The Golden Age of Reality Television: A Conversation with Our Future Grandchildren

Someday, when we're sitting around the retirement home, trying to figure out if we've pissed ourselves, and where we are, and who the fuck is stealing our candy bars, our little grandchildren will settle in on our knees and they'll say, "is it true, Grandpa?"

And we'll say, "What? Who are you! I'm scared. Is what true?"

"Is it true that, way back before we watched television through the cell phone implanted in our heads, there was this thing called "Reality TV?"

And we'll rumple his little blond head and say "Yes, it's true, little Timmy. Your grandpa here actually lived through the golden age of reality TV."

"What was it like, Grandpa?" Timmy will say.

"Oh," we'll say. "Let me put it like this. You know some people who are, well, douchebags, right?"

Timmy will nod his little towhead.

"And these douchebags, they'll do just about anything for attention, engage in all manner of douchebaggery -- crying, shouting, getting in trouble, saying things they well know are not true, making the smallest little thing into a huge deal, right?"

Again, Timmy will nod, for although we are far into the future, people are people, and despite all our technological advances, douchebaggery remains unchanged. "I do, grandpa, but I don't like those people. I don't think I'd like it if the TV in my cellphone in my brain played shows with those people."

"Well you see, Timmy, that was the amazing thing about the Golden Age of Reality TV. We didn't know it when it started, but soon enough it was obvious: douchebags make for great TV."

"But..."

"I know," we'll say. "It seems downright illogical. Crazy, even. If somebody is a douchebag, a whiny, crazy, attention-whore, then why in the biscuits would I want to follow them around everywhere, watch them whore themselves all over god's green earth?"

"Why, grandpa, why?"

"I don't know, Timmy, I don't know." And we'll shake our heads ruefully, smiling about the good old days, visions of Flavor Flav, Jonathan Antin, and those jerkoffs from Paradise Hotel lurching drunkenly, spitting on each other, and crying publicly in our heads. "There was this one douchebag," we'll say, "a hairdresser. He was on this show called Blow Out. Now this guy was not somebody you'd want to hang out with in everyday life. He made every situation into a full blown spectacle. It was all about him. He cried at the drop of a hat, he said douchebag things like I...am...hair... or It's my name on the bottle, not your name! or I'm trying to stay in the moment. Don't forget about hair. Don't forget about hair.

Now, a hairdresser, talking about hair all the time, crying over bottles of expensive product with his name on it, charging 500 dollars (back in the day, this was a lot of money) for a haircut, and fighting with everybody in his path, you'd think that might be a terrible thing to watch, something they might use to punish people with, right?"

And Timmy will make a face. "Yuck."

"That's exactly what you'd think. But you'd be wrong. For some reason, it was fascinating. The more this douchebag teared up and yelled at people, the more he crawled up his own self-absorbed ass, the more fascinating he was to watch. Swear to god."

"I don't..."

"And there was this other guy, name of Flavor Flav. He was a rapper, at one point, believe it or not, he was a kind of scary rapper, or at least, he was in a scary group of rappers who were really angry about all kinds of things they had every right to be angry about. But this man, this Flavor Flav, he got his own reality show, where he had to choose from a bunch of kinda ugly and simple douchebaguettes (copyright douchebaguette owned by DaveMerica, Inc.) who all wanted, supposedly, to be his girlfriend."

"Why supposebly," Timmy will say.

"Supposedly. And the reason I say that, is what these simple ugly girls really wanted was just to be on television."

"On television, but why. Anybody can be on television."

"That was what made it so interesting, Timmy. There was this one girl named New York."

"But that's not a name."

"That was one of the things that was so interesting. You see Flavor Flav, because he couldn't remember all their real names, he just gave them names of his own. That way, he could remember them, since they all kind of looked the same in an ugly, simple, slutty kind of way. Anyway, these was this one called New York...wooo-weee...was she a piece of work: ugly, crazy, chubby. But with all kinds of misdirected self-confidence, enough so she had herself convinced she was going to win. Why, she had herself so convinced she was a brilliant gorgeous catch, she almost convinced Flavor Flav."

"She did? But how?"

"I don't know, Timmy. I don't know."

"So did Mr. Flav marry this New York?"

"No, Timmy, in the end he just chose the hottest girl who seemed the least crazy. You see, that was the thing about reality TV, when it came down to it, it wasn't really real."

"So why did they call it reality TV?"

"Well, because it was mostly real. It was unscripted."

"What's the difference?"

"Well, that's what everybody started wondering around about...oh, I'd say maybe 2006, 2007, we'd say, hell, if reality TV has writers and editors and some of these shows are just plain fake, then what makes them different from the other shows? And then a show came out called "So NoTORIous." It starred this plastic daughter of a very rich and powerful man, and it kind of followed her around, and it was supposed to kind of make fun of the fact that she was half famous and half plastic and that she wasn't so smart, and even though her daddy was really famous and powerful, that she never really turned out to be much."

"That sounds terrible."

"It was, Timmy. Good god, it was terrible."

And you'll both sit there uncomfortably

"Have I pissed myself Timmy? Do you feel any moisture," we'll say. Little Timmy will shake his head. "Well, that's when it hit us: either TV had to be real or fake, or at least it had to feel like one or the other. That So NoTORIous show, besides the ridiculous spelling of the name, you see, it just felt like a regular show that they were making up as they went along. And it was not funny. Sweet Jesus was it not funny.

It was kind of sad, but not sad in the way, say, New York was sad. Not serious and crazy sad, standing in line at the 7-11 and getting into arguments about "yeah, you know you want it" and "I keep it real" sad, turning your half a five minutes of fame into a half a porn career sad. It was just sad that they had done such a shitty job, and that the show was so stupid, and you almost felt sorry for all the people, even the half plastic and all stupid girl, until you realized they all probably made a whole bunch of money making that terrible, terrible, lousy, shitty show."

"So they weren't douchebags enough?"

"Oh, they were plenty douchebags enough. That Tori girl's nose in itself was douchebag enough to carry five seasons of reality television. If they followed her around for real, it might have been great. But because they followed her around for fake, we never got to see how she was a douchebag in real life, and so it was just kind of sad and boring and a huge waste of money. Do you see what I mean, Timmy?"

"I think you did piss yourself now, Grandpa," Timmy will say, getting up gingerly and wiping his pants.

"Damn that Tori Spelling," we'll say. "Hey, look in my drawer, tell me how many candy bars are in there."