in, you'll feel better FAST. 

Just don't expect miracles. 

Expect exactly what this is.  A reality TV "experiment" where a bunch of 20/30 somethings are willing to whore themselves out not for true love, but for a shot at a seat on Jimmy Fallon, a bigger Instagram following, a SNL skit in their honor, and of course, 15 minutes of shame. 

Love may be blind, but when it comes to fame lust, these contestants have their eyes on a much bigger prize.

Hips Don't Lie, But Hypocrites Do

I would like to begin this post with a PSA:

As strands are breaking everywhere, please watch your step today as there is a dangerously high chance you may twist an ankle on the pearls covering the ground.

Last night's Superbowl half time show has caused a serious shortage of fainting couches as conservatives everywhere put hand to brow and bleat their oft used cry, "What will we tell the children?!?" 

International icons Jennifer Lopez and Shakira dared to take the stage and dance, gyrate, frolic, and laugh with flowing locks and figure hugging costumes.  It was a celebration; it was a display of two proud, strong, talented, ethnically diverse women who used their massive platform to entertain, but to also call out the worst human rights abuses taking place at the hands of this administration.

Yet all of that was missed by the Karens and Chads who hit their heads on the floor, scattering pearls from their tightly clutched broken strands while demanding to speak to the manager because their precious offspring were watching.

NOTE TO ALL CONSERVATIVE HYPOCRITES:  Give it a fucking rest.  You worship and defend a mealy mouthed, philandering, porn star raw dogging, middle school bully, criminal grifter with a mouth that drops profanity at every turn.  You also hold Melania Trump up as the "classiest" first lady ever evereverever when a host of naked photos come up with a single Google query.    

How do you explain THAT to your little angels? 

Conservative Christians have had a long and laughable struggle with their supposed beliefs smacking into the brick wall of their own behaviors.  Red states have long been the highest percentage of one handed surfers when it comes to online porn.  Red states are also filled with hypocrites that revile black or brown people needing public assistance, yet their white neighbors suck the welfare teat dry without blinking.  They rend their garments over protecting the children, yet almost weekly one of their own (typically a politician or minister) is hauled in for solicitation of a minor or possession of child porn.  And abortion?  DGMS.  They rend their garments and scream how their beliefs should be the law, yet their pews are filled with men who have paid for abortions and women who have had them.

The rest of us have had our fill of your "Do as I say not as I do" dumpster fire of morality.

As a mother who raised three amazing young people, I would rather have had them see amazing entertainment with a message, no matter how it was costumed, than this:

I would rather talk to them about Janet Jackson's nipple ring (and did) a thousand times a day before having to explain this to them:

And I would have rather danced along with them for hours to Shakira and JLo before having to discuss why this behavior came from a Presidential candidate:

This is where your true outrage as a parent should be found and directed.  At a cretin who foments hate, mocks Gold Star parents, derides POWs, admitted he paid a porn star to stay quiet, who cheated on every wife he has had, who name calls at every turn, who lies in every single breath, who breaks laws, who intimidates those who dare stand up to him, who golfs more than he governs, who grabs women by the pussy because he believes it is his right, who has been credibly accused of molestation and rape, who hates anyone not rich and white, who steals children from their parents, and who endangers entire groups of people.

THAT is where your outrage should be daily.  Yet you exalt him.

JLo and Shakira do not owe you an apology.  The NFL does not need to capitulate to your faux sanctimony.  And Franklin Graham should probably speak to his poolboy before Tweeting anymore about this.

Here are your options when something comes on your television that you do not want your cherubs to view: 

1.  Change the channel

That's it, that's all.  It is really that simple.  That magic little box in your hand can alter the viewing in a single click. 

What took place last night was exuberant, recognized marginalized and forgotten people, and shot a harpoon right into the heart of your bloated orange whale of a hero.  Yes, you were filled with rage, but not for the right reasons.  Just as you have willfully ignored Kaepernick's intent in kneeling, so too did you look right past the import of all those children singing in cages.  The message that you should have received, the shame you should have felt, was lost to your ilk as you instead focused your sanctimony on the rhinestones of Shakira and Jennifer.

Shakira's hips are not the problem.  JLo's costumes are not what's wrong with society today.  And they are not responsible for how your child grows up, behaves, believes.

That shit is ON YOU.  

And by happily exposing them to Trump you are doing a heckuva job raising equally hypocritical, bigoted spawn that the rest of us have to clean up after.