Last night, after a quick pizza dinner with my little bro (thanks Eli), I crashed. Hard. I slept a deep and dreamless sleep until I awoke around 6 a.m. and couldn't find my way back to slumber. I decided to turn on the TV and then give it another try in a couple hours.
What I discovered on that illuminated screen was probably the most depressing welcome home I could have received from American popular culture: It was Bret Michaels, his hair, (lots of) fake breasts and the lewdest, most degrading behavior we've seen yet on the three-seasons-running marathon of debasement we like to call Rock of Love. And this season, they're taking it on the road resulting in the clumsily titled "Rock of Love Bus."
I don't really know when Rock of Love went from being good cheesy fun to simply distressing, but I do know it happened well before one woman took a shot out of another woman's hoo-ha. This season, the blonds are blonder and the boobs are bigger, while the size of the skirts remains very, very small. It's funny to think back on season one when Heather was depicted as the drunk, trashy, stripper lady—she would be the Angelina Jolie of this bunch.
As the women poured drinks on each other, divided themselves into cliques and exposed their bodies for a washed up rock star in what could only be called a parody of mainstream sexuality, I really missed Thailand.
One more complaint. Any time things started to get really gross and creepy, Michaels would inevitably reply: "That's just rock n roll." Someone get that guy a fracking time machine and transport him to 2008, please. No wonder they're confining Rock of Love Bus to Middle America, where there are still plenty of folks who haven't yet realized that yesterday's corset top is today's huge old lady glasses and who learned all they ever needed to know about irony from that Alanis Morisette song.
1 comment:
HAHAH. that last paragraph is gold.
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