I never thought I'd feel sorry for Bret Michaels. Last week, that all changed. My love for Rock of Love is, I believe, well known (if not well regarded). For those of you who are not familiar with the show, let me just tell you that it's a dating show where Bret Michaels of Poison fame (and maybe all you need to know about the show, about reality television, VH1, Bret Michaels, anybody trying to win the affection of Bret Michaels, and American Pop Culture Right Now, is encapsulated by that phrase: "of Poison fame") attempts to find "love" by the standard reality TV method of dating twenty skanks and strippers and television weather girls and wannabe reality stars, along with the occasional nice girl, all at once. Every week, one contestant's "tour ends here" and she is sent back to whatever shiny pole she's abandoned in Vegas or Memphis or Fargo. Sorry -- that doesn't sound very nice. It is, in most cases, however, quite true.
I love this show. Partially that's because I love reality television, and I love really bad reality television most of all. There's something recklessly stupid and kind of sadly earnest about the worst reality shows (Sunset Tan, Rock of Love, early Flavor of Love, Blow Out, the Real Housewives) -- everybody is so, so desperate to be famous that they just don't give a shit about how they come off on television. Scheming? Evil? Desperate? Awesome!