By Djb
Chris Harrison's almost entirely lifelike animatronic doppelganger is on loan from The Carousel Of Regress (which is, for those of you with the four-day Disney Fun Pass, The Carousel Of Progress when confronted with the culture-killing ineptitude of whatever this is), programmed to smile, walk, instruct Carousel visitors as to how to operate a newfangled, wood-burning stove, sing that "now is the best time of your life" song, and send us merrily off to the teacup ride. But before he gets to that, he's being fine-tuned and debugged on the island of Bachelorinia, where we nine or so remaining souls brave enough to answer the question "Wait, that show is really still on?" and "On what network? C-SPAN?" and "Wait, is it still that Bob guy, or...?" dwell like mutant mole people of the reality-television-viewing public. Up on a high fjord of the cliffs of Malibu, Chris Harrison stands stock still on a lanai that is doubtlessly the seventh lanai of the seventh patch of acreage of the seventh painstakingly location-scouted Bachelor/ette pad, the fact that each house isn't the same as the season's but is merely made to look exactly like the one before it is an irony big enough to build season's Bachelor's house on. Wearing a black suit and staid shades of blue in his shirt and tie like he's going to jet straight from here to the funeral of some dead Smurf brethren, Chris launches right in, using every ounce of physical dexterity that his DuPont-built mainframe can possibly pivot. "Welcome to The Bachelor!" he exalts, raising both arms slightly upwards, perhaps in hopes that a torch-bearing crowd will conveniently appear, nail him to a cross-shaped Date Box, and at least cease the spiritual portion of the poor man's agony. Ah, The Passion Of The Chris. And he proselytizes onward: "This time around, everything is different!" That's right, America and the privileged speck of Canada lucky enough to watch this show by staring through a pinhole-sized hole in a shoebox while wearing tinfoil bunny ears and tilting said box in the southwesterly direction of a passing DirecTV satellite, god bless their frozen souls: Different! Way different! For one, this Bachelor is generically good-looking to a wide swatch of women! For another, the women are blonde and in pharmaceutical sales! And, finally -- if you can believe it -- casual drinking and subsequent, distressingly premature pronouncements of true love will be rampant! Hold on tight to your fear of change, people! Because change told me it feels a connection with you.
Chris is almost up to the part where he introduces us to space travel and then sings, "Now is the best time of your life," but instead he continues on about change. Yeah, man. Change is the only thing that stays the same. When did Chris get so Zen? Was it when they removed his soul and replaced the gaping chasm with bags of cash? Because I have a sneaking suspicion that might chill my shit out too, for a while, if someone would do that for me. He continues on: "We've seen engagements, a marriage, and of course those breakups." Hey, hey, hey. Don't be whitewashing this shit, Chris. Don't gloss over the one-for-seven match-to-marriage rate this show has perpetrated us so far. That's a .143 batting average, and that ain't good enough to play in any league I never heard of, even if that one hit was a big, pink home run that won this show The World Series Of Tackiness and ensconced ABC evermore in The Hall Of In Touch Covers. ["I'd also point out that we saw a wedding, which is not the same as a marriage." -- Wing Chun]
Chris ambles woodenly toward the camera, threatening the very concept of the fourth wall with his concentrated march to my living room, maintaining the "must eat brains" lurch the public requires of its most debonair hosting personality. All the while, he vents, "This season, we saw things we've never seen before." So this part is being recorded after the season is over? That makes for a disconcerting opening speech. "We chose NFL quarterback Jesse Palmer to be our Bachelor. He is definitely one of the most eligible men in America." So this is being recorded before the season starts? Or did we just learn that he's still single? I'm inconveniently lost in time and space. I know they'll be cooking up some real surprises this season. If I may, can I pre-order the shrimp temporal? Thanks.
I think the ChrisBot is skipping. "You won't believe what you're about to see," he predicts, throwing the action to a not-unsubstantially-sized "This Eon On The Bachelor clip package that will make what we're about to see substantially less of a surprise when we actually get around to seeing it. Is this the show yet? Have I just been conned into recapping "Previously"s for a season that hasn't even begun? What the hell kind of Entermercial was that, anyway? Daaaaaaaamn yoooooo, Fleeeeeeeeiss!
Chris, near death from exposure from wandering around unsupervised on the lanai for the entirety of a commercial break, rounds the swimming pool and makes like TV's most talkative reality-show host, Phil E. Buster, arguing, "Our Bachelor may be an NFL quarterback, but this is going to be one of the biggest nights of his life." Cause-and-effect police, arrest that syntax! That sentence reads like the text-only version of one of those flip books for kids that's cut into halves or thirds, where the top of the person is wearing a business suit and the bottom of the person is wearing a tutu. Where's the correlation? Even though he plays an offensive position in a spectator sport, that won't stop him from finding momentous the experience of being pawed by strangers on TV? Am I close? Can I try one of my own? It seems kind of fun. "Though Hitler marauded the European countryside unchecked for the better part of six years, everyone seems to love pizza."
"Jesse Palmer really is the perfect Bachelor," Chris voices over a shot of Jesse throwing rose petals at the camera. Remember when Meredith did that in her promo and we reality-television scholars interpreted it as Meredith using her flowery, feminine wiles in order to snag herself a man? Why, then, is Jesse doing it? Is this his subtle way of trying to tell his teammates in the gentlest way possible that he is, in fact, a promosexual? Har har har. "He's handsome, smart, rich, and successful!" What he's saying is that he admires Jesse's commitment to community service. Just kidding. Actually, Chris is in loooooooooooove. With the sound of his own droning voice. But who is Jesse Palmer, really? According to Chris's not-too-fine a point, Jesse is "everything that every woman is looking for!" He actually says that in all of its damning totality. So, like...not to speak for 51% of the planet's population or anything? But Jesse Palmer is everything. That every woman. Is looking for. Ever. This means you, Golda Meir. ["Even Melissa Etheridge?" -- Wing Chun] This means all of you. ["Oh." -- Wing Chun]
A shot of the exterior of Giants Stadium inspires in me the same strong emotions that it does in all tri-state area dwellers: the pissed-off feeling of not being able to get to your cousin's house for the family barbecue because that damned stadium was built literally in the middle of the base of a main highway. We cut inside the stadium to find Jesse completely alone, running around the perimeter of the field while the real team is off in Green Bay actually playing in a game. But Jesse runs and runs. Holy crap! That thing must be as long as, like, ten football fields! Nah. Maybe just a little bit shorter. Jesse is twenty-five years old, we learn now, which means he's younger than I am, which I find almost impossible considering my youthful good looks and lack of similar income. Maybe what they meant is that he was stitched together and brought to god-defying, mutant life by the deranged Dr. Frankenstein twenty-five years ago. Come on. His brow is kind of monster-y. Admit it so we can marry.
We go on to learn that Jesse grew up on Ontario, which I'm told is in the "Canada" section of America. He's the oldest of three sons, from a mother who worked as a model (though the first nine times through I thought her name was "Susan Amodel" rather than "Susan, a model") and a football-playing, gay-porn-star -- people, gaze upon the wonder this is Mr. Palmer's stache -- father. Who played in "the Canadian Football League." Oh, that is adorable! Almost just like real football! A photojournal of Jesse's father shows photographs of him in uniform, taking his son to practice, on a boat, young and old. And in every photograph over what is probably a thirty-year span of time -- every photograph -- the man sports the same killer moustache. It's so garish as to be almost a thing of wonder. Split in the middle and then cascading down each lip like it's trying to run off his face and join a Village People revival band. Like it could be pulled off in a clean swipe with a single tug. Like it hasn't ever been in a '70s gay porno but "has a lot of friends in that community." It's a stache in search of a personality big enough to carry it. Truly, it can use its own reality show. Jesse, in a football uniform from his youngest days, is driven to practice by the stache. Jesse wins a scholarship to the University of Florida and becomes the starting quarterback. The Stache has its own mistakes in life vicariously corrected through the generation. And The Stache said, "This is good. This is very good."
"I think there's a lot more to Jesse than playing football," The Stache tells us in a surprise confessional. "He's an accomplished academic with two degrees, one in political science and one in business." Okay, maybe he's smart (and he's not), but "an academic"? Isn't that, like, actually a job? For people a bit more tweedy? The Stache fills in some more blanks, telling us that "he's wordly" as we find Jesse in France. Our insta-backstory continues via the matrilineal side, his mother Mrs. Stache telling us that, when it was announced at Jesse's college graduation that he had been drafted (in sports that's a good thing) by the Giants, "the entire arena erupted" in applause. And sure enough, we see some serious b-roll (people, this here is some c-roll, if you want the truth) of Jesse graduating from college on May 5, 2001. What were you doing on May 5, 2001? To the collective surprise of no one here, I think I was actually recapping. And it's true that the arena did erupt. But not the entire arena felt the joy, as the girl standing to Jesse, who was probably accepting a certificate for curing typhus, gets no props at all. She looks horrified. She must be a huge Redskins fan.
Shots of a toning, oiled, muscular Jesse are accompanied by the segue voice-over, "What more could this successful, handsome NFL quarterback need?" Besides a shirt? How about we start with one of those.
No. I was wrong. It's "love." The password is actually "love." That's what Jesse wants. And a visit from Mark Wahlberg! We're in Jesse's tastefully undecorated New York City apartment, where we pop in on Jesse answering the door and letting in a guy I really, really thought was Marky-Mark himself. But I guess he couldn't be showing up at Jesse Palmer's house, because he actually spends most of his nights here at my house. Instead, we meet Nick, Jesse's college roommate, who is identified somewhat prematurely as "The Spy's Husband." He's married to Valerie Plame? Can we PLEASE stop telegraphing this all around town? The woman is in enough danger as it is, for crying out loud. Nick goes on to explain to us that he "would say that Jesse is probably her best guy friend" -- which I'm sure isn't threatening to Nick at all -- and that his wife is going to be "the spy on the show." Because there's going to be a spy on the show, in case you've never of television.
It's a somewhat different time period now, because two of Jesse's football-playing friends -- let's call them "Brandon Short" and some other football gentleman who is not immediately identified -- show up at the place. This seems like it's going to be some sort of a party! The two gentlemen speak of how Jesse will be ribbed in the locker room, with the towel-snapping and what-have-you. Back in the kitchen, we revisit with Mr. Spy, who asks Jesse if he's going to get married on television. Jesse spits back the witty rejoinder, "I'm, I'm, I'm w-w-worried about not falling over l-l-l-l-l-during the first Rose Ceremony!" and I wonder if he wasn't considering a triple major in Hilarity, if his father's dreams of his son's success hadn't gotten all up in it. He was also a quick study in linguistics, remembering fondly a time when the word "during" began with an "l."
For lack of anything better to do, Chris suggests that we "take a look at earlier today, as Jesse and the women prepare for one of the biggest nights of their lives!" And, lady montage. They prepare for their huge night of institutionalized meeting (I know...HUGE!) primarily by hugging loved ones goodbye and learning that said loved ones have not offered to drive them to the airport.
We're under the cover of darkness now, which is where all the covert ops occur, at a wooded location nowhere near Jesse's apartment titled "The Spy's House." Low, bass-heavy spy music ensues. The Spy speaks, and her voice is all obscured with some kind of altering technology, sounding like she's about to threaten my children's welfare over the phone in an '80s TV movie. I hate it. And the amount of Facial Fuzzy-ator they're forced to use every time she's on screen obscures more total surface area of my TV than a million combined Fox News replays of the Super Bowl halftime show. Combined, people. She's with husband Nick, working out their own reality-show pitch, The Adventures Of Nick And The Blobface, coming this fall to Fox. The twist at the end is that everyone gets a million dollars. Blobface reminds us, "When Jesse decided that he was going to be the Bachelor, he asked me if I would help him find his bride." Heh. I love the self-determination that Jesse "decided" to be the Bachelor. Then again, that level of wish-fulfillment clearly worked for Nick when he decided he wanted to be in The Italian Job. Blobface tells us that it's her role to play the role of one of the girls and then fill Jesse in during their one-on-one time. Almost exactly like a -- what's that word again, where your job is spying? -- oh yes, a "spy." Nick sits with Blobface on the couch, asking her if she's ready to go. "I'm nervous," she says with such cheap alteration of her voice it sounds like the recording technology on this Casio keyboard I used to have where you could record your voice and then play it on every note (all, like, twelve of them) at all different pitches. From now on, whenever Blobface dares an utterance, I shall imagine a repeated bossa nova beat jamming behind her. And...drum fill!
And, see, hi. This is so dumb. Why hide from us who the spy is? We don't care, and we're going to find out anyway. Show her off in advance, have her hanging out with Jesse and plotting away how they're going to relay information, make it a groovy partnership, not an exercise in me licking my thumb and trying to wipe clean miles of my television screen because I keep thinking it's all smudged. Then when she gets out of the limo, she could have this totally funny little confessional where she's all, "Y'all, I'm the spy!" Anyway, right. Nervous. Nick asks her why she feels nervous, and she tells him that she doesn't know if she'll be able to pull it off. But they don't even know that there is going to be a spy in the house, so why would they even guess at it? If anything, they'll just be like, "I don't think ol' Blobface there has much chance of getting a rose, do you?" Because they can also see her...oh, never mind. She takes off her wedding ring and tells us in a confessional how hard that was for her, but I'm too busy reading the show's subtitled description of her, which reads like a busy, three-tiered wedding cake of excess information. She is "The Spy," below which is written, "Jesse's Friend," below which is written, "Posing as a Bachelorette." Generated by Entertainment's famed Department Of Redundancy Department.
Back at Jesse's place, our Bachelor packs his extra-large man clothing and voices over, "I have so many feelings running through my body right now." He's nervous. He's excited. He has what I think is a photograph of himself on his bureau.
Tiki Barber! I've heard of him. Jim Finn! I've heard of Tiki Barber! Two large men round a corner and enter the house of one Amani Toomer, who is another football player. Tiki (may I call you Tiki?) carries a black book filled with absolute, unrelenting proof that this first episode could have been nailed in an hour. Or less. Maybe it could have run as a commercial to some other series. I thought this country was getting rid of the Super Size. Inside the binder is a photograph of each of the twenty-five women Jesse is about to meet. Jessica is said to have "potential," while a "Celeste" inspires the comment that Jesse enjoys some "variety." Francine is deemed too "innocent." Let the women of the world understand: this is what men talk about when you're not around. Jessica is noted as looking like "a guy on our team." Which, really. Well done, Tiki. Or whoever.
Back in lovely, sunny stock footage L.A., we find ourselves in a hotel, where the girls are all being woken up by thankless production assistants who roll their eyes, roll up their sleeves, think, "could be worse, could be logging," and knock knock knock, it's time to wake up, ladies! One blonde says she didn't sleep very well. Another girl worries about being shy. Meanwhile, across town, Jesse wakes up, does a cursory look around his hotel room to see if he can discover what the hell the producers did with his shirt again, and confessionalizes, "I feel like I'm going on a blind date with twenty-five women." He's also happy that he has a spy. Because he has a spy.
And, as the final injury, the only thing I really loved from the premieres of the last couple of seasons: Meet The Producers. Well, it's been cancelled. Brilliant but cancelled. Instead of the second season of The Sally Ann Salsano Story, we are treated to yet another confessional with Blobface, who tells us how nervous she was when she was meeting the other girls. I mean seriously. What if the slot of the girl of Jesse's dreams were inadvertently occupied by The Spy? The other girls, meanwhile, listen as an unnamed producer (where art thou, Sally Ann Salsano?) welcomes them to The Bachelor, and a hair-and-makeup montage ensues. A girl named Karen drops the first "connection" bomb, celebrating the fact that she looked Jesse up online: "I wonder what he's doing right now!" What he's doing right now is sitting in a confessional room making exceedingly strained football metaphors for dating: "Today's game day. All the practices end." That's right! Get revved up and show those other footballers who's the boss of the footballing world! "Tonight, we're on the field. Lights go on. Put the eye black on. Let's go play." Erm. It's just dawned on me that he might actually think that he's on his way to a football game.
Trish hopes to "capitalize" on her long legs, indicating that said legs could be "wrapped around [Jesse] at some point in time." Mandy Jaye, meanwhile, tells us that the best thing that could happen is that Jesse see her "and [tell] all of the other girls to take a hike," following that immediately up with one of those breathy, whispered "No" that is meant to indicate all she's said until now is a hilarious farce and is the sad linguistic equal to saying, "I do not usually get the laughs." Dolores is Shiri Appleby trying desperately to get herself back on television. Don't remember who that is? Yeah. Me neither.
"The moment has finally arrived! Let's meet our Bachelor, Jesse Palmer!" Well, that's an anticlimax on the scale of "...and the best picture goes to...." Jesse's limo pulls up to the house and we meet him. Again. He shakes wee Chris Harrison's tiny boy hand, and the two of them banter like men. Chris asks, "You ready?" Jesse volleys, "Born ready." America counters, "Dick."
Inside the house they go, where they sit down on two chairs in the living room and generally chill. Y'know, like dudes would. Man, the whole place must smell of Funyons. Chris gets right to the tangentially-linked talking point I still don't grasp: "What do you think is gonna be tougher? Starting in an NFL football game or meeting twenty-five women here tonight?" Is it because football is supposed to be so hard? Or is it because it's a difficult task drinking champagne near pretty ladies and also one spy? Because this comparison has already been stretched way thin. Maybe I would understand it better if people started phrasing my own love life in terms of the job function that I perform. Here, let's try now: "Hey, Dan. What's harder: writing approximately 6000 words a week about some crazy bitches who start to look exactly the same season after excruciating season, or getting laid when you tell people what you do for a living?" The answer is: Dick.
Chris tells Jesse, "I gotta ask you the first question." What was the question? A scrimmage? Intramural confessionalizing? What's going on? The first question, then, is, "Why are you doing this?" Jesse responds that it's been difficult meeting genuine people who don't judge him based on his job description. The fact that he now has a chance to meet twenty-five women who didn't know who he was when they signed up is, according to Jesse, "comforting." It must be nice to align yourself with a group of women who don't care if you're rich and famous, as long as they know you're going to be rich and telegenic. Jesse: "There's so much more to me than just football." Uh-oh. You don't also make wine, do you?
Chris is grilling -- GRILLING -- Jesse. And I'll bet poor, unsuspecting Jesse had no idea these hardball questions were even coming! The Bachelor? Richard Clarke. Tell me it's not the best idea ever. Is he married? If he's not, it's because the Bush administration told him he wasn't adequately prepared for marriage in the days and months leading up to his wedding. Chris asks Jesse what he's looking for in a woman, and Jesse responds that he wants someone with her own life. Not someone clingy. Chris laments that it's difficult being married to a professional athlete. And he'd clearly know, due to the famed Harrison/Joyner-Kersee nuptials that were all over the tabloids a few months back. At least they didn't air it on ABC. What a circus that would have been. Chris reminds us that there will be a spy in the house. Because there will be. A spy. In the house. Oh, and Jesse thinks he would be ready to propose to someone at the end, "if someone moved" him. Also? Spy in the house.
"Twenty-five women from all across the country on their way to meet you. You ready for this?" Or twenty-four women. From all across the continent. Poor Canada. You guys should, like secede or something.
The first limo is here! The first limo is here! "Jesse, let the journey begin." Back off, Chris. I expect not to see you again until somewhat more shocking! times. Now go. The first limo is here!
They can't give him anything but love. But hoo-boy, can he give them cash money:
Jessica B. is a twenty-one-year-old law student from Huntington Beach, California. And I'm not one to judge a book by its SPF, but if I had to guess the extent of her legal knowledge, I'd say her reading on the topic centers primarily around reading about Jude Law as one off People's sexiest men alive. I mean, I read it too; I'm not made of stone. But just because I read People doesn't mean I get to call myself "a student of contemporary sociology." Jessica B. tells us that she is "a hopeless romantic," and she steps out of the car in a shimmering white gown, informing Jesse right away, "Just you and me. Nobody else is coming." She's here all week. Try the beefcake. Don't worry. I have a sneaking suspicion she will.
Jean-Marie gives the joke away for free when she informs us, "I'm twenty-six, but I actually feel like I've lived a long life." And you have. In your twenty-six years. As lived on Jupiter. She's actually kind of pleasant in a lumbering, Elizabeth-Hurley-on-Jupiter kind of way. And she seemed to have styled her hair with the fashionable power of prayer. And the lord ain't listening. But Jesse Palmer is, when he asks her where she's from and she responds, "North Carolina." He volleys back an almost sarcastic, "Really?" like he caught her in a lie when he snuck a look at her driver's license and it's all, "Jean-Marie, from Jupiter."
Suzie is twenty-three year-old. She is from Warren, Michigan, where she works as a "prosthetic technician." Hey, that's a real job that takes a whole approximately 11.5 months of correspondence training! And yet, years later, you still can't escape the wily barbs of well-meaning family members who repeatedly point at you and yell, "Hey, Suzie, gimme a hand!" at the holidays. She tells a story in confessional that indicates the lengths she'd go to in order to win a man's heart that goes like this: "There was this girl at a bar and her boyfriend said hello to me and she got all upset so she kicked me and so I just went up to her and we went at it and I kicked her ass." This is so romantic! I'll bet Jesse's teammates wish they could have been there to see that. I'll also bet that other girl is going to need herself one hell of a prosthetic technician.
Delores stumbles right from the first down (see what I did there?), getting out of the car and casually trying a line she's been practicing into her compact mirror for weeks: "Hey there, number three!" That's his football number. That's her percent chance of victory in this contest. She tells him that she's from New Jersey, just as her title card comes up and trumpets the fact that she's from Los Angeles. She's from the Los Angeles section of New Jersey.
Debbie is a twenty-seven-year-old massage therapist from Georgia. She enjoys massage, therapy, and unfavorable comparisons to Kelly-Jo's unfavorable hair bob. She's trying to keep "a level head." Maybe a pillbox hat would help balance things out.
Limo #2, or the last remains of the dodo:
Karen is from Providence, a city known not only for its corrupt mayor and exceedingly good karaoke options, but also for its crack team of former pageant winners now in pharmaceutical sales. Slightly more goth than the rest of the girls, one would expect Karen's sensibility to be a bit sharper than the rest, but looks can be deceiving, and we quickly learn that the only pointy edge Karen has ever seen is on the business end of a tiara. "I was Miss Rhode Island in 1999," she tells us, conveniently leaving out the fact that I came in fourth behind each of the Farrelly Brothers. Jesse compliments Karen's dress in a way that means, "I now understand the tactical uses behind double-stick tape. Thank 3M for me."
I just thought I'd take a moment to revisit Chris's assertion that we'd be meeting twenty-[four] women from "all across the country." Meet Anne-Catherine, who is apparently from the city of "Quebec" in the state of "Canada." She has a strong French-Canadian accent, which means she's not the spy. She's from Quebec City. "I'm from Ottawa!" Jesse all but screams in glee. See, this is a valuable lesson in life: if you think you have something in common with someone when you meet them, sometimes you really don't.
Francine is looking for someone to travel the world with. How about to such exotic locations as Baltimore, Dallas, and Detroit? What's that? Oh, that's so weird. I totally thought you said you did want to be married to a football player. My mistake. Francine.
What's this? I think I'm seein' double! up is a blonde whose most apparent physical attribute is that of looking somewhat...well, used. By the world. And the reason I'm seeing double is because her name is also Jesse. No. Really. They'll say it again if you're as dumb as she is. Flouncing out of the limo wearing a bright pink dress, she shakes his hand and tells him that her name is Jesse, adding interestingly, "I was so worried about you forgetting it!" So, she changed it from whatever it was to Jesse, just to make sure? He asks her what her middle name is, and upon learning it is Diane, does not take the opportunity afforded to him by yelling back, "Diane is also my middle name!" Dick. Jesse continues, drunkenly, I think, that she can call him "Jesse D," slurring, "That's my little, on the internet, my name." Is she a recapper? Because I've never known any one of us to be able to recap an entire episode of show at the current level of inebriation Jesse seems to have achieved. Actually, I can think of one. ["Me too, but since I'm not interested in getting my ass kicked, I won't offer a link." -- Wing Chun] Either way, both "jessed" and "jessedee" have just been added to my buddy list. In a confessional, she tells us that she is the most insecure person ever, and she worries that she'll be handed "the boot" on her first night and be sent home brokenhearted. "The boot"? When I spend an entire day banning different derivations on the name "Jesse," that is officially going to become a shout-out.
Julie is an NFL cheerleader who confessionalizes that what she has in common with Jesse is "the same love of football." Because he plays football and she knows a lot about it? By that rationale, Jesse should also be dating my cousin Cliff and a lot of fat dudes with blue body paint smeared across their chests. And have I mentioned yet that the Giants finished in, like, negative a millionth place last year? And they lost their final eight games. Yes. The latter 50% of their entire season's contests resulted in defeat. And not because our fair Bachelor was injured. Alas, this occurred because he wasn't.
Limo #3. The one with the hairy chest:
Tara "isn't here to find any guy," she's "here to find the right guy" for her. Well, good luck choosing between the...one...guy.
"Sha la la la la la la!" DeShaun yells in satisfaction as she exits the limo. Why would a person do that? ["Because she's performing the theme song to Family Ties? Otherwise, there's no excuse." -- Wing Chun]
Jenny S., buried right in the creamy nougat center of the introductions, is The Spy. Her confessional is so delightfully generic that I can only imagine the blast they had writing it for her. "I'm not here to get a rose," she says. No. No, she certainly isn't.
Amber cannot wait to be a mom. Why? Is she pregnant?
Mandy C. is actually pretty foxy. In a slightly horse-like way. She's a twenty-five-year-old professional soccer player from San Diego. She says to Jesse, "I hear you can't throw a football." For some reason, this doesn't make him laugh -- as it should, Mr. Big Shot Quarterback, am I right? -- but instead he responds that he's "pretty bad at throwing with [his] right hand too, actually." Either 1) they're very deadpan or 2) there's something in the skillset of the quarterback that doesn't require a good throwing arm that I just don't know about OR 3) this elucidating little chat really clears up the Giants' winning percentage in the 2003 season.
Open the door, get on the floor, everybody walk Limo #4:
Jessica is the fourteenth girl who looks exactly like Jessica. She is a golddigger of highest order. Even her sweater in her confessional is somewhat gold-colored.
Not that any of you will remember this person at all, but Holly looks a little bit like Shea, who I think was a fireman (whatever) during what I think was the Bob season. She got booted right away because it was part of a mathematical elimination that took place before Bob figured out that he could not, in fact, choose himself as the winner. But Holly wants us to know that she has "fire and spunk," which sounds like the best prog rock album you've never heard. Anderson and Wakeman would be proud. But not Bruford. Because that guy's a dick.
Kristy. Yeah, I don't know.
Katie is self-described as being "sweet and innocent." She's from Charlotte, North Carolina. You know what would match that dress? A red rose and a shattered heart. Let's see if we can work on that together.
Celeste doesn't have a prayer.
Limo #5 is alive!
Mandy Jaye has way too many names for the average interior designer. But not for one from Austin, Texas. She tells us that she likes "men in uniform," so I'll bet she's got one of those calendars with the black-and-white shirtless fireman holding the baby. What? You know you know what I'm talking about. Why do I, you ask? A friend had it. I was just looking when I went over. Stop looking at me like that.
Oh, my god. Blonde-a-palooza has no seeming end. I don't even remember that girl's name. Rewind? Why don't YOU rewind?
"My mom hadn't even really heard of The Bachelor," Kristin N. tells us. Oh, were I only so briefly able to switch bodies, Moore/Cameron style, with Mrs. N. Kristin is described as being a "Thai Pop Singer," which comes with a side of either brown or white rice.
Jen M. is twenty-four like rocks are twenty-four.
And, finally, Trish, the one with the legs that go all the way down to the floor. Watch out for this one. The promos insist upon it. She has a massive sweep of brown hair that pretty much ends in a mullet. She tells us in a confessional that she doesn't cook. She also tells us, "I've always been attracted to athletes. Getting paid for what you do well is a good thing." Wow. She has really specific tastes.
Shut up, Chris Harrison. "Jesse, you've just met twenty-five fantastic women." Really? "One of them your friend." No! "And a spy." Lies and deception! For truly, if one of those women had really been Jesse'e friend -- not to mention a spy -- I'm almost certain someone would have thought to mention it to us by now. "Normally, all of the roses are handed out at the Rose Ceremony," Chris vamps on, believing utterly in the alternate universe of reality this show forces Chris to inhabit. "But tonight is gonna be a little different." At which point Chris unearths his own long-stemmed rose from seeming nowhere and brandishes it in Jesse's direction, in what truly would have been the most shocking Rose Ceremony ever, were Chris to go down on one knee and be all, "Jesse, I've realized I can't live without and, well, I know it's not how it's usually done, but...will you accept this rose?" Ooooh. Awkward. "This is the first impression rose," Chris actually says, back in the world where this development signifies how this season "everything is going to be different." He continues, "You should give this to the woman who you want to invite to stay based on first impressions alone." So let me get this straight. Rather than having us wait until the first Rose Ceremony to see which of the total strangers we as-of-yet have no well-informed opinions of (because there are too many people to make for compelling television) that Jesse chooses, we're going to learn in advance of that one woman he'll definitely be giving a rose to. I guess this zany new wrinkle was fried up in an effort to ratchet up the competition between the ladies early on, but what this awesomely-named First Impression Rose really does is, if possible, further remove the drama of the first Rose Ceremony, because we already know of one person who will definitely be getting a rose. Not to mention the fact that that wouldn't really be that dramatic a development anyway, because we would have known who was getting the first few roses anyway based on the three conversations Jesse has in which he and the girl are totally hitting it off. The First Impression Rose, therefore, is kind of utterly meaningless, when you think about it or don't think about it. Call me when this show becomes ballsy enough to implement the Go Screw Yourself Rose, a wilting elimination rose that knocks someone out right in front of the rest of the room, often reserved for the token person of color or anyone who's not blonde.
In a horribly ill-fated attempt to brand herself, bachelorette DeShaun takes the opportunity of Jesse's entering the house to once again yell her signature, "Sha la la la la la la!" You've got to hear it. Twice! Maybe it's some kind of nervous tic. Or maybe she really is trying to market herself with a kick-ass catchphrase so everyone will talk about her! Maybe I suggest something a little more commercial, DeShaun? Let's go with: "Don't have a rose, man!"
The pointless milling portion of our show has entered its infinity-stretching first phase, and we kick from scenes of light, early banter to a confessional in which Julie believes, "Holy hottie!" Mandy Jaye speaks for the consensus when she tells us that she finds Jesse to be "the sexiest Bachelor yet," an automatic consolation prize roughly akin to "the most adorable cockroach yet found in my sink" or "the least rock-comprised head on Mount Rushmore." Jenny S. stands defensively near Jesse the way I would make Wing or Pamie do when they were trying to blend in. ["Except I don't know how well we'd blend in with a group of men, including (obviously) Marky Mark." -- Wing Chun]
The Spy, Jesse's Friend, Posing As A Bachelorette, confessionalizes, "I know what my job is. I need to get to know these girls as soon as possible." Clear objective. Blurry face. Such is the mind-fucking paradox that is The Spy. Jesse's Friend. Posing As A Bachelorette.
"I've never really dated a celebrity before," Francine confessionalizes without a trace or irony, and oh, how I wish you all had the groundbreaking '70s television series Soap memorized, because then we could all delight together in comparing that line to when Billy Crystal snarks, "I mean, I've always wanted to meet a Hawaiian ventriloquist," and Richard Mulligan deadpans in response, "Well, now you will." That's right. To fully bring to life the ludicrousness of Francine's calling Jesse Palmer "a celebrity" and also implying that they are, in fact, dating, I had to go back in time almost thirty years.
Delores, shall we say, fumbles when she oozes, "I'm a huge, huge Giants fan." Because he doesn't want to make his relationships all about his career, Jesse, um, runs with the ball and asks Delores what she likes so damn much about football, anyway. She responds, "I'm a crazy stalker. Don't give me a rose!" and in a confessional Jesse's all, "Don't worry. Not planning on it." Or some general paraphrasing of the above.
"You ever meet people who are going to judge you right away?" Jesse asks Karen. She notes that people must judge him because of "the whole football thing," commiserating that people prejudge her because of "the whole pageant thing." They are exactly the same.
Jesse hates Jesse. She went to the University of Texas, which is fine school with high academic standards and a passel of lovely alumni who I am proud to know. Except for Jesse. She's a drunken moron. I'm confused as to which Jesse is which, suddenly. Let's call them Jesse-XY and Jesse, Ex-Bachelorette. He asks her how the Longhorns hand signal goes (my lame Division III school didn't have a secret handshake, so I kind of don't know what's going on right now), and she's all scandalized when he does it wrong. She then asks him what school he went to, and when he responds that he matriculated at the University of Florida, she correctly guesses that his team was the Gators, following up on that by clapping her two hands together and making a shadow-puppet alligator with them, asking, "Does it go like this?" Jesse-XY gets all quiet and judge-y and looks away in disgust, because he's so much more urbane than Jesse, Ex-Bachelorette is. In a confessional, she cops to not having made the best impression, but says she hopes she'll get a rose anyway. But really, he hates her. Or perhaps it's just an errant thorn from the First Impression Rose he jammed down his pants earlier that we haven't seen pop up in a while.
Mandy feels a connection. Jean-Marie feels like she hasn't gotten her turn. Jessica gives the plushy gift of a stuffed gator, because she "heard" that he went to the University of Florida. From her gossipy little friend. Called "late-night obsessive Google search."
"I have this rose in my pocket," Jesse says, setting off a spate of misfiring jokes that all end in "and I am also happy to see you." Good thing I didn't use any of them, or we'd all have something to feel kind of embarrassed about right now. He tells us he knows whom he's going to give it to. It's not going to be Anne-Catherine, but for right now she can delight in the fact that he likes her because she's Canadian. French-Canadian. Or, as we're about to learn, maybe just French-accent-Canadian. Jesse tells her that it "totally blows [him] away" that there's another Canadian in the house, especially since they sealed the border after the years of warring between the two countries. Why is it so surprising, really? Anne-Catherine tells him that her first language is French, so Jesse pulls out the final stop and says, in French, "For the five minutes, only speak to me in French." She says, "I'm loving this!" He asks her if she's always lived in Quebec, and she responds, "You're very good!" You guys, she doesn't know French at all. Like, AT ALL. He tells her he looks forward to speaking more (or, really, any) French with her later, and she's all, "Suddenly I just remembered I totally have to be somewhere!" before running off to scour for Berlitz Guides at the Entertainment gift shop.
And, enter the villain. Jesse worries about giving the First Impression rose, saying he hopes it doesn't lead to early jealousy among the women, while the producers worry equally that it won't. Jesse offers it to Trish, and she accepts as the other girls glare on in horror. She tries to downplay it with the other girls because she doesn't want to "rub it in anybody's face." One of the girls offers a tepid "yay" because everyone's about to hate Trish. I hate the First Impression rose.
Milling milling milling milling lee lee lee lee la la loo.
Jesse takes some time to speak with his spy, and we don't get to hear anything she says, because it's drowned out by her robo-confessional that she's glad she can be there to help him out with his decision. Katie is having trouble putting herself out there. The hottie soccer player ting-ting-tings her champagne glass to hilarious effect. Some blonde girl named Kristy wants to be a surgeon and knows she's going to get a rose. Ting ting ting. Shut up, Chris-Harrison-oriented sound effect.
The sports metaphors on this show have already been so egregiously underthought, unformed, and uniformly massacred that, quite frankly, I have absolutely no problem referring to the deliberation room this season as The Penalty Box. Different sport, you say? Go to hell, I cleverly rejoin. Chris and Jesse retire there, where Chris asks how it's going and Jesse gamely responds that he could see one of these women as the one he spends the rest of his life with. And, also, there is a spy in the house. Chris apologizes to Jesse for the huge surprise that was the First Impression Rose, saying, I kid you not, "I did throw you a curveball right out of the gate." Hey! You got your baseball in my horseracing! And you got your horseracing in my baseball! They recap -- a skill really best left to the professionals -- that Jesse gave the rose to Trish. Which we knew. Chris actually repeats the fact that there is a spy in the house. "So, twenty-five fantastic women downstairs." Minus the spy. "Fifteen you're gonna invite to stay." Fourteen, minus the spy. "Trish already has a rose." So does the spy. "So, fourteen left to give out tonight." Thirteen. "There are twenty-five unbelievable women downstairs," Jesse confessionalizes on Chris's exit. "Any one of them could be the future Mrs. Jesse Palmer." Well, that ought to come as some kind of news to the cuckolded Nick. Jesus. Disengage the autopilot, producers.
Can we just do it to it already? Thanks.
Jesse descends the steps of the manse, coming to rest in front of the ladies and letting out a big, puffy-aired sigh. They crack up because if the guy is rich enough, even air can be a punch line. "I've been in some tough spots in my life," he waxes. "But nothing ever like this." All he feels is undeserving. He is undeserving. "I look at these roses and I hate it. Because I know what it means." Well, it's a somewhat less lyrical interpretation of the flower's inherent significance than when Gertrude Stein mused on it, but, then again, Jesse Palmer is an idiot.
And, here we go:
Kristy, will you accept this rose? Seriously, what's so mind-blowing about Kristy? She looks exactly like every other blonde there. She's Everygirl. Or should I say Dr. Everygirl? If this whole medical-student thing works out for her, I wouldn't even go to her for treatment, because I'll bet when it comes to antibiotic, she always prescribed the generic brand.
Anne-Catherine, will you accept this rose? Oh, Jesse's accent. So French! And he wants you to know!
Mandy, will you accept this rose? And you kissed me and stopped me from shaking. And I need you today, oh Mandy.
Celeste, will you accept this rose? Jesse should give it to her with a scrapbook to press the petals between, because this is only heirloom she's getting from this experience.
Jesse [, the Ex-Bachelorette], will you accept this rose? He said the wrong name! He said the wrong name! Oh, wait. That's later. But still. He said the wrong name.
Mandy Jaye, will you accept this rose? Maybe this is where, as she earlier suggested, her man "tells all of the other girls to take a hike." Heh. No.
Jenny S., will you accept this rose? My god, when will they just tell us who the spy is? It's absolutely killing me! Apropos of nothing, of course.
Amber, will you please accept this rose? There's an Amber?
Tara, will you accept this rose? There's a Tara?
Jean-Marie, will you accept this rose? There's a...sorry.
Jessica B., will you accept this rose? "Oh, my god. You almost gave me a heart attack!" she whispers as she entitles her way down to the front.
Julie, will you accept this rose? She tells him it's "a great gift," and all the girls laugh in a you-missed the-joke- you-losers-at-home kind of way.
Suzie, will you accept this rose? Hey, Suzie! Give me a hand!
Hi, Chris. Shut up, Chris.
And, finally tonight, Jesse ends the proceedings with the offer of his final, last, not-one-more-in-the-bunch rose: "Katie, will you accept this rose?" She screams with glee and accepts it before he even has a chance to offer it, with makes it a somewhat embarrassing pickle when Jesse suddenly calls Chris over with a "I need to talk to you real quick." They excuse themselves to the dining room, where Jesse gets right to it: "I forgot her name. That wasn't the girl I wanted to give it to." He begs, "We've got to do that again." Chris muses after what to do with Katie, Jesse worrying, "She's gonna be crushed." All right. We'll do this in baby steps. First, Jesse, maybe you'd like to briefly consider -- oh, I don't know -- lowering your own estimation of yourself? That would probably be a better indication of how other people feel about you. Which, so far, for the most part is a unanimous "meh." But of course the show pusses out as usual to make the Bachelor look like our hero, and Chris compromises that, if he wants, Jesse can always just give Katie the option to stay. Jesse thinks Karen might be someone he'd like to spend the rest of her life with. But first he needs to learn some of the fundamental aspects of her being. Such as her NAME.
Back in front of the ladies, Jesse explains, "I've very embarrassed to tell you this. Katie. I accidentally called out the wrong name." Poor dear, she actually steps forward to offer the rose back, but Jesse offers her the opportunity to stay and she accepts before the question is out of his mouth. Chris runs to the garden and plucks another rose, landing it conveniently on Jesse's wicker love plate. Jesse wastes no time sounding it out correctly: "Karen, would you accept this rose?" He apologizes to her, but really, she's fine with it. Katie, not so fine. Shiri Appleby, not so fine. Chris, secretly kind of amused by the whole bullshitty thing.
"I actually was surprised that I didn't get a rose," Rachel complains. Aren't they always? Dolores wonders if she talked about football too much, but doesn't think it was really her fault, blaming the cosmos instead that they just didn't share a "connection." You think she's seen this show before or what? Holly just found Jesse's choices icky. Karen felt "a nice little connection" while they were talking. Katie is prettier, anyway. The Spy, Jesse's Friend, Posing As A Bachelorette is worried about protecting her identity. "The sixteen girls that remain are all amazing," Jesse offers in a confessional. Dude. Fifteen.