In the second week of avoiding what Bryant Gumbel called the sporting event that reminds him of the GOP -- aka, the Winter Olympics -- I've been engaging in some creative TV watching. I tell myself that I'm just passing the time until Law and Order returns, and then I can shift my Brothah Lust back to Jesse L. Martin. I delude myself, because I cannot believe I've let another brothah into my life to take hold so tenaciously. And that brothah would be -- drum roll please! -- FLAVOR FLAV!
I've gotten sucked into that ridiculous guilty pleasure that is Flavor of Love on VH-1. Every Sunday, I stare at the television in awe at the lengths some women would go to to get on television. In case you have the words "Cave, Sweet Cave" emblazoned on the wall in your home, here's the premise: Flavor Flav has this mansion somewhere in Cali (typical!). Twenty women move in and vie for Flav's affections. He gives them monikers like "Hottie," and "Pumkin" [sic], "Hoopz," "Goldie," "Red Oyster," etc. I guess using these names is supposed to lessen the humiliation; conversely, would Flav be as outrageous if we refered to him as "William Drayton?" Women are voted off in succession, based on little "tesses" Flav gives them, until the finale. Like Highlander, there can be only one.
These women are insane! One especially, Miss New York, needs a therapist on speed-dial. And after the show last Sunday, I was like, "Oh no, she didn't!" Pumkin, as she was being eliminated, got in a rip-roaring fight with Miss New York, and then proceeded to spit in Ol' Gurl's face. Poor Hoopz looked on, like she was viewing a car crash from the back seat of her own car. Can you imagine? All this mess over Flavor Flav!!!!! I was hoping that one of those clocks he was wearing would ring an alarm to tell him that yes, in fact, his fifteen minutes of fame were really up.
All in all, I'm thinking, what people won't do to get on TV. But while I'm feeling superior, in the background of my mind, if there was a reality show where writers would have to create the best book or get voted off, don't you know I'll be there, front and center. I'd like to think I'd draw the line at showing my boobs, spitting in some other writer's face, or fighting over some gold-grill-havin' has-been rapper, but who's to know what you'll do in any given situation? Go ahead. Judge me. Let her or she who is without sin -- and burning desire to be on the NY Times Best Seller List -- cast the first chapter...