Archive for the ‘Reality Television’ Category

The Voice. It’s about singing…I think.

Tuesday, June 28th, 2011

 

 

 

Raise your hand if you over sing every song.

 

 

 

 

 

I need to know what Mall sells Cee Lo Green clothes, and I need to know now.           And then I want a gift card.

Don’t get me wrong.  I like this show.  Great concept.  Great music.  Great theatrics. Great production value.  Enough strobes, lasers and special effects to warrant a warning for anyone susceptible to seizures.  (A wise man once said “Never skimp on lighting” when setting up your TV show.)

But sometimes I forget it’s about actually finding The Voice, thanks to bad fashion choices and a couple bags full of crazy.

The initial concept and audition episodes were cool.  I want one of those Captain Kirk Star Trek chairs.  How sweet would that be in the double wide?  Swivel to the TV, back to the dorm fridge, back to the TV.  Spin a 180 when you lose interest in the conversation and just need to look away.  I hope they sell those at the same Mall with the Cee Lo Glitter Collection.

Poor Carson Daly.  A decade after TRL he still doesn’t know what to do with his left hand while sounding out the big words on the teleprompter.  If it’s not shoved in his pocket like a nervous groom, it’s doink doink doinking every syllable like a high school chorus conductor.  Put a sock puppet on, or figure it out.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love me some Christina.  Have every CD and remix.  That girl can jam.  And wail.  And wail some more.  But I’m starting to miss the days when she used to…I don’t know…sing?  Somewhere in America there’s a Frat House full of dudes in boxers taking a shot every time she slides up into the vocal rafters.  Hit me.  And aren’t you supposed to take out one weave before you clip in a different track?  I need to research that one.  And how does she not know her actual dress size after all these years?  And how does she not get all that lipstick on her teeth?  And does Paula Abdul write some of her wandering commentary?  Who cares.  I love me some Christina.  I swear.  She can do no wrong.

Blake Shelton is textbook non-blinking nice to the bone Nashville.  You know he cries when he watches TV.

Adam Levine is just cool.  Nobody can rock a slim cut suit like that dude.

And then there’s Cee Lo.  I need to find that Mall.  Now.  And props for the shades.  I can’t even wear my 2 for $20 kiosk sunglasses on a cloudy day without bumping into a police call box, but this guy is able to judge a show in a pitch dark studio.  I’m thinking he also wears them when he is making some wardrobe choices, but he has somehow turned that into a moneymaker.  If I wasn’t so jealous of Adam’s suits I might actually consider a velour running suit and 40 pounds of bling.

If you spin around backwards in your Star Trek chair and just listen to the show, it really still is about some serious pipes.  These finalists can actually sing.  The boys in the booth keep it moving…the show is fast paced and didn’t drag on for 16 weeks.  Seems like the season just started and they are already crowning a winner.  The set may sometimes light up like a bad acid trip, but the show is an iTunes goldmine.  So that makes it cool in my book.

I can’t wait for Season Two.

The Jersey Trifecta

Sunday, June 26th, 2011

 

 

 

 

…and on the Seventh Day, his head exploded all over the TV.

 

 

 

 

Jerseylcious

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Teresa RHONJ

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reality TV is my Kryptonite.

 

There.  I said it.

The Gods of Reality TV, with an assist from their Apprentice Andy Cohen, have taken Guilty Pleasures and given them a shot of steroids.  Jersey Steroids.

And I’m helpless against their powers.

Mob Wives, Jerseylicous and The Real Housewives of New Jersey all on the same night?  Even Kal-El would buckle under that orange glow.

Last month Andy and his minions put our Reality Drug Interactions to the test, packing up Teresa and all her bankrupted belongings into the Bravo Uhaul and sending them to Sunday nights.  The Jersey Trifecta has succeeded in doing exactly what they hoped it would do:  Bringing all humanity to a three hour long screeching hault.

Yes, I know that if I could look away from the TV long enough to tap the Google Maps App, Mob Wives is not officially a Jersey show.  But if you can get there with a Metro Card and still have the time and energy to bitch slap someone…well, you know.

The Governor of New Jersey may not be front and center in his media room on Sunday nights, but the rest of the world seems to have found their spot on the pleather recliner.  After carefully laying out which show is on which channel, my spreadsheet is complete and I settle in for some overload.  By the time I make it through waiting for the goombahs to come home from the slammer, to learning how a smokey eye can cover up a black eye,  and then finishing up with a good table flip and some pasta fagioli…let’s just say life is good.

For all the quality time in front of the TV, I still haven’t quite mastered the Jersey Triple Play yet, tho…ie “Do NOT hurt my Family!  Do not HURT my Family! Do not hurt my FAMILY!”  Reality TV smack downs seem to follow the same Rule of 3s that all good Interior Designers learn at Parsons.

As with any good train wreck, not even my building’s fire alarm can pull me away from the plasma screen.  This week I actually felt a touch of sadness that Mob Wives was having their season finale.  After the initial shame, it was like one of my children was leaving for summer camp.  The house was going to be a little quieter for the rest of the season, but at least I won’t need as many cleansing baths.  Luckily I have hours of Jersey safely tucked away in my DVR.  Just don’t tell anyone.

What other night gives you the chance to pull someone’s weave out in Staten Island, then head to the Gatsby Salon to get it put back in, only to have it yanked back out again one hour later by some snotty nosed Housewife’s mean girl offspring?

It’s the Jersey Circle of Life.


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