Reality TV and Hookers

I heard a song on the radio that said, It’s a long road to wisdom, but a short one to being ignored. The television programs I produce certainly will not make you wise, but I’ll retire to a golf course the day that they are ever ignored.

***

An elaborately adorned stage is set at the base of the replica Eiffel Tower that straddles the Paris Hotel and Casino. Artificial romance serves as the setting for a manufactured love.

The desert sun begins to set in the distance leaving the sky an electric mix of orange and navy blue. A slight breeze blows a few strands of Carly’s blonde hair in front of her troubled young eyes. She stands on an elevated platform sprinkled with fresh lilac petals. An archway woven with white roses frames her delicate silhouette.

Jacoby Simmons, a 27-year-old Arizona bartender is dressed in a perfectly tailored Yves Saint Laurent suit. He casually twirls between his fingers the stem of a solitary red rose. He seems at ease with his decision and ready to bring this saga to its close. With his broad shoulders and too cool to care smile, Jacoby looks every bit the part of the male lead in a mildly entertaining romantic comedy airing any Saturday night on TBS.

Jacoby, I want you to take one last look at the two beautiful women who stand here before you and make your final decision, says Preston, the host of the program.

The camera shifts its focus to Veronika, who maintains a composed and dignified stance. She must be nervous, but it doesn’t show. The tall, slender brunette wears a black Chanel dress that accentuates her meticulously toned body. The 28-year-old corporate attorney from New York has been measured and tactical, a favorite in this competition from its very start. She offers a coy smile to Jacoby.

The camera shifts its glare back to Carly, whose tanned skin glistens in a soft yellow sundress. The doe-eyed blonde looks like the pretty high school prom queen grown up and made good, something straight out of a Billy Joel song. Carly was raised by a single father in a working class suburb just outside of Detroit. She overcame her modest upbringing to succeed financially in her chosen profession.

Jacoby takes a step forward, looks confidently at Preston, then back at the young ladies. Veronika leans in attentively with her head held high. Carly clutches tight to a silver chain that had belonged to her late mother. She tries to keep it together but trembles as her eyes well up with tears. I instruct the cameraman to zoom almost uncomfortably tight to Carly's face as a small bead of sweat forms above her left cheekbone. I need the audience to share in Carly's anticipation. I need them to intimately know her shame.

Jacoby may be clueless to the perils that surround him, but the audience is not. Those viewing from at home in their living rooms are in possession of a crucial bit of information that Jacoby lacks. Carly is a prostitute, as were half of the other contestants that he has already dismissed from this reality dating competition.

My biggest fear was that Jacoby would catch on to the ruse, that he'd somehow figure out that things weren't on the level. The calm in his eyes, the total lack of concern that he displays proves to me that he has made no such realizations. He probably assumes that he'll make his pick, they'll go back to the hotel for some bouncy celebratory sex and that his story will have a happy ending. The charming bartender is blissfully ignorant to the pending emotional shit storm of which he will soon find himself in the middle. He is a docile lamb, unaware that he is being led to slaughter.

Jacoby takes a deep breath as he measures the words that will reveal to America his final decision. He steps to the podium, smiles warmly at the camera and I cut to a commercial.

2

My job is to hold up America’s mirror. In my world, father doesn’t know best. In my world, father is mortified that his half naked daughter is puking up Tequila shots on national television.

In my world, a perfect stranger is not your quirky foreign cousin. In my world, a perfect stranger is someone a delusional ex-cheerleader falls in love with after an hour date that was shared in 15-minute intervals with three other women.

My best work can provide a thoughtful commentary on American society. My worst, shamelessly exploits fame hungry idiots for the mind-numbing entertainment of less attractive fame hungry idiots watching from their homes.

I produce reality television. It isn’t noble work, but it pays well because I’m good at it. I sell hope. Watching a reality show is like buying a lotto ticket. When you hand your dollar to the Middle Eastern guy at the coffee stand you don’t actually expect to win, but there is a possibility that you might, a faint flicker of hope. It is that faint flicker of hope that keeps women like Debbie, the pudgy Walgreen's cashier from Topeka, Kansas tuning in every Wednesday night.

Most of us realize that we could never be real stars. Jerry Seinfeld had a beloved show and had to buy a warehouse to store all of his luxury cars because he is a seriously funny and talented guy. He perfected his craft for a decade in smoky New York comedy clubs before NBC made him a star.

Even the pretty little floozies on shows like Gossip Girl were acting in school plays since they were six and probably spent a shit load of their parents' money on drama classes at NYU. But Joey, the fat fuck sweating all over the treadmill on the Biggest Loser, has no such talent or education. He was stacking boxes at Price Club three weeks ago. And Nikki, the frisky brunette with the hair extensions on the Real World, she was wearing a low cut top, pouring Jager Bombs for a bunch of meat heads at a dive bar on Staten Island, and she’ll be right back there 10 months from now.

I have a unique talent for distracting Americans for an hour at a time from their shitty, repetitive lives. A tedious day of work is forgotten as Debbie the cashier tightly grabs the arm of Paul, her balding electrician of a husband. He barely looks up from his Sports Illustrated magazine, as the hunky, squared-jawed bartender pauses dramatically before making his selection.

Debbie is a Weight Watchers reject who makes 9 dollars an hour and is married to a man who no longer finds her attractive. But, for a moment she is the thin, stylishly dressed young lady who gets the evening’s final rose. In that moment she is on TV kissing the star quarterback who never asked her to the prom.

I just hold up the mirror. You choose to look.

3

I don’t remember much about the first time I had sex other than that she was blonde, I was at a high school keg party, and it didn’t last very long. I can however, recall almost every vivid detail of my first trip to Las Vegas. I guess some relationships are just more significant than others.

I remember peeking out the plane’s window and getting goose bumps the first time I saw the magnificent casinos of the Strip rise into the night sky from above. I remember walking past the regal gold lion in the lobby and onto the casino floor at the MGM Grand. It was sensory overload. The ringing of the slot machines, the flashing lights, the frenetic pace of gamblers, it was almost too much to process.

The only other experience that I consider comparable is the first time my father took me to Yankee Stadium as child. The serenity of the Stadium’s perfect green grass and chaotic energy on the casino floor both inspired the same emotional reaction in me, simple awe.

I fell in love with Vegas at first sight. There would be times when we wouldn’t get along. At certain points I would even hate her. But from that day forward, for better or worse, the crazy bitch that is Las Vegas would always be a part of my life.

That first trip took place my senior year of college. My baseball team was playing in the UNLV Invitational. I tore some cartilage in my knee a few weeks earlier, but since I was a senior captain, Coach brought me along anyway. This meant that while the other guys were chasing down fly balls on some sun drenched field, I was betting my per diem money in the MGM's poker room while sucking down free Rum and Cokes.

As I cashed in my chips, a futuristic, space-themed ice cream shop just off the casino floor caught my eye. The healthy looking girls working the stand wore skintight, shiny silver cocktail dresses with matching high-heeled silver boots. They scooped the ice cream from fancy sliding draws that rolled out from the wall. I decided to indulge in a coffee ice cream cone with the couple of bucks profit from my morning poker session. The silver clad young lady who rang up my order was an impossibly cute brunette who seemed to be about my age and I was barely old enough to legally order a drink. I did my best to flirt with her, but experienced the usual failings of my daytime game.

I’ve always been a shark at a midnight bar, never afraid to start a conversation with a group of girls. When I’ve got 6 or 7 drinks in me and I feel the time is right, I rarely fail to make the aggressive move. There is however something quite different about trying to pick a young lady up sober, in the daylight, and in a social situation that isn’t necessarily open to male advances.

I was slightly smitten with my perky ice cream scooper and I vowed to myself that I would go back the next day and if she was again working, ask her out for a drink. I stayed true to my vow and surprisingly she agreed to meet my friend and I out at a little bar in Caesars Palace that overlooked the sports book. I couldn’t have been more excited as I recruited our first baseman, Billy Onions, to come along and act as my wingman.

Our first night on campus as freshman, before we even really knew each other’s names a group of guys on the team went down to the cafeteria. While there, Billy proceeded to eat an appalling amount of onion rings and from that day forth, was known as Billy Onions. It is one of those college nicknames that comes from a completely random and stupid place, but sticks with a person for life.

The girls spotted us waiting for them at the bar and approached with smiles. Megan, the cute little ice cream stand worker, looked fantastic even without the slutty silver space suit. Her friend was probably about fifteen to twenty years older, but in shape and still pretty hot, in a cougarish sort of way. It should have struck me as odd that two females of such disparate ages were hanging out together, but I was too intoxicated with visions of finger banging Megan in the hotel bathroom, and I knew Billy Onions wouldn’t have any trouble doing a little MILF hunting.

We had already bought a round of drinks and made some small talk when Megan’s older friend handed me a cheaply made business card. She was one of these super fit ladies with a really buff upper body so I naively asked, What are you a personal trainer?

She stared a hole through me like I was the biggest sucker on the south end of the Strip. I looked down at the card and under her name it read: specializing in EROTIC DEEP TISSUE FULL BODY