Well, it’s been a strange and depressing few days of entertainment between The Worst Oscars Ever, Charlie Sheen, and, that which no one forced me to watch—The Bachelor. I suppose no one required I tune in to The Academy Awards either but there were guests over and wine poured and ballots about, so you know. Lucky for Anne and James, Charlie has all but obscured their epic bomb. The Oscars were uncomfortable to be sure. But watching Charlie is like watching my grandma strip tease. And unfortunately it’s playing on repeat on every news outlet, in every corner store.
Anyway, there’s not much more to say about the abysmal state of what entertains (or doesn’t) the masses these days. I count myself a part of that, obviously, given that I spent last night fixed upon bachelor, Brad Womack—a man who has less personality than, well, James Franco hosting the Oscars. And yet, will I watch the final episode? I sure will. Because apparently I have nothing better to do than watch a boring man choose a wife. That, or I’m just too captivated, like millions of other love junkies, by the highs and lows of reality TV shlock.
Right then, time for some sort of ritual, cheap entertainment cleanse. I’m off to do yoga, read astute literature, and write a haiku. Be back later, hopefully smarter, with no more visions of public embarrassment and heartbreak.
Not likely though.