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The
Keisha Poiro Show
A wise man once said, "Life is pain. . . anyone
who says differently is selling something". Okay, so it was only
Wesley from "The Princess Bride", but it still rings true.
In these heady days of war and change, I should be so lucky that my biggest
problems are a few extra pounds and an iPod that refuses to play any of
my Everclear music. Small potatoes for some, but for me, this calls for
the monthly dose of Reality Avoidance Therapy. And it was during last
month's treatment that I discovered "The Surreal Life". If you
haven't seen the show, the premise is six celebrity has-beens and other
B-listers living with each other for a week. It's nothing if not unpredictable.
Come on! Motley Crue's Vince Neil bawling like a jilted prom date from
the front pew of gospel church? Brigitte Nielsen and rapper Flavor Flav
(wearing a Viking helmet, no less) making sweet bang-bang in a hot tub?
Believe me, I wanted nothing more than the willpower to look away, but
couldn't. And where is there to look? Every channel seems to have its
own domestic reality show geared toward the young set, but whose life
looks like that? So this afternoon, this column is about what would happen
if T.V. shows stopped being trite and start getting real.
For the first couple of years, the shows were fairly relatable. The girls
had mad cellulite and bushy eyebrows; the men proudly displayed hairy
beer belly paunches. Each character came complete with their very own
thinly veiled prejudices, just like the rest of us. Nowadays, every housemate
is, or desperately wants to be, a star and sink to uncharted depths to
achieve quasi-celebrity status. By the end of the first episode, at least
one housemate has shared some ridiculous childhood trauma (It's in the
by-laws that potential housemates be obsessive-compulsive or have a debilitating
fear of the number 9).
Already by the second episode, housemates are chummy enough to share their
beds with members of the opposite sex (platonically, of course. Wink,
wink). The token gay person is either a buzz cut she-militant or an extremely
well groomed man with perfectly shaped eyebrows and a penchant for the
word "fabulous". The token black is plucked straight from the
bowels of the ghetto, his speech peppered with expletives and double negatives.
Then again, he could be an Ivy League student, but who's to say?
Reality T.V. editors are masters of editorial discrimination imbued with
the ability to create the Saint, the Sloth and the Slut from mountains
of footage. Not to mention all of this footage is shot in a house in which
Kahala Mall would fit quite nicely.
Speaking of the house, where the neighbors? I submit that they a) don't
exist or b) are Trappist monks living in seclusion who don't mind drunken
sex orgies in the hot tub. If only life were a blur of hot tubs and causal
intimacy.
Nobody I know lives in a 4,000 square foot, vaulted ceiling IKEA bubble
with hunky, open-minded roommates. My best friend's apartment is an 880
square foot diorama with neighbors almost as creepy as mine.
Speaking of neighbors, several houses ago, I lived next door to a nudist
nut job with a penchant for watering his hanging ferns in the buff. He
had a hairy back, hairy legs, and yet a mysteriously hairless butt. His
behind was like a thick roll of uncut bologna. Life at its most surreal
was a peek through my fence at midday.
In addition to naked old men, reality is punctuated by arguments with
pushy parents and battling a chintzy husband who insists on buying 1-ply.
Reality is also rubbing bootleg, FDA-condemned gel into my belly in vain
hopes that said belly will shrink overnight, but maybe that's just me.
Is reality television destined to serve as the final nail in the coffin
of human decency? You bet, so why not bring it back down to Earth for
a change? Why not follow the life of a twenty-something professional daydreamer
navigating life as she dodges angry calls from VISA, thinks up excuses
for her lack of productivity and generally procrastinates her way through
life? Will she succeed?
Tune in to the True, Real and Wildly Tedious Adventures of Keisha and
find out! I've got heaps of debt, naked neighbors and ornery fatty tissue
on my belly. It may not be the most interesting way to spend Tuesday nights,
but it beats watching Flavor Flav get his rocks off. Well, almost.
by
Keisha Poiro
1st January 2005
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