Saturday, October 8, 2011
I am heartbroken. Disillusioned. Unenamored. Discombobulated.
My ventures in blogging have led me to a terrible discovery. I read it on someone else’s blog, but I knew it couldn’t be true. It had to be a vicious rumor. Probably came straight out of The National Enquirer, and now she was capitalizing on a sensational accusation. How can you trust an anonymous writer on the Internet, anyway? There’s no accountability leading to no credibility which, of course, always leads to instability.
So I decided to google it.
Ohmigosh. It’s true.
My very favorite go-to show, ‘House Hunters’, is lying to us. Those picky home buyers never choose between the three places they walk through. In order to be chosen for an HGTV episode, an applicant must already have a contract on an existing home. Then they re-create the house hunting process with two additional homes that will never really be considered, and Ta-Da! We’re all sucked in to a fake reality show.
I am destroyed. Undone. Inconsolable. I bet those aren’t even real people they’re filming.
Now I’m suspicious of every other live or filmed-live tv show on my set. For example, I no longer trust anything on 'The Tonight Show'. While the band played on (or did they?) in last night’s intro, dozens of people hiding offstage in the darkened Stage Right and Stage Left suddenly rushed together onto the floor—like the Red Sea after the Israelites crossed—converging at once on Jay Leno, who stood expecting them as though he himself were Moses.
You can fool me once. You can fool me twice. But . . . well, I forget how that one goes. Here’s the deal. My keen intellect focused in immediately on what was really going on there. Those aren’t studio guests. They didn’t stand in line for hours hoping to become part of the studio audience. Jay doesn’t keep Purell wipes in his pants pockets so he can eradicate germs from his hands after he greets strangers. I figured it out—those aren’t visitors at all. Those are his neighbors, cousins, nieces and nephews, his tax consultant and his dentist! Paid fans! Each of them with their own dressing room and wardrobe staff and wigs and fake moustache collections.
Oh. Now I get it. They weren’t trying to shake his hand. They were reaching for their paychecks.
“That one was probably his mother!” I proclaimed to my husband who had closed his eyes during my tirade, pretending to be asleep.
I knew he wasn’t really sleeping. Reality doesn’t exist in my house either.