Reality Matters_ 19 Writers Come Clean About the Shows We Can't Stop Watching - Anna David [37]
All this could be mine, I thought, if I just raised my hand and shouted out Julie’s name.
But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t follow Shelly’s lead. How could I live with the thought, as I luxuriated on my piles of money and autograph requests, that my great success had been inspired by the opportunity Shelly had presented me? Shelly couldn’t be that amusing little anecdote I’d tell during my Lifetime Achievement Award speech.
I would rather, I decided, toil away for years in merciless anonymity. So I sat there, quietly stewing—angry at Julie for humoring Shelly, angry at Shelly for usurping Julie, and angry at myself for not being able to drop my hang-ups and just shamelessly blurt out a question.
When the live show began, my chance to at last interact with the Chenbot disappeared. Shelly continued her valiant attempts to monopolize everyone’s attention, going so far as to weep when a contestant was eventually kicked out. And I realized that even though I’d just sacrificed something I’d waited years for, it was worth it. Sure, talking to Julie may have brought me eternal satisfaction, but ultimately, I could never be truly happy if it meant having to Shelly myself out.
Eventually, the taping came to an end. Julie receded to her dressing room, the fallen reality star of the day disappeared in a black car, and the rest of us shuffled out into the bright summer sunlight. The soundstage, which had once seemed so full of promise, was now woefully dark and empty. I never saw Shelly again—thankfully—but I do occasionally wonder what she’s up to. I’m sure she’s in a crowd somewhere, chuckling loudly to herself and throwing paper planes into the ground. As for me, the other night I did the impossible: I talked my way into a club.
10
JOINING THE REAL WORLD
Anna David
YOU’D THINK THAT, more than twenty seasons in, I might get a little bored. You’d imagine that, after all this time, hearing about the seven strangers picked to live in a house and have their lives taped could potentially get old. You’d probably guess that a show with stereotypes so deeply defined that even a person with only the vaguest notion of MTV’s existence could name them—or at least somehow come up with the word “Puck”—would have to be old news to me.
And yet I feel nothing but absolute delight over the fact that The Real World, for at least part of the year, continues to be televised for a blessed sixty minutes each week.
So what are the stereotypes the show gives us? There’s the Gay (ideally flamboyant), the All-American Guy/Homophobe (typically sharing a room with said gay), the Obnoxious Oddball (who gets ripped to shreds more than anyone else in the confessionals), the Crazy Diva (usually attractive, often a drama instigator), the Player (who may or may not realize that those numbers he’s collected are from girls who are more attracted to the notion of being on TV than they are to him), the Prude (with virginity either still intact or recently bestowed upon the Boyfriend She’s Definitely Going to Marry), and the Drunk (which is only to say more drunk than everyone else—he or she is most easily identifiable by the jail or rehab stint). Not every cycle features all the roles—where art thou lately, Play-ah?—and the bodies tend to get better with each passing season, but the formula remains consistent: seven (or eight) people who are selected just as much for how badly they’ll mix with the others as they are for their aesthetic appeal will fight. And make out. And fight some more.
Clothes and tears will be shed—often in the first episode—ever-available parents and partners will be called up and sobbed to, walls will be punched, and threats will be made. After David (Obnoxious Oddball) pulled a blanket off of Tami (Crazy Diva) in season two (Los Angeles), however, some basic rules were laid down. From what I can discern, they seem to be that all is fair in love, war, and living in a palace complete with a pool table, fish bowl, and hot tub—provided the violence doesn’t get physical.
If it does, you’re at the mercy