Love and Reality TV

Last night, I watched the two hour premiere of The Bachelorette on ABC. Normally, I would not subject myself (or anyone else, for that matter) to this programming, but a friend and former teammate in college was making his television debut, and based on what we all know about him, watching was a necessity (he's usually a beacon of entertainment, even when cameras aren't present). While the personal highlights were scattered, they were amazing, and I am thankful he received a rose after the first night, ensuring at least one more episode of spontaneous uproarious laughter every time he appears on screen. But, I am also thankful that he was not successful in this journey, as could be clearly identified by his lack of exposure in the series preview, since, simply reinforcing my preconceived notions, the vast majority of reality television is at least partially scripted, planned, choreographed, story boarded, and set up, resulting in a group of non-professional actors and actresses attempting to feign reality, conning millions of viewers and joining together to lower the IQ of the world.

In the first two hours, you had:

- A man in a mask claim he wanted love to grow from the inside out. A bold act, and one that isn't unthinkable, but immediately caused the alcohol inspired and culturally shallow contestants, err, suitors to start a conflict, antagonize, name call, and dramatize the phantom of the opera type stalking the masked man performed. There was no way that his actions weren't at least a little bit influenced by the faces off camera. Because, when I wear a mask to stand out and make an impression, I make sure to lurk in the shadows while dark movie music plays.

- A man, while one-on-one with the prize of the show, pulls his cell phone out and calls his mom. So, while none of the other contestants carry a cell phone (an assumption, based on they're required to deactivate facebook for a while, not to mention you never see a phone during the rest of the show), this man gets to follow through with his plan by calling home so his mom can tell Ashley that once they start sharing a bedroom, to always use protection. Because the first thing most moms would tell a strange women whom their son is trying to court is to wear a condom when they have sex.

- A man walks into the main room with a guitar, trumping my boy's main chance at getting the bachelorette alone, only to walk her out onto the patio and hurl his guitar into the pool. He claimed he didn't know how to play guitar, and showing up with one was just a way to get her alone. Because, when I'm packing for an undisclosed amount of time in tight quarters, you can bet the first thing on my mind is 'better save room for that guitar I can't play.'

- The highlight of the night: A man, consumed with the jitters, unable to utter one word of intelligence, including the main contributor to team 'Anti-masks,' becomes so alarmingly drunk that he loses the ability to form words, and falls asleep on the bench, snoring away, unable to be awoken for several minutes until he's carried away by some fellow competitors and ushered into his limo ride home. This 35 year-old worked as a liquor distributor, but apparently, despite being surrounded by it as a career, never distributes any into his own system, and somehow managed to get so drunk he forgets how to speak. Because, when I stumble into my 15 minutes of fame, with the goal a beautiful if not terribly smart wife, my first instinct is to drink my face off, reducing me to the intellect of a 3 year old, and hope that goes over well.

And among all of this, the bachelorette has the audacity to stand in a room of 25 men she's never met and foreshadow aloud, 'I think my husband is standing in this room.' So amidst the production lights, invasive cameras, scripted dates, over-exaggerated traditions (like pausing 15 seconds before handing out each of the first 18 roses), and the over-whelming sensation that these candidates are literally competing, from scheming, backstabbing, bad-mouthing, and any other form of getting ahead, to end up as the final man with a rose, just to force a marriage with someone who already failed once (she was on The Bachelor a few years ago), Ashely is confident that this is the best medium for finding true love.

I don't know a lot about love. I haven't had many successful relationships. Of my closest friends, I'm the one still single. I'm saying my track record leads me as far away as a love expert as you could imagine (besides being a romantic at heart with a passion for sappy quotes and Shakespearean plots). So forgive me for saying, but somewhere between the failed reality of reality a television show and the over-bearing production of a relationship, chalk full of the same woman going on dozens of dates around the world with several guys at the same time, I just find it hard to believe that this is where love is born, grows, and survives. Reality TV screams scripted, fake, deceiving, staged, and controlled; couldn't be a better way to describe love, right?