New contagion

Maybe it was the "Anne Nicole Smith Show," decked out in bloated fluff and the most addled of brains, so jacked up on Vitamin Narcissism that the veil could be removed and we could see what a waste watching celebrities meander around, trying to show they ARE INTERESTING, DAMNIT when the cameras at their day job are off.

Maybe it was Sept. 11, the ultimate in reality TV and drama. After all, what's more real than death in the big city on live TV, smoke and burning steel flailing away 80 stories up and only broken by the cascade of jumping souls, voluntarily or involuntarily, spreading thin ribbons of humanity from God's blue sky to the metropolitan canyon floor. In show business terms, you can't top that.

So maybe it makes sense that reality TV would undergo a sort of Darwinism, adapting to the climate to produce a life form that, if not thrive, then survive until the next reproduction cycle, passing on its stronger genes. We've sat through reality shows with people in glamorous locations joining clans and voting each other away in a mix of British Parliament and “Lord of the Flies.” We watched as perfectly sane women got all catty in perfectly social fashion to marry a millionaire they never met before on live TV. We've watched couples split up and be tempted by half-naked members of the opposite gender…all in the name of love and trust. To quote Bjork in "Dancer in the Dark," I've seen it all.

But just when you caught your reflection in the greasy bar mirror after puking in the toilet with the broken handle, swearing out loud, "I gotta start taking better care of myself," you get drawn back in, stumbling out of the bathroom and ordering another round from the television.

It's called "Joe Millionaire." It's a FOX reality show. You know what'll happen. You'll be both attracted and repulsed at the same time. You'll get a few kicks out if it, marveling how evolved you are and then, as the end credits flash by mixed with the "Bleeds-It-Leads" local news teaser, you'll feel dirty and queasy, as in a just-lied-to-a-nun sort of way. But the show is addicting like absinthe, and carrying with it the green liquid's ability to be revealing about human nature when intoxicated. Remember: a little tells the truth; too much tells lies.

The gist of the show is this: 20 women come to a big-ass chateau in France which looks enough not like Cinderella's palace to not get sued by Disney. The women are told they will be vying for the heart of the man who lives on the estate, an American who just inherited $50 million. Week by week, the man picks off the women until one remains standing. And in true Dickensian fashion, a secret is revealed: He isn't worth $50 million; he's a construction worker pulling down $19,000 a year.

In the first episode, which aired last night, the women arrive on the estate and get briefed. Apparently, this millionaire has everything in the world but love and that's why they have been flown to America to be there. (It seems all the women in France turned him down.) The women get a tour of the castle and are told about the bank account this guy has. And then the hammer falls: What happens when competent working women are pulled out of their everyday lives and dropped into the archetypical setting of fairy princesses and "happily each after"? How fast would you start dreaming of being Cinderella or the princess bride?

Meanwhile, our blue-collar hero Evan gets tutored in high society and starts to feel remorse, just before he makes a grand entrance on a horse. Evan, who in a tuxedo would pass for Bruce Wayne's younger, dimmer brother, realizes when he's in France that he, surprise, is part of a gigantic lie. It's a hallmark of FOX reality shows, and noir crime novels, that the main character starts to sink under the weight of his morass because he never thought things through first. But when the secret comes out, it'll be a dandy race to high moral ground after toying with the baser instincts over several weeks.

"You aren't worth $50 million? You lied to me?
"Well, you're only after my money. Who's the bigger asshole?"

But for now, Evan's playing along, tortured (again, like a good tragic lead in a noir story) with visions of a much better life, even if it's all a lie that should end badly. The women meanwhile, all mid-level wage earners (except for one generic "physician"), go from articulate and educated women to scheming harpies and gold diggers when all 20 have to fight over 20 dresses for the evening ball. The dress selection comes down to showing us a) their pettiness and b) reinforcing the stereotypes of women at a discount clothing sale. Add into the mix a possible pre-planned FOX trick of putting out dresses that would fit no one. Tears are shed and dagger-stares are shot when one woman hogs three dresses, styling one after another in front of the mirror, casually dismissing calls for "I got next on that one" by the ladies around her.

Divide. Conquer. Ratings.

It's a show that would easily fail if the gender roles were reversed. Imagine: 20 guys tromping around some chateau trying to woo a millionairess, who in reality is a part-timer at Hooters. Frankly, even if they knew she was pulled down 20 hours a week at a Tits&Ass&Burger joint, they'd still fall over each other for her. Although, the territorial battles alone with all the testosterone flying around the maison would be entertaining viewing, especially if the final twist was, oh, she finds out after all this time with these guys, she's actually a lesbian.

But "Joe Millionaire" works, nearly works, as a subtle social commentary, if not corralling a herd of disturbing logistical questions.

First, how sad is it that a guy who works hard building houses and other physical places only can rake in $19,000.

Second, just how did FOX gather these women? Was there an ad?

Did the other women know there would be competition? Did they ever think this was wrong to fight over a guy for money or did they see it as a challenge to their female qualities, real or imagined?

Are these women that fed up with the idea of being independent that they would reduce themselves to playing a life-sized game for a guy they hardly know?

Do millionaires have to put out a booty call for prospective wives?

After the first episode, after the first eight contestants on the meat rack were tossed out for not being as prime of a cut, I had to flush it out of my system. If you plan to watch the whole thing, I recommend reading some Jose Saramago afterward, maybe the collected speeches of Gandhi. Failing that, the show will compel you to mend your ways with an act of charity. Perhaps this time you’ll give up that kidney for some Bosnian war refugee, eh?

I'd like to think somewhere along the way there will be a revolt, some kind of enlightened woman's protest flat out asking Evan if he is getting some kind of kick out of watching women vie for his love. The revolutionaries will kick over tables and sound equipment saying, "This is not what Laurel Ulrich meant by 'Well-behaved women rarely make history.' " Maybe they'll vote Evan's corduroyed-and-cable sweatered ass along with his oafish grin out of the chateau and the women will split the residence for themselves. A good French estate that big has to sell for some good cash...enough I imagine to make their lives in the states a bit more independent.

I dream of it, but my crystal ball is more pragmatic than I am. In the Magic 8-ball method of divining the future, "All Signs Point to Ho."

Sinus Update

I swear to God if I don't stop blowing my nose in the next few days, I'm going to stick the nozzle attachment for my vacuum up my nose and flip the switch. It's been at least a week since I felt uniformly better and I'm still draining my nasal passages. Just how is my body generating this river in my nose all the time? I don't drink that much water, so I'm assuming I should be a dried-out hunk of Blogger Jerky on the floor by now.

Reason to live

Trip-hop pioneers Massive Attack, one of my sources of power, have a new album (is that word too 20th-century?) coming Feb. 11. I really like the promotional site for the new release, too. See it here.

Feb. 11. Hmm.

Crap. I have to wade through the Super Bowl and the State of the Union speech before it hits stores. Good news...at least it’ll break up the wait for "Knights of the Old Republic," slated for Feb. 24, according to the good folks at IGN.com.

But as cool as Massive Attack is, it can't compare with Johnny Cash's new cover of Nine Inch Nails’ "Hurt." Whoa.

Speaking of music

Thought of the worst name for a rock band while I was cleaning up after dinner.

Lazy Anus.

That is all.