Couch Voyeur

photo credit: stars alive

'VE HEARD IT SAID that you shouldn't watch someone on television doing things you wouldn't want them doing in your home. For example, would it be okay for Steven Seagal to bust down your door, twirl you over his head a few times, and hurl you through a window? Of course it wouldn't. It should be noted, however, that the very same Seagal-gram delivered to the home of your buzz-saw-loving neighbor is commonly referred to by scholars as Biblical Justice.

Natural exceptions aside, there should be a new, similar standard for our behavior as it relates to reality shows: "I will never, ever watch people humiliate or endanger themselves on television." But few viewers can seem to meet this standard. I think I know why. This standard has no industry connections, and is completely broke. It is what we call a "big nobody." It is also in direct competition with a much more popular and well-heeled standard called "voyeurism." Advertisers and program directors get along with voyeurism very well; it's always available for parties, and is cute as a button.

Let's focus our attention on one of the less nature-intensive reality offerings: the personal wardrobe makeover. No creepy crawly in the sense of bugs, although you'll soon suspect your hosts of having been locked in a human/mosquito transposing pod for their excellent hovering and biting skills.

The premise is that some of your "friends" have submitted you as a candidate for a better wardrobe. They think you're swell—you just need a little slapping up when it comes to your loser clothes. So there you are in your fuzzy pink sweatsuit. Our two stylish young hosts point out that, with your planetary figure, the sweatsuit number calls forth "pom-pom" from deep within their high school memory banks.

Continuing in this creative vein, they compare you to a "pink Hostess snowball" and a "spray-painted hedgehog in fright mode." Is this going a bit far? All I know is, my popcorn's running out. As I scoot to the kitchen I just catch our hosts suggesting that before you should be caught dead in a pink sweatsuit, you must lose a few pounds sensibly. Then and only then, when round has at least become oval, will you not be run out of town on a rail. One host winks at the other, because that was a very clever little retro phrase that most people except old ones don't know about.

Back to the show, which now features a large barrel where it turns out most of your current wardrobe is headed. But not before each item is held up to receive the rotten tomatoes of ridicule and sarcasm. For instance, you own a pair of flip flops with ducks painted along the straps and one yellow egg in the middle. According to your protestations, these little numbers add "color" and "fun" to whatever outfit you've sentenced to appear above them.

Our hosts grant you that "color" has been added, but they are eager to point out that simultaneously "taste" has been subtracted, leaving you with a big "zero" in the Acceptable Footwear column. Into the barrel they go. Followed by a t-shirt silk screened with your ex-boyfriend's face (and, yes, on the reverse is the back of his head, you poor thing), six pair of pink jeans, because pink is your color—"Was your color, honey"—various shiny blouses purchased by your mother, and a uniquely stained leather vest that inspired one witty host to apply a clothespin to his nose. Clever visual, but, "Should that poor girl be separated from her belongings while being subjected to snotty emcees?" I hear someone implore. Would you please keep it down? I just missed another punch line.

Okay, so that was punishment; now comes reward. We are going shopping! With our stylish young hosts and camera persons as companions, you are quickly descended upon by willing young store clerks at shops where I have never officially spotted a store clerk. Pardon me, that's "sales associate." I've never seen one of those, either.

The magic of editing finds you blink! in a darling two-piece outfit that successfully cuts your M&M figure (plain, not peanut) right in half. I wonder if the handkerchief skirt hem paired with go-go boots will be around in six months, but what do I know. Because you can always switch into your new suede jacket with the fringes and epaulets, matching it with the animal print mini and patent leather stilettos. Your makeover gurus explain that this combo tricks the eye with pattern and broken lines. I see.

In thirty minutes it's all over—our makeover victim comes away with a bruised ego quickly mending with shiny new clothes and accessories; our emcees are feeling very righteous and recognizable; and I am splayed on the couch like an elephant seal digesting a nice fat trio of squid. So, yes, there should be those higher standards, but seeing that voyeurism is about as addictive as chocolate, higher standards don't honestly stand a chance.