Let's get right to the focus of today's post: I have become a (very) satisfied viewer of Rock of Love.
Oh, you're not familiar with the show? Really? Well, it follows a reality show formula I'm sure you love as much as I do. It all started with The Bachelor years ago, and it has produced an impressive group of mutant offspring ever since.
Combine the following with alcohol and scripted emotional drama:
1 part washed up male celebrity from the past "looking for love" (aka - looking for a desperate, pride-punishing career rebirth)
1 part former and/or current strippers, bartenders, and Hooters waitresses "looking for love" in a fight to win the heart of the washed up celebrity (aka - looking for a more direct career path into porn)
It's totally fake, it's a little disgusting and it's humiliating for everyone involved. In other words, it's great TV.
The show is on VH1 and the washed up male celebrity is a well-aged Bret Michaels, lead singer of an early 90's hair metal band we should all be grateful is actually still together, Poison. It's a real throw back to my teen years. When other junior high school girls were pining for the New Kids on the Block, I was taping a poster of Poison on my bedroom wall. The daydreams of other 15 year-olds were filled with Dylan and the boys from 90210; visions of mediocre musicians with long blond locks, lip gloss and tight vinyl pants danced around in elaborate displays of pyrotechnics in my head.
And while I did outgrow that teen obsession, the fond memories of a bygone era and an affection for a so-bad-it's-good guitar ballad certainly do remain. Toss in the appeal of really trashy reality television with those hair metal fantasies of my youth - and what you end up with is a show I'm tuning in to on a fairly regular basis; and no, I'm not proud of it.
They say admitting you have a problem is the first step on the path to recovery. I feel better already.