I'm not watching "GlobeTrotter" (or whatever it's called), diligently taking notes on faraway lands and foreign customs. I'm not watching "30 Minute Meals", learning how to whip up healthy meals for my loved ones (this one is mainly because Rachel Ray scares me in a way I can't really explain). I'm not watching The News, or the weather. I'm not watching sports, or learning how to decoupage my coffee table. I'm closing my blinds, locking my door, and watching "Rock of Love". There, I said it.
Bad assssssss.
For some reason, the weekly spectacle of aging barflies throwing themselves at a botoxed glam rocker never fails to draw me in. I think what gets me has more to do with Bret Michael's attempts at sincerity than any of the leathery skanks' maneuvers to become the Alpha Skank who will, for all eternity, "Rock his world" (his words). Alone with the camera (and, ostensibly, a small army of make-up artists and hair people), he heaves great sighs, twists his face (as much as the atrophied muscles will allow) into pained expressions, and in general, takes the whole situation very, very seriously. And it is freakin' hilarious. So as he suffers on, my amusement continues and I've got to applaud either his acting talent, or his desperation to revive his career. Either way, a word to the wise, Bret: I realize that every rose has its thorn, but these broads appear to have several. Thorns, that is (as well as VDs).
My other guilty pleasure at the moment is the trainwreck that is "The Pick-Up Artist". Somehow, this guy:
...convinced someone that he actually knew something about chicks. More specifically, that he was a master at picking them up. Hahaha!! I'm sorry! I just can't stop laughing. Maybe it's the ridiculous hats, or the "I raided Perry Ferrell's closet" wardrobe, but I'm just not convinced that this guy is a master pick-up artist. A master warlock in the "Magic" game in his mom's basement, yes. But a wizard in the ways of women? Hahaha!
For the show, he amassed a small group of self-professed dorks to school in the art of romance. From all over the country they came, abandoning D & D games, TiVo'ing Star Trek reruns, and pausing their games of "Doom" to learn how to score with chicks. Or at least talk to them. They eagerly gather around The Pasty One, hungry for his sage advice. And what does he do? He gives them a few quick pointers (mostly corny one-liners) and turns them loose in a bar filled with co-eds. Let the awkwardness begin!
I'll close on that note, as I believe there is a very interesting show about sharks or something on the Discovery channel right now. Which will do just fine to while away the hours and minutes until "Rock of Love" or "The Pick-up Artist" are on again. Yours in soul-sucking entertainment,
Meg
p.s. At least I'm not watching "The Hills" - I must have some modicum of taste left, somewhere...
