You and I know both know that Thursday should be renamed Palinode-day, because it’s a lot easier to remember. But also because I generally post at more than one site on a Thursday. Today we’re talking all about reality television and faking orgasms. Also, this apartment is full of beetles. They sneak in from outside and avail themselves of some creature comforts. In return, we vacuum them up.
In the days following the suicide of one-time reality show star Russell Armstrong, it seems like a light breeze of change has been rustling among the stalks of public opinion in the field of—something or other. I’m sorry, I ran out of metaphors. But Armstrong’s suicide is a reminder that reality TV, for all its carefully edited and streamlined presentation of reality as a ‘story,’ still corresponds with the real in the way that a crime drama or soap opera does not. For every onscreen nervous breakdown or wildly bad decision, there’s a part of you that’s split between the pleasures of voyeurism and the joy of watching a story unfold. It’s part of what makes reality television so exciting.
For us, the confusion between the real and the fictive is probably harmless, except for the fact that it’s a complete waste of time (but then again, it’s your time, so do with it what you will). For participants, though, the exploitative nature of reality television may be psychologically damaging. Even at its best, it’s pretty crass. Maybe it’s time for this brash baby to grow up a little.
Not so long ago, couples with unfulfilling sex lives suffered through their miserable days and nights together behind closed doors.Today’s modern couple, freed from embarrassing restraints and able to sincerely embrace their physical dissatisfaction with each other, are perfectly happy to take their broken relationship on the road and pretend to like sex in a variety of stunning exotic locales.