Three point seven million men and women across the United States, including myself, should hang their heads in shame. Every Monday evening at 9 p.m. (or during one of the many re-runs), we watch very irritating and stupid men compete for the affection of a more irritating and stupider woman and the approval of her even worse mother. I'm not sure what I'm more upset about: that I Love New York exists in the first place, or that I take time out of my day to watch it. I'm fairly confident that the more I watch, the more brain cells I forever lose.
For those of you who have not yet succumbed to the mind-numbing hour-long pseudo-orgy of New York (everyone on the show has a nickname; her real name is Tiffany) trying her "best" not to cave into her apparently uncontrollable sexual impulses, here is some background. New York wants to find true love after the rapper Flava Flav, of Public Enemy fame, rejected her not once but twice in the earlier VH1 seriesFlavor of Love and Flavor of Love 2. She made it to the finale both times, but was a bit too aggressive for his style -- "I'm the man, I wear the pants," he said, while she was a self-described HBIC (Head Bitch In Charge). Poor girl, her heart was broken by a man in a plastic Viking helmet who wore giant clocks around his neck.
Not to worry, however. New York now has men fawning over her and the power to choose who stays and who goes. It is no easy task, made evident by the many tears she sheds when she has two choices left but three great guys. How touching.
The male contestants easily fill stereotypical roles -- the rebel, the sensitive one, the ladies' man -- and have made it fairly clear that they are on the show to get their 15 minutes. New York repeatedly insists that she is looking for real love, and the guys feed her lines to that effect. Everyone has ulterior motives though. And maybe New York really just does have horrendous taste in men. Still, I maintain that the entire series is a farce from start to finish. Nonetheless, as viewers, we just keep watching the continuing train wreck.
There is no value whatsoever to watching this show, save maybe the ego-boost of knowing that I am not nearly as lame or stupid or inarticulate as any one of those contestants, or even New York herself. So, as I ask myself every week, what it the allure? How did this show become the most watched series debut in VH1 history? Why does it keep breaking Nielsen ratings records? Am I so hungry for self-esteem that I am willing to subject myself to an hour of boxing matches, male beauty pageants and dinners with the contestant's ex-girlfriends?
Yes, yes I am. For me, watching I Love New York is an act of selfishness. I watch the show with bad intentions. I genuinely hope that New York doesn't find love, because I don't think she deserves it. I think she is rude and whiny. I don't want any of the men to find love either because they are self-involved and childish.
That being said, in order to fully understand the magnetism of I Love New York for fellow viewers, I spent way too much time browsing all the contestants' MySpace pages. Apparently, Mr. Boston wants to get his own spin-off show, Whiteboy works at the "best" pawn shop in Miami and 12-Pack's sexuality is still somewhat questionable. On all of their pages, they have hundreds of posts from adoring fans saying how great they were on the show.
Since the advent of reality television, there has been something attractive about watching "regular" people become overnight celebrities. We cheer on the good ones (come on, who doesn't love Kelly Clarkson?) and hate the bad ones. We invest more in reality TV because deep down, we see a little bit of them in us.
But I watch I Love New York because the people are unrecognizable. I watch to remind myself of what I should never become. Most of all, I watch because everyone needs to feel good about themselves once in a while. And, if men getting into constant brawls, parading around in speedos and playing princess with little girls is too low-brow for you, then pass the remote my way, because I think New York's synthetic hair might have just caught on fire.
-- Carey Polis is a senior Writing Seminars major from Bethesda, Md.
