Why Am I Dumped?

So, Steven Ward’s Tough Love is VH1’s version of Bravo’s Millionaire Matchmaker, with a little Tool Academy thrown in for good measure.

Ward is a second-generation matchmaker–when did this whole yenta thing resurge? Ward works with his mom, but the Tough Love boot camp seems to be his baby.

The show features eight women who, try as they might, cannot find that whole everlasting love thing. In case you’re not sure why, Steven gives them cutesy nicknames that cut to the chase: “Miss Gold Digger,” “Miss Party Girl,” “Miss Ball Buster,” “Miss Fatal Attraction.” You get the idea.

To his credit, Steven–who’s kind of like Scott Baio pitching commemorative plates on HSN–doesn’t give out nicknames like “Miss Skank” or “Miss So Much Silicone You Should Be Declared a Toxic Waste Dump.” He’s tough on the ladies–thus, the title–but he’s not meanspirited about it. This is kinder, gentler R-TV, not unlike Baio’s recent Confessions of a Teen Idol. They should actually pair those guys up with these women.

Guilty? Not yet, but everyone’s just getting to know everyone else.
Recidivist Factor: It’s there. This is not an elimination show, so there’s lots of time to get to know everyone.

Double Dump

Leave it to Bret Michaels to find a new way to twist that old “bring in the exes” business so popular on R-TV dating shows.

On Rock of Love Bus, he trotted out the former amour fous of his remaining six sweeties. He also brought in Ambre, who won Rock of Love 2, and Heather, who was in the place position for the first Rock of Love to help weed out the weevils.

The old boyfriends were pretty much what you’d expect from this crew, each looking like the progeny of the family from The Hills Have Eyes. I’ve seen the “quiz the exes” bit before (I think Bret did this on RoL2), but I’ve never seen such a mangy bunch. And nasty. These guys didn’t just throw the girls under the bus, they backed the bus over them, then threw it in gear, and dragged the silicone-heavy bodies through every back alley they could find.

Hardest hit were former front runners Brittanya and Ashley. Brittanya went into this disliking Heather, and her moronic boyfriend had already told Ambre that they’d slept together right up to the day she’d boarded Bret’s bus. All this led to Brittanya taking a swing at Heather and then spitting at her, actions that would have given her a win if she’d been on Flavor of Love but caused her tour to end here.

Worse was Ashley, who swore up and down that she was done with boyfriend (and baby daddy) James and was then bedeviled when he let slip that they were still living together. Then, James admitted he wasn’t there to stick up for Ashley, he was there to take her home! It was like he was going to have a duel with Bret! Of course, Bret wouldn’t actually duel, he’d have sent Big John to duel on his behalf.

When all was said and done, Brittanya and Ashley were sent packing, and for the first time in Rock of Love history, there are no blondes left to win. Also, no especially interesting women, but what can you do?

And the bus sails on…

Trump Dump

This week on Celebrity Apprentice, the challenge was to raise obscene amounts of money by selling wedding dresses. Typically, the women’s team, led by Playboy Playmate Brande Roderick, trounced the men’s team, headed this go ’round by the irritating Tom Green. The men called in favors, but their bridal shop looked exactly what you’d expect a man’s idea of a bridal shop to look like–a strong “look what fell off the truck” vibe. Even though Dennis Rodman called out sick and nobody believed him, when it came time to hit the chopping block, it was Green’s head that ended up in the box.

Like his teammates, the rest of us were pretty happy to see Green go.

*He seems to think that shtick that wasn’t funny in the early ’90s somehow magically became funny nearly two decades later.

*While everyone except Dennis Rodman was hard at work, Tom Green was kinda floating about tossing off pallid one liners.

*He raised no money while Clint Black raised thousands.

*The beard… the beard…

*He was clueless. Had Trump not fired him, I really think the men would have gotten together and done him harm. This would have been fun in an Agatha Christie sort of way and a certain ratings bonanza, but a full-on police investigation with a bunch of second-rate celebrity suspects would have drawn too much focus from The Donald and his heirs. So once, again, another first-rate decision by Trump.

Best of luck in your future endeavors, Tom.

Strip Down and Rise Up

I guess the lure of going on a show called Make Me a Supermodel is the chance to avoid a lifetime of people telling you to Make Me a Latte. Of course, no one said it’s going to be easy.

This season, Make Me a Supermodel features 16 mannequin wannabes. The women range from emaciated to slightly malnourished (or “the fat girl,” as she calls herself), the men from reedy to almost beefy (the guy who got eliminated).

Last year, contestants paraded about in various challenges, judges picked the bottom three, and then the viewing public voted through text or Internet for who’d be dumped. This time, the format’s a bit more conventional, with the standard panel of judges calling the shots.

Tyson Beckford, last year’s host/judge, is back this time as the “mentor” for the guys. I noticed Tyson has full-sleeve tattoos, which I guess is OK if you’re a celeb-model but can’t be good form as a role model. Unless I just didn’t look closely enough and it’s a bad case of eczema.

The women are being mentored by someone named Nicole Trunfio, who I guess is famous in the modeling world since she wasn’t given much of an introduction, and there was a sense that we should just know who she is. The contestants got wide eyed and clapped politely, which is probably a sign that they follow directions well. My impression was that she was more like Patsy from Absolutely Fabulous, which isn’t a bad thing in the kinda dry world of function-based R-TV.

The first challenge was for the hopefuls to strip down, put on sleepwear, and pose with a partner in a big glass case suspended over New York City. The winner was a Mennonite woman named Salome. (Wasn’t she one of the bad guys, Biblically speaking?) Mennonite Salome was also the self-proclaimed “fat girl,” and the daring pose (that’s her with fellow-wannabe Gabriel) will probably get her banished from her Mennonite community. She was also obnoxious. We’ll be checking back to see her dreams crushed.

Make Me a Supermodel has that semi-sophisticated, Project Runway thing going on, except the contestants are less interesting and creative. Still, it’s kinda funny watching strangers strip down to their knickers and pair up in a glass box just to make a photographer happy.

Guilty? Yeah, because even the people we like we sorta hate.
Recidivist Factor: Fair. Let them weed out a couple of dullards, then the games can begin.

Chick Off a Stick, and I Get Ticked

Wow, this is good news: The world hunger crisis is over! There are no more starving people anywhere! Feel free to waste all the food you want, because we’re in surplus!

I mean, that has to be the case. How else could the socially conscious folks at VH1 have approved a challenge on I Love Money 2 that involved catapulting ready-to-cook chickens into the air over an open field and having a bunch of ninnies chase after and try to catch them–often dropping them onto the ground? I mean, how else do you justify wasting enough chickens to feed an entire village of starving people in service of an idiotic game show on which the least employable people in America do everything but claw each other’s eyes out to get an admittedly big payout ($250K)?

Sorry, I know shows like I Love Money 2 aren’t meant to be given a second thought, but I really don’t understand how VH1 can be on board with that kind of waste. Couldn’t they have used rubber chickens? Just some small semblance of sensitivity so as not to look completely disgusting? I know that atrocities and abominations are the lifeblood of shows like this. But when millions of people worldwide are going hungry, wantonly wasting food in service of a cheap laugh isn’t entertaining, it’s obscene.

Trump Dump

So the latest Celebrity Apprentice to be fired is figure skater Scott Hamilton. That makes two for the men’s team, no firings so far for the women. Scott and the boys bungled this week’s assignment to come up with a cartoon superhero for an online company called Zappos. Since Scott was the Project Manager, he was the one sacrificed, and I can’t say it was a bad decision:

* He was almost aggressively ineffective, particularly when stacked up against notorious alpha types like Dennis Rodman and (evidently) Clint Black.

* He got so mad at Tom Green, you can tell he had to restrain himself from throwing Freddy Got Fingered up in his teammate’s face. Unfortunately, that restraint was his undoing.

* His major contribution to the superhero representing Zappos was to name her after the letter “E.” Because when I see something that starts with the letter “Z,” I think, “Everything, Everywhere, Every time.” And when I see the letter “E,” I don’t think vitamins, designer drugs, The Entertainment Channel, or the guy from Entourage. Hamilton needed to watch more mindless TV if he was going to be competitive.

* His uncanny resemblance to beloved character actor John Fiedler–best known as Mr. Peterson on The Bob Newhart Show–gave him a strong side of sympathy, and there’s no room for that in The Boardroom. Had Trump waited even another week, it would have been impossible to have bounced this guy… it would have been like shooting a puppy.

Best of luck in your future endeavors, Scott.

I Want to Work for DT

First, his casinos went bankrupt. Then, his MTV reality series was kicked to the curb. Now, Donald Trump finds himself sitting at a big table and sharing the spotlight with the likes of Dennis Rodman, Joan and Melissa Rivers, Andrew “Dice” Clay, and heterosexual figure skater Scott Hamilton on The Celebrity Apprentice.

I could identify all the men, but the woman’s team seemed to stretch the definition of “celebrity” a bit. The Ultimate Poker Champion? A Deal or No Deal model? A golfer? A Khardasian? There’s a Playboy playmate, but are they generally known by name?

During the back and forth in boardroom, Andrew “Dice” Clay offered to resign, but Trump gave him a kinda stirring lecture on how he shouldn’t be a quitter, how three other people playing this game have quit and are now branded for life as quitters, etc. Serious stuff, though who was branded for life for quitting The Apprentice, I couldn’t tell you. Of course, all this was just Trump’s wind up, so that later, he could lay the inevitable firing on the greasy head of the formerly famous comic.

Trump used the whole quitting thing as his reasoning for dumping Dice over Rodman or Herschell Walker, but honestly, did he need an excuse?

*The guy showed up in a striped zoot suit with a pink tie, looking like the victim of a ’40’s era gangland killing.

*He constantly interrupted Trump’s daughter, Ivanka, and you know he was just dying to say something foul or hit on her.

*His incessant listing of his long-ago accomplishments (“I sold out Madison Sqare Garden three times!”) made him sound like Willie Lohman.

*His insistence on doing shtick virtually every time he opened his mouth was like watching a crazy old uncle from a Woody Allen movie.

Trump didn’t so much fire him as put him out of his–and our–misery.

Guilty? Repeat offender.
Recidivist Factor: Until I learn who everyone is, I’ll be back.

Seen in the Post Office

Swallow

I don’t think I’m alone when I say you could have knocked me over with a deep-fried feather when Hosea was crowned Top Chef. Wasn’t he just there because they needed a third person?

That finale was one of the most grueling R-TV hours in a long time. Carla’s “made with love” dishes had charmed the ample pants off famous foodies Jacques Pepin and Emeril Lagasse, won her a car, and made her the one to beat going into the final episode, which heartened everyone who was sick of the talented yet pompous Stefan. Watching her descent at the unwitting hands of sous chef and Season Three loser Casey was terrible and riveting. Even the judges were touched, with the often vile Toby Young making a half-hearted, late-in-game plea for amnesty. Alas, it was not to be, and our loopy but endearing girl will likely have to settle for Fan Favorite, unless Jamie or Jeff have an oddly heroic and persistent fan base.

In case you still have an apetite, ponder this: According to the New York Post’s Page Six, at a Top Chef season finale after party, Hosea and Leah were seen passionately “making out.” This would be a far cry from their chaste, yet angst-inducing, kisses shared a few episodes ago.

Bird Brains

So, also according to the Post’s Page Six (the online edition), Tool Academy’s Matsuflex hosted a party this past week end at a bar in Chelsea, NYC. Now, I’m no expert, but posters advertising a party in Chelsea featuring shirtless muscle boys… uh, should Matsu’s girlfriend be concerned? I mean, who’s running Tool Academy now, RuPaul? And isn’t the whole point of Tool Academy for the guys to stop showing up half-naked at bar parties?

By the way, what was that cat fight at the end of this week’s show? Tiny Josh called beefy Shawn’s girlfriend a hooker right after Shawn was “expelled,” and somehow everyone’s surprised that Shawn tried to break back into the house and pummel wee Josh into dust? I mean, yeah, Shawn should have learned not to go wild every time someone calls his girl a hooker, but shouldn’t Josh have learned not to call other guys’ girlfriends hookers? Especially when the other guy is like a big tree compared to Josh’s sapling-like stature?

In the end, Josh, surrounded by the burly technical staff, lamented not reaching for the stars and clocking Shawn. For his part, Shawn basically said he’d “moider him,” only without that endearing Stooge quality we’ve come to expect. My guess is they’re planning a reunion show as we speak.

Twenty-to-Life

I’ve never been to a reunion, but I can honestly say that if I did go to one, I’d be more interested in seeing how my old classmates turned out and less interested in seeking revenge against the guy who pantsed me in gym class sophomore year. Fortunately for the folks at TV Land, the members of Chandler Arizona High School Class of 1988 have no such compunctions. Getting together for TV Land’s High School Reunion, it’s like Reagan’s still in office, Cocktail is playing at the multiplex, and George Michael is a girl’s dream date.

All those petty, stupid rivalries and embarrassments that you thought you left behind after you graduated? These folks didn’t, and High School Reunion plays like an uncomfortable combination of Middle Aged Crazy and American Graffiti.

Clearly, these people have spent a good portion of the past 20 years watching R-TV, because they all come out with those declamations that usually signal courtship for Bret Michaels or New York. A former frump who went on to become a Playboy model purrs, “Guys, you have no idea what you’re in for.” Yeah, we do: lots of teasing and tedious confessionals, and I suspect an awful lot of psychodrama over who didn’t make the cheerleading squad.

The good news is this one tries to keep it a bit real by featuring chronologically mature people who don’t all come equipped with beach-ready bodies. The bad news is they set this at the beach, which means an inordinate amount of pasty jiggling.

Everyone’s got secrets and scores to settle, and there are “challenges” where people have to have not-very-interesting confrontations. Suddenly, being an outcast in high school is something to be proud of.

Guilty? Stay out of my locker.
Recidivist Factor: I spent most of my life trying to get away from people like this.

Eighteen-to-Life

Since I didn’t really know who Ray J is, I never bothered checking out his by-the-numbers looking-for-love show, For the Love of Ray J. It just seemed like another “dating” show in which women try to out-skank each other to attract someone whose claim to fame is… having a reality show.

However, the news that one of the contestants is claiming that Ray J impregnated her suddenly made this seem like something worth tuning in to.

For the Love of Ray J is like Flavor of Love for people who have 10:00 curfews. It makes Rock of Love Bus seem like a sensitive meditation on male/female interactions. It’s pretty much the same formula, but it’s somehow more contrived. Also, Ray J’s a lot whinier than his old-enough-to-shave counterparts.

All the women have cutesy nicknames bestowed by J himself, and his alleged baby mama was presciently nicked “Danger.” Supposedly, this is because she has a tattoo on her face that kinda looks like a port wine mark.

To be honest, I always thought those scenes of foreplay were staged on these shows. In interviews, some of the women eliminated from Rock and Flavor have pretty much denied that anything happened and talked about how things were edited to look a certain way, which makes sense. I mean, we have to believe that Bret and Flavor, for instance, are just debauching like there’s no tomorrow, but in real real life, wouldn’t there be some rules about this? Isn’t there a danger that some crazy contestant (pardon the oxymoron) could claim she was assaulted and sue VH1? Worse, couldn’t, say, the Rock of Love Bus become a rolling herpes haven if Bret weren’t a little discriminating?

And Ray J, if this is true, what is up with the unprotected sex? I mean, what were you doing during hygiene class in high school, going to after hours with Whitney Houston?

Guilty? Let’s wait for the paternity test.
Recidivist Factor: Were it not for this news, there’s be no love for Ray J at all.

Misdemeanors

Speaking of safe sex…

Perhaps the most “real” reality moment in a while happened on RuPaul’s Drag Race when shaven-headed dragster Ongina won a competition to be spokesmodel for MAC cosmetics’ HIV-awareness campaign. The mini-diva dissolved into tears and sunk to the floor in what seemed to be a typically over-the-top moment. Then, she announced that she’d been “living with HIV for the past two years,” and that she’d told very few people. Even her parents didn’t know. Funny how on those rare occasions when reality gets real, it can actually be quite moving.

And it didn’t at all dampen one of the judge’s observation to Grace Jones-ish dragger Bebe that, “If this were the ’90s, I’d be doing coke with you.” Yeah, the ’90s… or, you know, the last high school reunion, whichever was more fashionable.

Speaking of new beginnings…

Scott Baio got to play Wizard of Oz for the season wrap up of Confessions of a Teen Idol. Not a dry eye in the house as the Man Behind the Curtain handed out not hearts and brains but meetings with TV execs and music producers–all courtesy of VH1. You just know that somewhere, Corey Haim is cursing himself for casting his lot with A&E.

Speaking of not speaking…

In all the news about Donald Trump’s latest travails, omitted is the fact that MTV moved his reality show, The Girls of Hedsor Hall, from its plum Monday night at 9 slot to the Saturday-at-noon graveyard. Which is basically MTV’s way of saying, “You’re fired!”

Money can’t buy you love, but sometimes it can buy you someone to help you find love–or to help you find compatibility with the love you’ve already got.

You Do Have to Be Rich

If I had lots of money and reasonably good looks, and I was still incapable of meeting women, I don’t think I’d broadcast it all over reality TV. Fortunately, not everyone feels as I do, which means Bravo-TV is able to bring us The Millionaire Matchmaker

“Every millionaire comes in and has sort of an illness. I diagnose it and then develop a treatment for it,” says Matchmaker Patti Stanger, though frankly, some of her clients would be better off quarantined. For her second season opening, for instance, she takes on the appalling David, a deluded fashion catalogue magnate who’s convinced he’s the hottest human on the planet and who has a butler and (according to Patti) an ugly house. Shockingly, he clicks with the lady he’s chosen for the evening, while the more appealing Brett craps out.

But what keeps the bar of horror highest here is Patti herself. Whether sizing up the female talent for her bordello-ish meet-’n'-greet parties or banishing a former client who dared have a woman he was matched with move in with him rather than marry her (Patti is none-too-comfortable with the whole s-e-x thing), Patti has a crazy quip for any occasion. Some of which would send this hundredaire funning for cover and back to the safety of the Internet.

Guilty? Yeah, sickeningly so.
Recidivist Factor: Moderate. These people are awfully self-involved, so why do they need mates? On the other hand, it’s only a matter of time before Patti implodes, so that might be worth hanging around for.

For You, My Pet

Relationship problems are being handled elsewhere on R-TV, notably on Animal Planet, which takes a cue from 101 Dalmatians with It’s Me or the Dog, a dating show built around canine compatibility with dog behavioral specialist Victoria Stilwell (she’s British, like Supernanny and the Hedsor Hall people–when did we Americans lose the ability to police ourselves?).

This week, Victoria meets Stacey, whose neurotic Tibetan terrier, Pampy, has scared away all the suitors. Then there’s Mike, who took in a skittish three-legged mutt from Brazil. These ill-tempered beasts are condemning their owners to Eleanor Rigby singlehood. Can Victoria not only tame the mongrels but pair off these two attractive human subjects?

Of course she can. This is Animal Planet, not The Euthanasia Network, and while nothing here

is as distressing or guiltishly compelling as the R-TV on VH1, MTV, or Bravo, it’s nice to get the occasional “real-life story” with people you recognize as humans and you actually are rooting for.

Animal Planet also gives us Underdog to Wonderdog, in which at-risk dogs are cleaned up, trained, and then given to deserving families. This week, Woobie, a flea-infested schnauzer from a hoarder (someone who just takes in too many dogs and can’t care for them) is brought to an 11-year-old girl whose father is serving in Afghanistan. The program takes us through the whole journey, from cleaning up Woobie to socializing her, to bringing her to meet her new family. In addition to Woobie, the family gets a year’s supply of dog food, a specially built doghouse that’s the size of Tara, and one of those only-on-TV surprises that you probably see coming but is completely touching nonetheless.

Guilty? It’s Animal Planet.
Recidivist Factor: See Above.

Flight Risk

The Bachelor took his last three lovelorns on an “overnight date”–to New Zealand! Clearly, that “Buy American” clause didn’t make it into the stimulus. Dude, to get an overnight date you have to go to New Zealand? I’m feeling strangely good about myself. Of course, so many of my overnight dates can’t get clearance to leave the country, but still… Oh, and if you’re interested and don’t already know, he dumped the so-nervous-she’s-constantly-in-danger-of-losing-her-lunch Jillian, after a steamy and wrinkled night with her in a hot tub. Cad.

Juvenile Charges

On Fox Reality’s Solitary 3.0, three grown men were directed by unseen female computer voice Val to strip down to their underwear and crawl through an obstacle course on their hands and knees. One had to wear a diaper. Does Val know there are actually men who will pay her good money to order them to do such things? Better still, would Val like to meet a millionaire?

Maybe it’s not always easy to be a woman, but ladies sometimes turn up in the most unexpected places. This week, Reality TV takes us from crayons to perfume as a fearless few seek out real womanhood–or as close as they can get.

Refined. Demure. Classy. Trump.

Trump?

Yes, The Donald’s back in the Reality TV game, but as a producer only this time, with MTV’s The Girls of Hedsor Hall.

Hedsor Hall takes the premise of Charm School and amps it. A dozen grotesque American girls head off to England to try to survive an actual finishing school experience. While one-time Miss USA embarrassment Tara Conner tuns up as the nominal “Celebrity Instructor,” the rest of the experts are not of the Sharon Osbourne variety. Allegedly, this “finishing school” is the real deal, and since the “Headmistress” and the “Disciplinarian” are conservatively dressed middle aged women and not leather-clad dominatrixes administering bare-bottom spankings, I’m willing to go along with it.

If The Girls of Hedsor Hall is a Charm School knock off, it has enough differences to create its own identity. For one thing, the “girls” are not rejects from other RTV programs trying to further their public profiles with shtick-like antics. And the women in charge do seem to be walking to the walk: dowdy uniforms, no make up, no back talk. One girl got expelled for cursing. Oy.

As one girl mused early in the show, “Being a lady, does it mean you can’t fart or pick your nose?” Yes, little lady, and that’s why you’re here. Not because fart or pick your nose, but because you have to ask if that’s “lady like” behavior.

Guilty? Since the girls are not known quantities, it’s going to take a little time to establish its guilt credentials, but they’re there.
Recidivist Factor: Pretty good, if only to see if they can keep the concept going without falling into VH1 land.

Got Some ID, Ma’am?

I don’t know if it was by accident or design, but VH1 re-ran the first episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race, even though it’s not a VH1 show. Somehow, this competition among female impersonators fit right in amongs the preening, manscaped Tools and the outrageously augmented Love Busers.

Actually, Drag Race would be more at home on Bravo, since it’s really a clever riff of that network’s soon-to-be-gone RTV flagship, Project Runway.

Nine drag artists are competing for the chance to win money (a comparatively paltry $20K, but no matter), prizes, a title, and a spot in some kind of drag tour, and the result is a surprisingly endearing mixture of camp, class, and trash.

Drag queens are entertainers first and foremost, so these guys are always on. Always. It’s a bit much to take at times–how many heated debates over wigs and mascara can you sit through?–but RuPaul makes it work. During the challenges, the entertainer appears out of drag, and offers advice and critiques, like Tim Gunn on Project Runway.

Later, of course, RuPaul transforms into the character everyone knows, effectively becoming Drag Race’s Heidi Klum. Along with a panel of judges and a weekly guest–Bob Mackie, in week one–the guys become girls and everybody puts on a show. It does take a while matching up the men with their drag counterparts, which makes for a bit of confusion in the early viewings.

Even if drag and the men who love it is not your thing, this is a pretty fun show. Far less degrading than Celeb Romance Rejects shows, it’s kinda refreshing to see a program where even the losers are treated like queens. RuPaul’s Drag Race runs regularly on Logo and evidently turns up from time to time on VH1.

Guilty? Competing drag queens.
Recidivist Factor: Pretty good.

Misdemeanors

Crowded Bus

“I see all these poles and I think, Hell, yeah, Baby, I’m home,” purred Ashley as the Rock of Love Bus lumbered up to Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club. Ah, but there was to be no pole dancing and little celebration here. Bret trotted out three “plain-Jane” types and demanded his downmarket harem remake them as “rocker chicks” (aka, convention-ready hookers). Shockingly, once the “plain” girls took off their glasses, let down their hair, and dropped trou, they were completely indistinguishable from all the rest of Bret’s ladies of the evening. Just like an old movie.

So pleased was Bret that he invited these newly pimped up models to join the tour! More shocks! Some of the other girls applauded the news, which upset the sensitive Mr. Michaels. “Hey, if I was really hot on you and you said you wanted to bring some other dude in, I wouldn’t be clapping,” he told his 10 or so remaining “dates.” Dude, I applaud your ego, but even your girls seem to understand that these group gropes aren’t actually “dates.”

Ashley got some alone time with Bret and shared her fear that Natasha is actually a man, a fear that Bret seemed to laugh off, but that drew beads of terror sweat to his brow. When he later eliminated Natasha, he swore, it had nothing to do with the smack Ashley had talked. Right. Wonder if he’ll still be saying that when Natasha turns up on RuPaul’s Drag Race?

Empty Head

The guys at Tool Academy were a little freaked out at having to take a polygraph, but none more so than Rob “Power Tool,” who had a Loretta Lynn-style breakdown and then went all catatonic and had to be rushed to the hospital. “He’s having a panic attack,” observed “Counselor” Trina Dolenz (ex-wife of Monkee Mickey), making Rob more Tony Soprano than Coal Miner’s Daughter, thankfully. Doesn’t matter, they eliminated his ass anyway.

Later, in a perfect marriage of bonding and promotions, the remaining Tools went out and got the Tool Academy logo tattooed on themselves, hoping to create a new metrosexual trend–kind of a 21st century version of a scarlet A.

Glass Half-Full

Bad week to be an addict. First, Sober House mother Jennifer allows tedious and self-destructive Steven Adler back into the house after he gets on his knees and begs her forgiveness. “Apology accepted,” she said, generously. Apparently, the state of California is feeling pretty generous too. Don’t people usually go to jail for heroin possession? Just saying …

Actually, jail might be preferable to the next surprise Sober House threw at everyone: the arrival of a new resident, the most obnoxious addict on the planet, Andy Dick. Yes, Andy Dick, who I’m sure is famous for something other than his annoying, stoned pansexual antics. Actually, what is he famous for besides his annoying, stoned, pansexual antics?

Model and pain-killer junkie Amber Smith giggled warmly as she recalled her first meeting with Dick, when he was really drunk and offered her $1,000 to sleep with him. Because nothing says “meet cute” like a D-Lister trying to buy sex from a model on the skids. If they want to do Leaving Las Vegas as a musical comedy, the Dick-Smith combo would be a formidable casting coup.

In the middle of winter, we are in heat…or, at least, Reality-TV is offering up hot places for the budget minded.

How did I live this long without encountering Chef Gordon Ramsey? Here it is, Season Five of Hell’s Kitchen, and I’d never seen the foul-mouthed culinaire in action.

Ramsey gathers up 16 chefs–eight men, eight women–tastes a dish they’ve prepared, compliments it or spits it out, and curses a lot. Colleen, who’s had no formal training, runs a cooking school. When Ramsey spits out her dish and insults her for teaching people to cook while being a poor cook herself, Colleen mentions that she also teaches manners. I’m sure a “Kick Me” sign would have gotten the same response, just more efficiently.

Later, they’re broken up into a retro-kinda Guy’s Team and a Girl’s Team and forced to cook at Ramsey’s Hell’s Kitchen restaurant. As we get to know them, we see that the producers searched high and low for just the right blend of stereotypes, including a redneck, a gay guy, a gay girl, a fat guy, and self-proclaimed “pretty girl” who seems destined for either villainhood or early dismissal. They muck up the whole restaurant thing, and all the customers leave without eating. Which might not be a bad thing, given how little attention is apparently paid to hygene, not to mention Ramsey’s habit of spitting out food he doesn’t like in proximity of food that’s going to be served.

Hell’s Kitchen is kinda like Top Chef, only if Top Chef were hosted by Freddy Kruger.

Guilty? Not as blatantly as I’d have thought. Maybe after they winnow out some of the less hearty contestants and we get to know the rest better.
Recidivist Factor: Moderate. You’ll stop back for a meal, but you might not stay for dessert.

I Love Rejects

Last year gave us one of the most odious of the Pseudo-Celeb-Reality efforts, a competition show called I Love Money that starred rejects from other celeb-reality shows–the women who’d been tossed by Bret Michaels and Flavor Flav, and the men who’d been spared selection by New York, herself a Flavor Flav reject.

Even in the bottom-feeding alternaverse of RTV, I Love Money was notably heinous. Save for their own delusions, the contestants aren’t celebs. They also don’t have any discernible talent, like the contestants on…any other competition. It was all kind of like a freak show, but with very serious and self-important freaks.

But, freak shows sell, so now we get I Love Money 2, which seems to be where Reality TV “stars” go to die. All these people know, or know of, each other, and some of them have been on two or three other shows before. A couple of guys were on the first season of this show. Two of the women were on a dating show featuring two brothers who were rejected by Flavor Flav double reject New York and who then lost on the first season of I Love Money before being given their own program. Will the circle be unbroken? One can only hope.

Kicked off last night was a dumb (even by these standards) but pretty girl who’d been rejected by Bret Michaels for being dumb even though she was pretty. When she was eliminated–she just didn’t get picked for a team–she started ranting like a witch in a Hammer horror film putting a curse on everyone around her. In a rare moment of clarity, however, she lashed out at the show itself for “exploiting these f%$#ing idiots!” Then she marched proudly off in the wrong direction and ended up trapped in a walk-in closet.

I Love Money 2 has all the charm of a vacation in Hitler’s bunker.

Guilty? If there’s a season three, can they shoot it on Devil’s Island?
Recidivist Factor: Moderate. You already know no good will come of this, but you’ll likely want to check in occasionally just to make sure.

Misdemeanors

Old School

Busy week for the guys from Confessions of a Teen Idol. First, they had various friends and family members trotted out to talk about all the bad stuff that happened because of their former fame. Jeremy Jackson’s sister talked about how a gang once tried to kidnap Jeremy by breaking into the family home and tying him up with a vacuum cleaner cord. Fortunately, Jackson’s Mom is tougher than a Crip, and she chased the hooligans away. No word on what happened to the vacuum cleaner.

Later, after a therapy session, the guys went to hear Jamie Walters play his first gig in years. “I think he’s the next Bruce Springsteen,” observed Adrian Zmed, which is funny, because just last week I was thinking how much “Thunder Road” sounds like “How Do You Talk to an Angel.”

Finally, Eric Nies got offended and stomped off because some women at a charity auction offered $1,000 for him to take off his shirt. Had they been watching this series, they’d know Eric sometimes dumps jars of his own urine on his head in the shower to keep his hair shiny. Maybe for $2,000, he would have kept his shirt on.

Nobody’s Tool

Meanwhile, the guys at Tool Academy got a much needed lesson in maturity. As one guy observantly proclaimed, “I can’t marry my bowling ball, but I can marry my fiance.” Yeah, but will your fiance make you league champion?

Somebody’s Fool

Congratulations to Brody Jenner and his new BFF, Luke, who won Bromance. In addition to Brody’s heart, Luke also gets to live in a swank condo and drive a cool car for one year. No word on if he’s going to work or if he’s just going to be kept by Brody like a gangster’s moll. Tune in next year when Luke’s year as a member of the Jenner entourage lands him a prime spot on Celebrity Rehab.

In reality TV, the road to ratings is littered with broken hearts. This has been a particularly rocky week for romance.

On Top Chef, Hosea and Leah finally got together. Or not. We saw them cuddling like refugees from an Ikea poster, then later offering guilt-laden, if conflicting, testimonials. Hosea kept insisting nothing happened, but Leah had that whole prom-queen, “I let it go too far” thing, so let’s just call them “special friends.”

Speaking of special friends, with whom has Carla been cozying up? She again served something gross and inedible and again survived elimination. Her vile and misguided desserts pretty much sunk her team in Restaurant Wars–Jeff, Jamie, and Radhika all ended up on the losing end because of her. And when called on it, she looked Tom Colicchio square in the eye and said, “I knew it wasn’t any good, but I sent it out with love.” Note to Carla: Don’t confuse dessert with Hands Across America. Next time you know it isn’t very good, send it out with some Krispy Kreme donuts or something. If I want love, I’ll call Brody Jenner or Jason Mesnick.

Jason Who?

“Jason Who?” you might ask. Well, a couple days ago, I would have been asking the same thing. Jason Mesnick, it turns out, is a single dad who suffered national humiliation when he got down on one knee and proposed to The Bachelorette–and was summarily declined. Turning that lemon into lemonade, Jason now has his own gig as–what else?–The Bachelor.

This reality dating show is far different from what I’m accustomed to seeing on reality dating shows. For one thing, all the women have jobs like dental hygenist and pre-school teacher. Where are the strippers? Where are tattoo artists? For that matter, where are the tattoos? Was ABC actually able to round up single inkless women?

And what’s with the language? In two hours, I don’t think one word was bleeped. The closest thing to profanity was when someone named Molly–no nicknames here either–said, “I’ve had the butterflies for Jason, and now they’re really flapping.” Yeah, sentiments like that should qualify as obscenities, but they’re still prime-time ready.

For one challenge, the women had to write and perform a song for Jason. They somehow did this without the aid of a stripper pole, which just doesn’t seem natural. I wonder if the fact that Disney owns ABC was the reason that most of the songs sounded like they’d been inspired by The Lion King.

About the only thing that distinguished this was a mass elimination at the end. Jason was supposed to cut two women and leave one standing, but instead he completely wiped out the final three, making this moment in the history of this series that is even remotely comparable to the baptism scene in The Godfather.

Nothing Gets Between Brody and his BJs

Meanwhile, on Bromance, the current King of MTV, Brody Jenner, went all puckish on his panting swains by pretending to front a line of pants that look like a denim version of something Linda Blair might have worn in Roller Boogie. The jeans were too tight, they hung too low, and they were covered in sequins, including a sequined “BJ.” They guys were perplexed. How could such hideous, trashy clothing come from a former star of The Hills? Tune in next week when the guys are shocked to learn that parts of The Hills are actually not unscripted.

Real Crime, Big Time

OK, it was kinda funny seeing Sober House den mother Jennifer Gimenez going toe to toe with Tiny Lister–does this guy know how ridiculous he looked?–but two full episodes of Steven Adler’s heroin fueled antics? Yeah, I guess it’s an effective way to bore an entire generation into sobriety. Poor Steven is just a mumbling, stumbling mess. At one point, “Rehab Tech” Will asks, “Steve, do you see what the drugs are making you do right now?” Well, no, Will, I think that’s the point of heroin.

After Jennifer calls the cops on him, she looks at the camera and says, “This is the right thing to do, right?” Ye gods, if it means Mr. Panic in Needle Park is going to cede the spotlight to a more interesting addict, then yes, Jennifer, you did the right thing.

X-Offender

So for Solitary 3.0, contestants live in a movie space ship-like pod and physically abuse themselves based on the commands of a robotic female voice. This week, they stripped down to their underwear and clamped clothespins all over their bodies until one could no longer stand it and pressed a “panic button.” On FoxReality, this is called “torture.” On VH1 reality, it would be called “foreplay.”

Perennial Offender

A few unwanted things I learned while nursing a flu on Saturday night:

1. There’s still a Miss America pageant, only now they have it in January instead of September.

2. The pageant is no longer broadcast on a major network; inexplicably, it’s shown on The Learning Channel.

3. It’s hosted by Mario Lopez, who shouldn’t host a virus much less a nationally televised one-time institution. His patter sounded like it was written by the rejects from Tool Academy.

4. Asking pretty sorority-type girls to answer questions about “important issues of the day” hasn’t evolved much since the 1920s.

5. Miss America contestants, apparently, are not born, they’re Xeroxed.

6. There’s a reason we turned our collective backs on this years ago, and it’s not because it’s sexist and demeaning. Quite the opposite. If it were really sexist and demeaning, we wouldn’t confine it to one night a year, we’d run it on a continuous loop on VH1 and have Bret Michaels hosting it. It’s just kinda boring and fake.

And, congratulations Miss Indiana for a job well done.

What is life without good friends, good food, and good … drugs? This week, reality TV serves up a healthy helping of all three.

Everyone’s looking for that special someone, and The Prince of Malibu is no exception.

Brody Jenner embarks on his fourth reality series. For those not in the know, Jenner is the son of one-time famous Olympic athlete Bruce Jenner, former co-star of The Hills, and ex-best friend of vilest-man-on-TV Spencer Pratt.

It’s that “ex” part that forms the basis of Bromance, which spotlights Brody’s search for his next ex-best friend. Rather than meet the usual way–bar, church, tanning salon–MTV has scoured the country to find nine needy guys with nothing but time on their hands who can fly to LA to declare their love for Jenner Jr. Their dream: To be just like Brody. Thwarting that dream: They weren’t born into unimaginable wealth and raised as dilettantes. It escapes them that without his family’s fame, money, and connections, young Brody wouldn’t be driving cool cars, he’d be parking them. No matter, these love-hungry post-adolescents will cajole, connive, and happily debase themselves to sit at the right hand of Brody, making this show an uncomfortable hybrid of Entourage, Brokeback Mountain, and The Price Is Right. Each week, Brody eliminates the biggest loser, and each week, the eliminations become soppier and sloppier.

This week, the boys went on a camping/bonding trip like something out of Iron John. They laughed, wept, and hugged, and then some guy got dumped on an LA roof while the rest of the “bro’s” sat in bathtubs with swimsuit models. The eliminations have all involved some sort of liquid: a hot tub, a boat, paintball splatters, now a bath tub. There’s probably something Freudian here, but the less one thinks about Bromance, the less annoying it is.

Guilty? Oh, boy.
Recidivist Factor: Low. Some folks leave California just to get away from people like this.

MEET THE PRODUCE

This week’s Top Chef was called “Down on the Farm,” but it could have been called “Meet the Produce.” The nine remaining cuisinaires broke up into teams called “Pig,” “Chicken,” and “Lamb,” then went to a farm where they got to pick fresh veggies, butcher fresh meat, and make a “family-style” meal for the farmers. At various points, we saw the chefs frolicking amongst the yet-to-be-slaughtered main dishes, which was kinda creepy–me, I would have been liberating the meal, not petting it. (Turns out, the beasties had been pre-slaughtered, so none of the on-screen animals turned up on the table, at least not for this meal.)

The increasingly batty Carla–am I the only one who thinks her side comments are starting to sound a bit sinister?–seemed likeliest to go home, but in a stunning turn-around, she ended up sharing victory with the contentious duo of Jamie and Stefan. The three won for their take on “chicken.”

Not so lucky were the other two teams, and everyone else wound up in the bottom. The boot went to Arianne, who was thrown to the wolves for screwing up lamb when she was teamed up with nauseating emerging couple Leah and Hosea, who look like they’re auditioning for an online dating ad.

Top Chef has tried to spice things up by adding a new judge, annoying British food critic Toby Jones. He’s supposed to be TC’s answer to Simon Cowell but he’s more like a weird crank who stuffs his face and makes “brutally honest” (so they say) comments like, “This tastes like cat food” and “I’ve found the weapons of mass destruction.”

Let’s hope the food is fresher than the jokes.

This show is the rare reality-TV treat that you can watch and discuss with minimal guilt. The recidivist factor isn’t as high as it should be right now, but we’ll keep tuning in.

IT’S NOT REHAB?

“It’s not rehab, it’s reality,” intones Dr. Drew Pinsky at the start of Sober House, but we have to ask: Does real reality include people recording your every move on camera while you’re holed up in a big house in the Hollywood Hills trying to kick your addictions?

This spin off from Celebrity Rehab gives us half-a-dozen ostensibly famous people who have been rehabbed and are now trying to live a sober life. The only one I could readily identify was Rodney King, though when they mentioned “Mary Carey, adult film star,” I remembered something about a wacky California governor’s race.

The cream rose quickly to the top here, and former Guns N’ Roses drummer Steven Adler immediately distinguished himself as this week’s star by showing up high on heroin toting needles and residue. A couple of trips to the upchuck and an emergency call to Dr. Drew, and Steven was packed off to spend the night with the Sober House muscle rather than being bounced for good. Which is good for us, because is they’d tossed poor Steven this early, the mantle of biggest screw up would have fallen to Seth “Shifty” Binzer, whose crack-smoking video was one of the highlights of Celebrity Rehab.

Since we actually are watching marginally famous people deal with genuine addictions, there is a pretty high guilt level here. Recidivist factor: Pretty good. There’s a lot of drama in kicking.

MISDEMEANORS

It’s always nice to have something good to report about Bret Michaels, and this week, all those teasers for Rock of Love Bus were pretty spot on. As promised, we got crazy Lacey in a hockey mask calling this new crop of girls “skanks,” and Bret doing an especially furious and profanity-laden elimination when he discovered Melissa was not only talking trash about him but that she probably also has a boyfriend–because, you know, when you’re spending your days and nights consuming massive amounts of liquor and stripper poling your way across the country, it’s important for Bret to know you have high moral values.

Perhaps best of all was his elimination of bizarre ex-porn star Brittaney. “She’s just not girlfriend material,” mused Bret. You should tattoo that thought on your hands, dude, you’ll be needing it again.

Meanwhile, over at Confessions of a Teen Idol, the guys got to tour Hollywood and ‘fess up to some past embarrassments. Christopher Atkins revealed how he was supposed to star in Footloose but blew it by showing up for a meeting stoned. “I’ve never told anyone that story,” said Atkins. Interestingly, Kevin Bacon tells that story every Thanksgiving.

Note to Scott Baio: Not that these guys aren’t a fascinating bunch, but if you’re planning a second season, please make up with former BFF Willie Aames. I mean, come on, Scott, the guy’s talking to Star about all his past abominations, he found religion, he lost religion, his wife just left, he was evicted from his house, and he’s done two rounds of Celebrity Fit Club. Don’t you want to get to him before Ryan Seacrest does?

What NBC’s Thursday night was once to sit-coms, VH1’s Sunday night has become to reality TV. The difference, of course, is that while people openly and proudly discussed NBC’s Thursday night lineup (“water cooler” shows they were called, back when people still drank from water coolers), VH1’s Sunday night shows are not really things you’re eager to let the world know you’re watching.

But, we’re watching, so here’s a rundown.

IDOL CONFESSIONS

We start with Confessions of a Teen Idol, in which seven former TIs are looking at another shot at TIdom. They all bunk at one of those VH1 frat houses, have therapy sessions, and manscape a lot.

You’d think that with seven former heartthrobs, this would be three-and-a-half times more compelling than The Two Coreys. However, this is produced by Scott Baio, whose other forays into RTV featured cozy looks at his own love life and the birth of his child. Thus, CTI is not as exploitative as it could and should be.

Plus, with one exception, none of these guys did anything particularly scandalous. There’s no Leif Garretts or Danny Bonaduces here. Jeremy Jackson from Baywatch (at 27, the youngest here) did some hard time for drugs, but otherwise, these guys didn’t flame out so much as mold. Like puppies or Easter chicks, they outgrew their cuteness and moved on. They’re not even especially demanding here, though they do bristle when some calls them “fat” or “old,” which happens a lot in the second episode when their former fans gather for a focus group and pick apart some current videos of the guys.

One of the former TIs is Christopher Atkins, of The Blue Lagoon and Dallas fame. The show tries to paint him as the hardest fallen, now working as a laborer installing swimming pools. In truth, he’s worked consistently in low-budget and DtV movies and owns a company that installs pools.

Confessions of a Teen Idol is guilty of going 35 in a 50 MPH zone. Recidivist factor (ie, will we catch this again?): Likely. I mean, at some point, somebody’s gotta blow, and it’s VH1, so I’ll catch it sometime.

WHEN THE BUS IS ROCKIN’. . .

Next up is Bret Michaels’ latest ode to female surgical enhancement, Rock of Love Bus. Rather than gather a group overly processed honies in a party house, Michaels spits in the face of the Mann Act and loads up two buses with most ginormously busted women this side of a freak show. Beyond their unnatural attributes, they really don’t seem to have a whole lot going for them.

Bret is actually on tour (I didn’t realize he did that any more), and these women are accompanying him and sometimes turning up as part of his stage show. When eliminations come, the losers just get dumped in whatever city they’ve stopped in. So, that interesting thing you did with the tequila shooter? Just gets you a one-way ticket to Indianapolis.

With each successive Rock of Love, the women become less distinct. The amount of silicone and collagen and bad makeup here just make them indistinguishable from each other. Speaking of makeup, Bret looks like he’s being done by the same person who did Benjamin Button…or Dreamgirls. When these women suck on various parts of his head, you can’t help but wonder if something’s going to come off in their mouths.

If you’re a conspiracy theorist and believe there actually is a “gay agenda” that’s set out to turn your sons away from women, Rock of Love Bus will only feed your fears. These women are just grubby, and every time Bret slobbers with one, you just feel like spitting–and then showering.

In week two, Bret made the women get done up for a pretend wedding. This meant tossing on a veil and otherwise stripping down as far as the VH1 censors would allow and presenting Bret with a love token–a labia piercing, for instance, or a blow up doll. One woman gave him stuffed animals and was eliminated for her trouble.

Second saddest moment so far: ex-porn star Brittaney–who is long past “fighting trim”–squeezing into a way-too-small bikini, crawling to Bret on her hands and knees, and doing aerobics on his lap while loose flesh jiggled this way and that. Even the less-savory travelers averted their eyes from this spectacle.

Saddest moment: Bret introducing a CD from Time Life, The Hard and Heavy Collection, that features music from Poison, David Lee Roth, and Twisted Sister, among other heavy rock and metal bands. Tipper Gore’s nightmare is realized.

Guilty of things I don’t even want to think about. Recidivist factor: High. Of course, if we still had public floggings and witch burnings, I’d be there too.

Rounding out the night in the worst possible way is Tool Academy, which is kind of like Charm School for dumb pretty boys.

The premise: A bunch of guys who look like strippers are chosen to compete on a reality show called “Mr. Awesome.” But–surprise!–they’ve been duped. It seems–surprise again!–that they all have girlfriends, whom they treat horribly, so instead of “Mr. Awesome,” they are at Tool Academy where they and their “ladies” will work out relationship problems, endure humiliating challenges, and try to avoid being eliminated for being “just a tool.”

After an opening that featured the guys hoppening around in their underwear, followed by the “gotcha!” of the girlfriends showing up, we get one of those hideous Dr. Phil-like confessionals, where were see the guys–who were secretly recorded–admitting to all sorts of untoward behavior. After some tears and recriminations, we get the opening night challenge: the women have to build a bed while the guys sit in recliners, have cold drinks from a cooler, and read instructions.

If you live by the stereotype, you must die by the stereotype, and one guy–the “Slacker Tool” (they all have cute nicknames, kinda the way Flavor Flav nicked his women)–cracks under the pressure. He kicks the cooler, picks up the recliner and tosses it, and moans, “She’s trying to demasculate me” about his girlfriend who, coincidentally, pays his freight with her child support income. Something I probably wouldn’t have announced on television, but that’s why they’re on reality TV and I’m merely writing about it.

Tool Academy is pretty bottom of the barrel. The people aren’t that interesting, and neither is the premise.

Guilty of giving voice to those who should remain voiceless.

Recidivist factor: Low. Some train wrecks you can avoid.

Having fallen from his position of Hollywood golden boy and being fired from his last film (which was ultimately closed down), Vince and the boys return to Queens to relax and get some perspective. Turtle is still carrying on his affair with Jamie-Lynn Sigler (by phone, now), Drama ends up buying a neighborhood bar, and Vince and Eric try to get Vince an audition with Gus Van Sant. Ultimately, Vince and Eric almost come to blows over Eric’s role in Vince’s career downfall, and Eric heads back to LA on his own.

Spoilers here:

It was inevitable that this season would end on an up note, and what an up note it is. In his desperation to get Vince an audition with Van Sant, Eric sent over some of the unused footage from “Smokejumpers.” A polite call from Van Sant to Vince acknowledging the footage humiliated Vince, who felt Van Sant was being condescending. This led to the blow up with E.

But as it turns out, Van Sant really was impressed with the footage, impressed enough to send it to Martin Scorsese, who offers Vince (without an audition) a role in his new film, a “re-imagining of The Great Gatsby.”

The season ended as most every season of Entourage has ended, with the boys (and Ari) re-affirming their friendship and heading out for drinks. Looks like things are back on track for Season 6, which airs in Summer of ‘09.

I really have to give Entourage’s creative team credit. The show could have continued for probably another three or four years as a glib fratboy fantasy. The stars are charming, the guest stars are fun, and you can’t go wrong with Hollywood-as-a-playground for a setting. But instead of continuing with the tried, true, and safe, this season they took the show and its characters in a different direction, one that might not have been as sit-com funny but was dramatically satisfying.

The deus ex machina they sent to wrap up the problems of this season was really the biggest they could find. Is there any better way of resolving a career crisis than getting the lead in a Scorsese film?

In any event, good season. It’ll be nice if all this isn’t just a write off, a bad patch all but forgotten with the next season. It’d be nice to see the characters learn from this and continue to grow in Season Six.