Killing Reality

by Bob Henderson

  Anything with Kardashians in the title became an obsession for so many women, with the majority being teenagers and naive early twenty-somethings, who would gladly forfeit exploring who they were or could be, to model themselves after the K crew. The more I thought about that sad fact, the more I despised them.

  Instead of a young female generation growing up secure and confident with aspirations of becoming the next Sally Ride or Madame Curie, they chose to worship on the altar of unpromised fame. A fame that was attached to having a personal stylist, personal shopper, and doing the fashionista routine, complete with a boutique-sized closet of clothes you didn’t need.

  Suddenly, being a reality TV star was on par with winning the lottery, or becoming an instant “hero.” Once I slipped down this reality rabbit hole, I furiously started drafting a new letter.

  “Fame is poison. Who the hell wants to be a Kardashian?” I glanced at the TV and then typed some more. But I soon hit delete and sat there staring at a blank screen. I went back to reading more data. One report suggested that reality TV was, to a certain degree, employing subliminal message techniques to influence viewer behaviors and attitudes. Made sense to me. After all, the reality shows were exposing celebrities who were sociopaths, just like Petra Stronge and Andrea Milk. And the masses loved it. They craved it. It dawned on me that maybe, just maybe, the networks were purposefully looking for every crazed C-list actor, steroid-hopping ex-athlete, and alcoholic socialite they could find. But it didn’t stop there. No sir.

  They beat the bushes in Appalachia. They went down every back road in America to find some wannabe trying to scour local media. They desperately needed to find a nobody and turn them into a somebody, until they found the next somebody. All those nine-to-fivers who were stranded in their cubicles all day would rush home to see if they could find some new adventure to vicariously live through. It didn’t matter if it had hijinks at a trailer park, or moonshiners on the run from the local police. Reality TV was an opiate of distraction for a society heading down the screwed-up path of moral bankruptcy. This had to stop. People needed to see the truth. And I needed to pull out all the stops. My earlier diatribes about the evils of reality TV didn’t lead to one response. So, I decided to step up my game.

  To: the Los Angeles Daily News

  Dear Editor-in-Chief,

  I am writing you regarding the largest, fastest-growing national product known as reality TV. And like its predecessor cocaine, it’s just as profitable, dangerous, and addictive. Before you laugh at this comparison, think of the networks that distribute these shows as a cartel, the Hollywood Cartel. They offer what on the surface appears to be something fun and harmless—an opportunity to indulge in socially, certainly not anything a person could get hooked on.

  But it’s time to face facts: isn’t it obvious that nothing about reality TV is real, and that every episode is scripted down to the last detail? More importantly, not only is the cartel offering up this hot mess of bad behavior to the lunatic fringe, it’s also rewarding that behavior with fame, money, and power. In effect, it’s saying to a very young and highly influential population that being bad is good—no, it’s great. Sadly, it appears that the viewing public loves nothing more than to watch this garbage, week in and week out, rather than be informed and actually do something of their own.

  Did you know that 47% of teenage girls consider watching countless reality TV episodes to be one of their primary “activities,” instead of being on a team sport or a member of a school club? Young women are glued to the TV (or phone, iPad, whatever—take your pick) day and night, comparing their own hair, nails, and fashion to that of the celebrities they watch. They do this instead of going to the beach with friends, volunteering, or sitting down with a good book.

  Were you also aware of these troubling statistics? Teens who watch reality TV on a regular basis have low self-esteem, are more insecure, have a higher incidence of bullying, and experience more emotional highs and lows than what is considered “average” in their age group. Not to mention the disturbing number of abusive relationships they are associated with. Is there even one redeeming attribute of the shows that are turning an entire generation into vapid zombies? The facts suggest not. Then why do you constantly plaster these poor excuses for celebrities all over your news features rather than highlighting real-life and meaningful issues?

  Could it be that you get some sort of kickback for

  supporting the atrocities the networks are committing? To that point, if somebody decided to take out the whole lot of loser reality dimwits by whatever means necessary tomorrow, most people would probably give that person a medal.

  Don’t believe me? Everyone not living in a cave has heard about the Petra Stronge and Andrea Milk cases. If the networks were made to understand that by putting this trash on TV, they are in part responsible for people getting killed, would they stop airing such immoral and mind-numbing schlock? Which, in turn, would enable news outlets like yours to concentrate on real news and real people, gaining back some credibility in the process? Not a chance in hell. Every network exec would run over their own mother to keep those ratings up. My recommendation? Death to reality TV!

  Signed,

  A Concerned Citizen

  7 Who’s Playing Who?

  I was this close to submitting my “new and improved” letter. But after proofreading it a couple of times, I quickly came to my senses. I could only shake my head in disbelief. With one click of a button, the police could’ve hauled my sorry ass off to jail. What was I thinking? All because of my skewed sense of righteousness—so I decided to put my letter writing on hold for a while.

  Since I stopped pouring my energy into writing letters, I tried to keep myself and my mind occupied by working diligently on Primed Minister. But it was the same old routine—delusional reality stars thinking they were so important—and I had to struggle to keep a grip (no pun intended) on my frustrations. It felt like a recurring nightmare, as one day exhaustedly blurred into the next.

  Then, late one Thursday morning, things went from bad to worse. I had downed one too many energy drinks early in the day—to counteract another late night of obsessing over getting caught and brainstorming how I could stay out of jail—and I desperately needed to take a leak. But as I entered the nearest restroom, a sound stopped me in my tracks: the unmistakable sound of frenzied sex coming from the last bathroom stall. Ugh. Is nothing sacred anymore? I thought to myself, rolling my eyes in disgust. Not only did I have to piss, but I was actually pissed because now I had to track down another bathroom because some horny idiot couldn’t keep it in his pants long enough to find a nearby Motel 6.

  I turned to leave but was caught by a movement reflected in the mirror. It was Lync, the oh-so-happily hubby of the gay son, struggling to zip up as he quickly left the stall. Needless to say, he seemed quite happy and content. I turned again to leave, but another sound, this time of the stall door slamming, kept me frozen to the spot. I braced myself to see Lync’s hubby, Paul, join him at the sink when, Stella, the gorgeous red-headed woman who regularly catered lunch for the crew, emerged instead. I couldn’t believe my eyes—a woman!? Not his husband or even a token boy toy groupie, but Stella? All I could do was shake my head in disbelief. So, Lync likes to play both sides of the street, I thought matter-of-factly. What a con.

  My mind flashed on the conundrum of whether a gay man having sex with a woman was considered cheating—or did it only count if it was with another man? I shook the thought away and refocused. This would turn into an extremely awkward situation if I didn’t move fast.

  I tried to escape before they saw me and I nearly made it, but Lync caught sight of me as he looked up from washing his hands, and it was too late. Things went from bad to worse, because as soon as Lync realized he and Stella had an audience, he moved in a flash and grabbed me from behind by my collar.

  “Marc, what do you think you’re doing? Were you spying on me?!” Lync demanded, acting like a petulant school kid wh
o thought rules were for everyone else.

  Before I could plead my case, a memory came rushing back, unbidden, as I recalled nearly the same words from Petra the night he died. I froze as if I had seen Petra reincarnated. My heartbeat pulsed through my veins. Busted yet again, in a perpetual Groundhog Day moment. How do I get into these situations? Will this torture ever end?! I silently asked the heavens.

  I stalled for time, trying to think carefully on my feet. I slowly rotated and turned to face the fury of the duo. I made sure not to say one word. However, Stella, whom I could never have wild fantasies about again, hastily arranged her clothing and shot out of there like a bat out of hell. Damn. The gay guy got her first. Where was my game?

  And then there were two. I warily looked Lync in the face, expecting for him to knock me shitless, verbal or otherwise. But his anger and bravado disappeared. In fact, with Stella gone, he looked downright nervous, like he was about to curl up and cry. “Hey, can’t a man experiment occasionally? I mean, no harm done, right?” He tried to laugh, giving me a nudge.

  He was going for the we-guys-gotta-stick-together approach. I immediately relaxed, sensing where this was headed. It was a soap opera unfolding before my eyes. “Listen Marc,” he pleaded, “I’m in a bad spot here. Please don’t say anything. Otherwise people will talk, and the ratings will bomb, and we’ll be dropped from the network.” He was nearly stuttering now.

  I almost laughed, but the comic relief quickly faded because I felt myself bubbling over with anger and rage. I tried to choose my words wisely, but I couldn’t help myself. “Really, Lync?” my voice rose, “You’re not worried about your husband, or that you were cheating on him—and with Stella of all people? All you care about is the show and those stupid ratings! What’s the matter with you?”

  After seeing that I wasn’t dismissing his actions, Lync dropped his friendly approach and changed tactics. “What are you, dumb or just incredibly stupid? This shit goes on all the time. You know it, I know it, and everyone else knows it too! Who are you to be holier-than-thou? Give me a break!” He was breathing hard now. Either he needed to do some cardio, or his guilt had his heart rate rising to a dangerous level.

  “I’m not the one who’s intelligence-challenged here, Lync. Let me put this to you as simply as I can. Be a fucking man! Who gives a shit about you being gay or straight? Just be a stand-up guy for a fucking change. You know, the kind who has values and won’t sell himself out for the almighty dollar?”

  Enough was enough and I didn’t want to face him anymore. But when I turned to leave, Lync grabbed my arm, again trying to plead his case. “You’re right. Come on. Let me clear this up, will you? You keep quiet and I’ll tell Paul and set everything straight. I mean, Stella’s nothing to me, really nothing. Just a jump off, ya know? Anyways, that whore came on to me!”

  So much for his sincerity. He was already twisting things around to dump all the blame on Stella. Obviously, he hadn’t heard one word I said.

  “Lync, you wannabe stars think nothing of other people, only of your pathetic selves. You will use any and everybody if it satisfies your needs and that insecure ego. You’re all cream of the crop, Grade A shitheads as far as I’m concerned.”

  I wrenched my arm out of his grasp and headed to find another bathroom. After I found another, thankfully empty bathroom, I returned to the set, and started thinking back on the scene I had painfully witnessed. Even though I was initially shocked, I was already fairly numb to what made reality TV stars do the crazy stuff they did. I shrugged it off and tried to move on. I figured Lync was contributing to a new medical term in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders:

  “Alter-telepath. A condition that affects reality TV stars who become delusional and are dangerous to themselves and the general public. There’s no cure or antidote other than a total lobotomy or a permanent dip in deep, cold water.”

  Reality TV stars were their own cheap brand of “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” and anyone who was ever unfortunate enough to work on a Hollywood set could and would testify to that in a heartbeat.

  The crew set up the lighting for the next scene between Lync and Paul—the one where they would openly talk about finally becoming a family and adopting a baby from a foreign country. I silently said a prayer for that poor baby. Then I noticed the sounds of what seemed to be an argument and looked to its source. Behind the set monitors, Lync and Paul were having a shouting match. Paul gave Lync a much-deserved hard shove and burst into noisy, melodramatic tears like a three-year-old boy being scolded by his daddy. Paul tossed his highly hair-sprayed hair and stormed off set.

  Oh boy, I thought, wincing. Lync’s face was cherry red and his eyes bulged, his throbbing veins running down his forehead. Everyone on the show knew Lync had a short fuse. Since finding out he was going to be a main character on a reality show, he’d started doing extreme weightlifting to get in poster-boy shape for the camera. There hadn’t been much lead time before the pilot taped, so Lync had supplemented the training with, you guessed it, steroids. A lot of steroids. He’d been overjoyed with the results, but they’d come with some nasty side effects, including serious mood swings. Lync was a walking, talking, muscular ball of anger. Just about anything could blow his fuse. And in this particular moment, Lync was fired up and ready to fight.

  His incredible Hulk-like body came barreling my way. There was no place to hide. He scooped me up by the throat and pinned me against the wall like a school bully. I glanced behind him and saw Paul cowered behind the big boom with the crew, watching and soaking it up.

  Lync got in my face and hissed so only I could hear: “You just zip your fucking mouth! You hear me, you little asshole? Say one word and you’ll never work again. I’ll make sure of that.”

  His face contorted in anger. It was as if he’d need an exorcist at any given moment. “You destroy my show, my marriage, or my reputation, and you will be royally screwed in more ways than you could ever imagine. Do you fucking understand?”

  Lync couldn’t have cared less about Paul or Stella. His only concern was the inevitable fallout if the story got leaked to the press. I knew how freaky and uncontrollable people who use steroids could get, but his wild behavior took the word scary to a whole new level. All I could do was nod my head in agreement and look for the nearest exit.

  The crowd began to disperse, sensing their entertainment was ending. My heart was beating fast and I could feel my disgust rise when I felt Lync’s grip loosen. Something inside me snapped. Maybe Lync’s stupidity was catching, because I couldn’t seem to stop the words from tumbling out of my stupid mouth.

  “What are you? A fucking Arnold Schwarzenegger knockoff? The joke’s on you, bud. Nobody gives a rat’s ass about Primed Minister,” I scoffed. “You’ll be lucky if you get another six episodes out of this piece-of-crap show before they pull the plug.”

  I smirked, aiming for nonchalance, but was unsure if I was pulling it off. I stood my ground and waited. Lync started to shake with fury and leaned into my face. Nose to nose. “You naive little prick. You think I care what you think about my show? But since you’re so opinionated, here’s something you might think about before you go tattle-telling to the press.” Paul, sidled up to join Lync, in an apparent show of marital solidarity.

  “Word has it that this isn’t your first rodeo. You know, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Am I right, scumbag?” Lync poked his sausage finger into my chest. “You breathe one word about this and I’ll deliver you to the cops on a silver platter, got it? Whether it’s true or not, they come down pretty hard on people like you.”

  He leaned in a little further, whispering, “Have you ever seen Scared Straight, shithead? I don’t think you’d do well in jail, little man.” Lync roughly patted my cheek as he smiled. “You’ll be someone’s bitch by day two. And I don’t think you want that, do you?” he said, continuing to poke a burning hole in my chest.

  I hated Lync to the core. He let go of my neck and I dropp
ed to the floor. He happily strutted off, leaving me there, gasping for the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding in. What the fuck am I going to do now?

  8 Out with the Old

  Three days after Paul and Lync’s episode entitled “Looking Through the Cracked House of Glass,” the set returned to its usual rhythm. Still, tensions ran a little higher than usual, with new stories circulating that the couple was overly stressed due to a private, undisclosed family crisis. And since many of the crew members had witnessed Lync and Paul taking out their pent-up aggression on me, I was on the receiving end of a shitload of well-meaning, unsolicited advice. I got everything from “Don’t pay them attention, they’re just looking for sympathy,” to “I heard Lync just got tested for herpes. You know Hitler had that, right?”

  People were actually telling me not to take Lync’s vicious attack too seriously. Too seriously? Yeah, right. I’d like to see one of them get attacked by a raging steroid addict and then see what they have to say on the subject. The only serious thing I wanted to do was get the hell out of there.

  You might think that after all the recent turmoil—the accidental killings, the fear of being exposed, the emotional rollercoaster of dealing with crazy reality stars, and the threats on my life—that I should’ve had already purchased a one-way ticket out of California. But nooo. After catching a bit of Paul’s stupidity, I pitched my stake in the ground and was determined to continue with my plan to expose the rapidly growing cancer that was reality TV. I may have gotten distracted from time to time, but I always came back to my most pressing goal: surviving this debauched world of reality television.