If the Straitjacket Fits

Andy Dick had a happy moment during tonight's episode of "Sober House" (VH-1). House residents' team leader Jennifer was exploding verbally onto resident Seth during a house outing to a paintball game.

Andy stood close enough for a front row view of Jennifer's hurt and anger. He was smiling.

"I love to see people get upset," he said to the camera crew. Then it was something like "I don't know why, but I do."

Thank you, Mr. Dick -- you bullseyed my problem with a lot of reality series.

I love watching people handle competition. I love watching people make big strides in beating their demons, needless inhibitions, career obstacles, etc.. I love watching people find out how to manage big talent, how to manage disappointment about the limits of that talent. If any of it makes me laugh, all the better.

But I don't laugh watching other people melt down. Even if they're being self-indulgent drama kings or queens, which is often the case on reality shows, I feel empathy pangs at times. Self-indulgent drama is a personal talent I'm in the process of extracting. Still, you can book me for possession.

I've seen Andy Dick do the same theatrical melt-down dance that Jennifer was doing, so why was it funny for him to watch her? He seems to like her a great deal, actually. Not today, however.

I know, I know. I'm not supposed to empathize. TV critics always say that these "cast members" are merely exhibitionists. They swear they're trying to get sober or win money for charity or whatever. Actually, the critics shrug, they're just trying to get jumper cables for their careers.

Still, there's some reality in a good deal of reality television. I don't know if Jennifer was being a drama queen tonight or not.

I just know that a version of her straitjacket still fits me. Hopefully, not too much longer.

Mood Meter: down 2 points.

Bret Michaels Boards Bus, Forgets Parts of Brain?

For some odd, maladaptive reason, I still think Bret Michaels wields serious intelligence.

I hung on to that opinion/delusion through seasons one and two of his VH1 semi-reality "searching for love" series, "Rock Of Love". The girls demonstrated classic reality TV lack of impulse control, lack of emotional control, lack of fashion sense, and badly oversized breast implants. Still, a few hinted at carefully disguised smarts and adult reasoning processes under all the hair. To watch natural camera magnet Michaels, to see his sense of the absurd do some dancing with the girls who got it -- tuning in was almost worth the time.

This season, "Rock Of Love" stepped out of the comic-book mansion and boarded a slew of tour buses for "Rock Of Love, Bus".

The bus poses no problem. The concert sequences give the big bang. Michaels is better on camera than ever, on stage or off.

Michaels' lady contestants? The casting stinks to high heaven.

The girls seem as if any sense of self-worth was surgically removed before they were hired. The bitchy meow behavior goes on incessantly. Fights end up noisier, meaner, and creepily humor-free. Drinking too much is never considered "too much".

Mixing "trouble" girls with brighter bulbs made everything more interesting and less predictable for seasons one and two. Bret, Bret. You've got years of a great TV career in front of you if you don't squander it away on a compulsive preference for huge breasts with a side of serious personality disorders.

Your "girls" can't do any better. You can.

The Power of TV Chefs Who Lick Their Fingers

For most of my adult and teenage life, food was wicked.

It made you fat. You had to count calories or even apples would make you fat.

If you had fun eating, if you said "yum" or licked your fingers or smiled with too much obvious pleasure, you were only one tiny step away from losing control.

I still count calories. I like being scrawny. But
I'm beginning to understand the ancient truths about the bonds formed by sharing food, by licking one's fingers in front of others who are also having a good time.

Nowadays, if I were with one of my small-screen food fun heroes, I'd write in my calorie notebook only when alone in my hotel room late at night.

The word "calorie" would not pass my lips in the company of foodies, even those who didn't speak English.

See, I think God explained it beautifully to Eve when He gently told her that an apple was not the problem.