Debut

Props to Wing Chun and Sars, and continued tutorial points to my muse Potes and her muse Little Hills. Hit 'em up style, ladies. Hit 'em up style.

"Once upon a time," the disembodied voice-over of Chris Harrison explains during a synth-drenched opening montage of palm trees and beachfront sand that immediately sets this show's cheesiness quotient in an exceedingly Miami-Vice-Audio-Visual-Team- Reunion-Tour-'03 kind of way, "there was a beautiful young bachelorette searching for the man of her dreams." The logo for The Bachelorette appears on screen in the font MS Public Humiliation Sans Pride, and we cut from a Glamour-Shots-sponsored shot of Trista holding a bouquet of roses against a black background to a few shadowy shots of her interacting with this season's passel of dudes. Shot of Trista laughing with dudes. Shot of Trista drinking with dudes. Really ickily objectifying shot that starts at Trista's feet and pans up to get a tight look at what I'm sure the cameraman who lensed this shot would refer to as her "gams." Guy Whose Name I Don't Know Yet explains to the camera, "She's got her head on straight. She knows what she wants," while Guy Whose Name I Don't Know Yet II further plot-develops, "She's exactly the kind of girl that I'm attracted to." Disembodied Chris Harrison butts in from the great beyond to finish his thought: "And twenty-five men trying to prove that they're the one." Guy Whose Name I Don't Know Yet III (let's call him "Trey") tells us, "I believe in fate, and that's, I think, why I'm here. I think it's out of both of our control." Cut to montage-y proof that, in fact, this situation is very much in Trista's control after all, as she holds up a rose in the first elimination, and I look around my apartment wondering, Joe Millionaire-style, what color wine you're supposed to serve with all this beefcake. Red? Is it red? No, white. Oh, red? Oh.

After once more very slowly explaining that twenty-five men will be competing for the affections of one woman, just in case a significant portion of tonight's viewing audience had never previously been introduced to the recently invented concepts of "television" and "math," Chris "The Twenty-Sixth Bachelor" Harrison finally reveals himself. He walks onto the gaily decorated patio of The Beefcake Factory, introducing himself with a smarmy "hi" and waiting just long enough before continuing to make me feel bad that I didn't offer a return "Uh, hey, Chris" or "Hi, Dr. Nick" or whatever it is I was supposed to do and didn't. Wearing a black suit so that he doesn't have to waste his time changing before he leaves the set to attend the funeral for the death of culture, he saunters around the pool and welcomes us "to The Bachelorette." Now wait just a second, there, Mr. Harrison! Did you say what I think you just..."that's right! I said The Bachelorette!" He did say that. He did! "Tonight, instead of one man handing out roses and choosing from twenty-five women, this time it's one woman choosing from twenty-five men." Oh, good god, we know. WE KNOW! I understand that this show is very proud of itself for having turned gender mores on its ear like this, but (a) the word "bachelorette" has been used on television since The Dating Game let one woman pick from three men starting, like, the same day the picture tube was invented, and I know Chuck Barris doesn't need any more press right now but I thought it was kind of worth mentioning, and (b) we've seen the previews and the commercials and we've been to the website and posted on the forums, so it's not like they could've thrown that loping a curveball at us and, oh yes, (c) shut up, Chris Harrison. It's gender politics as normal on a reality television show; it's not like Trista is crashing a turn-of-the-century meeting of the Daughters Of The American Revolution, handing out leaflets, and yelling "Suffrage! Suffrage for women! Suffrage for all!" So let's try and keep some perspective.

Or, not. Chris walks away from the pool and up a flight of steps, backstorying in such a BOCES educational filmstrip kind of way that I instinctively look around for the button to push on the slide projector when Chris pauses again and we hear that little "beep" sound indicating it's time to go to the slide. "When Trista had her heart broken by our first bachelor, men across the country went nuts." Chris is so disgusted with Bachelor #1 that he can't even say his name out loud. I'll bet he even spells it "Al-x" when forced to write it longhand. "We received thousands of phone calls, letters, and applications from guys across the country who wanted a shot with the beautiful blonde they fell in love with on TV." What Chris fails to note is that at least 60% of those letters, once opened, were found to have ended, "...and those are the reasons I don't think you should cancel Firefly," and that they were misaddressed or sorted incorrectly by the TV Land mailroom. Not to mention the fact that it sounds from Chris's congressional filibuster like people started to send in these aforementioned "applications" back when Trista's heart was broken by the first bachelor, which was, like, two years ago. ["Two years, seven months; same difference." -- Wing Chun] What were they sending in applications for? Ukrainian citizenship? Membership to Price Club? E-Z Pass? Pay attention, copywriters. That is lazy, lazy, lazy.

Inside the house we go. And...well, nothing says "testosterone-drenched catfighting" quite like purple throw pillows and satin blackout curtains. Oh, no. I'm sorry. I actually meant that nothing says "Gus Van Sant's shot-by-shot remake of Love! Valor! Compassion!" quite like purple throw pillows and satin blackout curtains. Unless that candle-festooned Stickley side table has the Gobots-esque ability to convert itself into something a bit more foosball-related, I can't imagine twenty-five (allegedly) straight men living here for any stretch of time without the competitive spirit being interior-designed right out of them.

Chris wanders through an open sliding glass door. Too bad someone just left that thing open, or else we might be treated to a snatch of Barbra's impassioned version of "Don't Rain On My Parade" when Chris rang the novelty doorbell that would doubtlessly play such a show tune. "Now, granted," Chris vamps, because Trista is taking so long in the bathroom just like a girl, "you usually don't hear of men lining up to get married. But these guys are all here because of their romantic feelings for Trista. Each of them hoping, several weeks from now, they might be the last man standing and Trista might become their [sic] wife." We learn that we'll be meeting the bachelors at a time called "later this evening," but first we have to go deeper into flashback mode and "get reacquainted with America's first bachelorette." Back in voice-over heaven now, Chris patronizes, "You probably remember Trista as the girl Alex didn't pick at the end of our initial season of The Bachelor." Actually, I do not, since that was back in the day when I maintained a vague political ideology as well as a vague adherence to scripted television. We watch Alex give Trista her walking papers and Trista crying in the limo that her "life will go on." Groovy.

Cut to yet another montage of Trista, and this time she's described, Mad Libs-style, as "gorgeous," "sexy," and "Miami Heat dancer." Hee. It's brilliant that those are the three descriptive adjectives that are supposed to give us a cumulative personality composite of Trista Rehn. What a coincidence that I was totally going to put her name in the blank for "Name of Miami Heat Dancer In Room" in the Mad Libs entitled "My Trip to the Basketball Game." We cut to an interview with Trista's mother, Roseanne, telling us that she gives Trista "a lot of credit for believing in herself." Comprehensive profile interviews with the parents, now? What is this, PBS Presents Ken Burns's The Bachelorette? Can we get to the shirtless-men-tussling portion of the show I've been promised in the promos already? Shut up, Trista's mom. This show is supposed to be young and sexy and fast and dirty and maybe a little shameful, and at no point should I feel compelled to describe anyone's physical characteristics as being "understudying for the role of Diane Keaton's glasses." So shut up, Trista's mom. As a photo collection of Trista's childhood unfolds that would be best accompanied by Paul Anka's "The Times of Your Life" and the title card "The Official Trista Rehn Bat Mitzvah Video," we now hear from Trista's dad, Stan, that "she was a member of the pom squad." Well, she's totally three-dimensional now. This helpful clip package will ensure that all of us will remember her as a fully actualized human being, rather than just another set of gams. And we know she's smart, too, because she got a Master's Degree while wearing her mom's Diane Keaton glasses. Also, she works with children. She got involved with children's medicine because she likes children and she also likes medicine. Thank god this clip package showed up when it did.

A black limo pulls up the driveway of The Beefcake Factory, kind of veering a bit into some nearby hedges as if the car itself is embarrassed to be seen in this context. Trista steps out wearing a slinky black number, and approaches Chris with that awkward handshake/hug combo that we all sometimes exchange with our own Guardian Game Show Hosts when the nature of our relationship starts to change. He tells her that she looks "fantastic" and "like a bachelorette," and suggests they go inside and "have a talk." Inside the unlocked front door ("Don't tell me not to fly, I've simply got to..."), we're on the front lines of Trista's reaction shots when she takes her first look around The Beefcake Factory. Gape-mouthed, she tries not to cry, and Chris notes the almost sarcastic amount of candles and sneers, "We know you like candles. Is this enough candles for you?" Sure, Chris. Is this enough subject/verb agreements for you? It ain't?

Out by the pool now, Trista and Chris sit down at a table decorated with so many candles it can be described less in terms of how beautiful it is than how contained it is. She admits to being "excited and nervous," and that it's an experience "she can't wait to start." Yeah, neither can we. Chris, playing the devil's advocate, asks, "You think you can find a husband in this process?" Trista, playing the devil, responds, "You can find a husband in any process." After a salt-pouring beatdown in which Chris deigns to again mention Trista's failings with Alex, Chris then attempts to build her back up with the peppy "I've had a lot of women tell me, and I'm sure they tell you, 'You go, girl!'" They tell Chris, "You go, girl"? Chris must know a lot of people from The Past. Clearly, much of this advice comes from Chris's social interactions with either manufacturers of late '90s kitschy key chains or the syndicated cast of Moesha. But Trista agrees that "women in society these days have powerful roles," but that she's "not normally the power person in a relationship." Chris volleys that the men the producers have picked are right up Trista's alley ("Are most of them normally the power person in a relationship?" Trista's helpless doe-eyes seem to ask), and that they include such calendar-model-worthy professions as "pilots, several firemen, a few pro athletes, including a bull rider" -- he left out such strong, silent Real Men clichs as frontiersman, gladiator, and actual grizzly bear, which will all have to wait until season I guess -- "and even a breast implant salesman." Oh, thank goodness. A walking punchline. Now a fat guy would just be a bonus. He tells Trista that her "life is about to change," and she resolves that it will change for "the better" before standing up and walking ahead of Chris to get back to the house, stopping only three times to ask the ABC production staff for directions. Silly girl!

It's nighttime at The Beefcake Factory, Trista and Chris exiting through the open front door ("If someone takes a spill, it's me and not you...") and standing out on the front walk. "Trista," he tells her, "here comes the first limo. Let the journey begin." Chris -- perhaps suddenly embarrassed he's used such overblown, Magic, the Gathering-esque dork language to preface twenty-five sets of cheekbones stepping out of rented prom cars -- slinks off.

Meanwhile, out of the first car steps:

Jamie, a drawn-to-scale Ken doll with sculpted blond hair and teeth so gleamingly, whitely present that as he walks toward the camera he accidentally bursts through the fourth wall and eats three jellybeans in a candy dish on my coffee table. And he never. Changes. Expression. Someone must have slapped him on the back when he was a child and his face froze like that forever. He must have appeared to be a very happy child. He shakes Trista's hand and kisses her cheek, and in an interview we learn that he "turned down a contract to play pro basketball." Wow! "In Germany." Oh.

Rob, who, I'm sorry, is kind of cute in a blond, tousled-haired, baby-faced, self-adoring, Jason-from- The Real-World- Boston-esque kind of way. But when you get a second, Rob? Shave. It. Off. It helps to have light hair and all, but we can still see it, even if you clearly missed it. He tells us that Trista is "such a beautiful person" that he's going to have to concentrate on "her head and her heart," rather than becoming infatuated with her looks. Or, as it may well turn out, his own.

Chris, a tall, dark, and thirty-five year-old liar-about-his-age, who tells Trista, a total stranger, "I feel like I've know you forever," and then instinctively moves fifty yards away from her in order to comply with the kinds of laws they make for the kinds of people who say the kinds of things like "I feel like I've known you forever" to a person or people they've never met before. He thinks people are jealous of him because he has "a successful business going" as a VP of an auto-parts company in Sugarloaf, Pennsylvania. He also describes himself as "well-rounded," and I find it an extremely interesting character choice that he is obviously talking as if he's playing the character of his giant, bulbous nose.

Jack, a twenty-seven-year-old African-American metaphor mixer who describes himself as "a firefighter" and Trista as "the fire." Is that an insult? Is someone's ass grass? Who's the lawnmower? What's going on? He won't win.

Brian S., who is clearly just Jamie in a Brian S. mask.

The first limo on its way back to the depot to be sprayed, sanitized, crushed into a cube, and shot into deep space, a new shiny black rental shows up fresh from The Simi Valley Prom Limo Rentals lot, and out pours a crop of five Brians, give or take a Brian:

Eric is a commercial pilot, which means he carries the dual attractions of being nearly unemployed and is probably not allergic to peanuts. Screw the rest of them, Trista! Propose right now! He tells us in an interview, "I sort of have the attention span of a flashbulb when it comes to dating." The entirety of the TV-watching audience born after 1978 quietly asks, "What's a flashbulb?" I'll bet most of his relationships are over before the nickel's done on the Nickelodeon! Before the needle scratches off the long play record! Before the...oh, never mind. Twenty-three skidoo! Oh, and his hairline is receding so quickly that it appears to be occurring in a time elapse.

Greg notes that it's nice to "finally" meet Trista. He tells us that he wants a home with "a picket fence," which shouldn't be too hard to find in his current locale of Manhattan. Maybe he should foster his wishes for a Rockwellian utopia with Chris out in Grover's Corners and the two of them could live happily ever after. Greg, I'm guessing, wouldn't be entirely averse to that plan, either. I'm just sayin'.

Paul is , and kisses Trista's hand and wishes her an "Aloha." She guesses that he's from Hawaii. Actually, I thought it was family custom for the people from Paul's indigenous region to greet each other with the tiding, "Mmm-bop." That place being The Middle Of Nowhere, which is, interestingly enough, the name of his band's smash debut album.

"My name is Brian." Yeah, get in line. The A-Zs (minus "B") queue up over there, and everyone else...well, you get the picture. Brian is the guy in "Breast Implant Sales," and you can all but smell the smarm and saline dripping off him as he interviews, "If I had to describe Trista as a car, it would be a Grand Touring Convertible. One with a lot of power. Very sleek. If I had to describe myself, it would be as the ultimate American sports car. With tons of torque. Just a real American bad-ass." Besides the woman-as-automobile metaphor being totally degrading, you can't fault this Brian completely for everything he's said. After all, he does maintain some of the basic qualities of your average American car, insofar as he is of a vaguely taupe shade and made entirely of leather.

Chris steps in to ask Trista what she thinks of the first fifteen Bachelors, and she responds that she "wants to get in the house right now." Could that be because she is excited to start her extensive screening process of "taking poems and payola on her way to a husband-tastic tomorrow"? Or could it mean that she's just eager to get away from one of:

Bob, who...well, let's just say that he won't be who Trista chooses, but he might be that guy's wacky best friend in the sitcom they'll make about this season on The Bachelorette. Oh, sorry, what? Oh, that's the nice way of calling him fat. I didn't think I'd have to explain. He tells Trista that "Alex's loss is our gain," and the whole of the country stifles a series of "Are you sure you should be adding anything more in the gain column?" jokes, with an unacceptable dash of "Why, because you ate him?" quips that other people would say and certainly I never, ever would.

Billy is a firefighter from Hermosa Beach who doesn't brag about being a firefighter. That is, he is a firefighter, but he doesn't tell people. Or something. He whispers smackily to Trista that it's nice to meet her. He won't win either.

Duane is a flight instructor from Minnesota who tells us, "I grew up in a family where the dad's always been the dad and the mom's always been the mom." He thinks it will be "weird" having a girl "call the shots," but he'll "go along with it." Duane's introduction was brought to you by the letter "Duh" and the modifying adjective "anabolic."

Gregg H. is from New Jersey.

Guardian Game Show Host accompanies Trista to the front door of The Beefcake Factory ("Nobody, no, nobody! Is gonna rain on my paraaaaaade!"), stands stoically while she kisses him on the cheek, waits for the camera to cut away, and then commences bawling into a well-manicured hedge and muttering nonsensical variations on "My little girl" and "Is all grown up." Inside, Trista walks alone and bids the men all a hello, quickly giving in to her emotions just like a girl, turning away, and squeaking, "Oh, my god, I can't believe I'm here!" She makes the rounds, accepting a rose from Billy, who smiles widely and doesn't tell anyone he's a firefighter. Peter stands, looking suspect, in one corner of the giant living room, telling a wayward camera, "I think she has the whole package," before turning around and continuing his journey to retrieve the gun The Godfather taped up behind the toilet. Brook tells a story about the rodeo that Trista has to listen to and we don't.

Out on the patio, Trista tells us that "it's gonna definitely be about the chemistry I have with them in talking to them." She fake-laughs when Eric notes that there are "so many men, so little time." Maybe they have such an instant bond because he works for the same Spencer Gifts distributor as Chris's aforementioned "You Go, Girl" friends. Josh swoops in from nowhere and drags Trista off, pirouetting daintily to another end of the porch while telling us that he wanted to steal her away so he could show her "what I'm all about." Like, for instance, telling her, "I knew which song that doorbell was playing from the second I walked in there, and I'll bet none of those other twenty-four butches even had the slightest idea. Well, maybe a few of them." What Josh actually says is that he's "a big-time family guy." Trista cops to the fact that she wants at least two kids -- a boy and a girl -- "so if I don't get them the first two, I'll go for three." Josh goes manic at this, laughing nervously (actually, he's laughing; we're nervous) and agreeing that if she doesn't have a boy and a girl immediately, she could "keep spitting it out" until she gets that girl. Besides being a finely nuanced way of describing the sacred rite of childbirth, I would also venture that "spitting it out until he finally gets a girl" could also serve as an accurate depiction of Josh's outlook on the inevitability of heterosexual dating.

Edited back inside now, Trista sits with Ryan, who hands her a sealed card unearthed from his lapel pocket and explains, "I'm not a good person with words and conversation." Oh, don't shortchange yourself, Frankie. We townspeople have all heard your well-heeled vocal abilities with words like "ungh" and "fire" when we come calling with our torches and threats. Trista reads aloud from the end of his poem: "May the night bring sweet dreams, and the morning blue sky." Oh, shut up, e.e. shortcomings. Be a poet if you want, but you should know better than to tell a girl that the only reason you have to have a spontaneous poetry slam is because you're incapable of talking to her within the confines of the language. And isn't Trista just reading the lyrics to "Sweet Dreams"? And why don't we get to hear the rest of the poem? Is it because ABC doesn't want to pay the licensing fee for the use of "I've traveled the world and the seven seas/ Everybody's looking for something" Ryan's poem seems to be heading for?

Brian K. introduces himself to Trista, and she poker-faces, "Oh, you're the breast-implant guy!" He tells her that "a little hands-on experience always helps." Helps what? What does that mean? He also says something about how she should see his "scrapbook." If I had to describe Brian as a car, it would be "an asshole car in a cheap suit." Y'know. That kind of car.

Outside, Greg T. attempts to do justice to the title of "Poor Man's Andy Garcia" (though that title is currently occupied by the actual Andy Garcia), his cavalier smooth manner and slicked-back hair very, I don't know, Dead Again? He tells Trista that he's "always loved songwriting and singing and all that." He was "in Nashville for a while," and Trista rolls her eyes back in ecstasy and moans, "I love singers!" Well, I hope she also loves "Exporters," which is what we're reminded Greg T. actually is when we cut back to him in a confessional. Greg T's mythical picket fence in Manhattan surrounds a house of lies.

But no one's lamer than Jamie ("Lamie"?), who is just such a standard "guy" that he's how I would describe a "guy" to someone who's never been to Earth. "He's a total Jamie," I would tell my interstellar friend. And my friend would know exactly what I meant. Jamie tells Trista, "I was a sales manager, moving up in an internet telecom company." Stop it. Stop it, I say! How can you continue this level of white-hot flirtation when I don't have health insurance and you're thrilling me to death? But wait! There's more! "I quit. And I went to Sweden. And I played pro basketball." Cut to a confessional, where Jamie alerts us, "We have the exact same interests." Oh, of course. Why, don't you remember Trista's mom in that opening clip package saying all of those things about Trista's childhood passions for "the corporate structure of middle management ascendancy in telecommunications and new media," and her dad going on and on about her teenage dabblings in "Scandinavian basketball leagues"? Well then, watch it again.

Charlie doesn't think you can be "a wallflower in this situation," which is why he's shown up for the first time after ungluing his problematically gelled hair from the wall to which it has previously been flowered. He interrupts Trista sitting on the couch with some other losers, and he reaches out a hand, telling her he'd like a private moment outside. And it was in the promos, but there's a reaction shot from Wayne that is absolutely priceless. Utter, abject, oh-no-he-swallowed-my-toe shock. Charlie clarifies his decision to bust in, explaining, "There are twenty-four good-looking guys here tonight, and Trista has that to go on." His head is so in the game that you'd never guess his house in Hermosa Beach is on fire and that Charlie is putting it out and not telling anyone about it. And Charlie? He's a good listener. But we learn that he's the guy Trista is "most sexually attracted to." She also likes Rob's "vibe" and the fact that he's "so incredibly sincere about being here." Russ hands Trista the Tiffany box and tells anyone who will listen that he told his friend while they were watching the first Bachelor, "I'm going to date that girl someday. And now." "And now" what? Here's some math for you, friend: you + twenty-four other guys + roving television cameras = not a date. Bob, meanwhile, stands back and judges, "The guys that come in with a full-on plan, they might get past the first or second ensemble, but they're probably gonna end up looking like [beeeeeeeeeeeep]!" Heh. Swearing. And here was I, thinking fat people were supposed to be jolly. Trista opens the box and finds an ID bracelet of some kind, and she puts it on her wrist as Russ tells us that he thinks he's going to be around in this game for a long time. An ID bracelet? Who gave him that idea, Kim McAffee? The other guys wander around in various modes of awe and disgust, one asking "Did they really get pinned?" and another responding, "I was hoping they would!" Now they're living at last. Going steady for good! Going steady! Going steady! Going steady! Steady for good! Maybe the doorbell should play that instead.

Brook thinks that instead of fancy presents and blatant materialism, you just gotta be sincere -- honestly sincere -- and she'll be yours. Cut to Completely Shown Up By Russ's Smooth Moves Corner, where you can smell the stink of failure rising off of everyone else there (except for Jeff, y'all...that's still Drakkar Noir). Bob stands closest to Russ and laughs gamely, telling him, "I wish I'd thought of it. I'm pissed," admitting to us that he wants to "clip him at the knees." Is that gang talk? Should we be watching him? Back inside the house, he does some kind of Riverdance bit at which Trista laughs openly, while some of the other guys half-heartedly clap, trapped on that really pointy part of the fence between "don't want to be sour-pussed and not a team player" and "loving watching another man dance in a totally, totally gay kind of way."

Out on the porch, Gregg H. speaks in the very language of commitment: "I wanted to get to know Trista probably more than anything I've wanted to do in a very long time." Probably! Very long time! Get to know her! Roll out the Viennese Table, people! It looks like we've got ourselves a weddin'! You guys? His job is "Marble Factory Owner."

Jamie thinks he and Trista have "made a connection." Jeff doesn't know how she'd pick ten guys to leave, though I suspect that part of the equation is "start with him and work backwards from there. The rest answers itself." Brook "doesn't want to be number two or number three or number four." I think he will probably be Number Seven. Everyone goes home happy. But at least he goes home. Charlie "wants the rose bad enough that I think I'll get it." But the fierce spirit of competition is temporarily broken when Guardian Game Show Host descends halfway down the staircase and taps a glass with some kind of ding-making utensil. Up the stairs Chris and Trista walk together, Bob waving goodbye to Trista for what will probably not be the last time.

Upstairs in "The Deliberation Room" (where there is a wall of pictures, one head shot of each guy, which looks just like The Bachelorette shrine I've made in my room, only across the top of mine in spray-painted in crazy lettering, "List of People to Kill"), Chris listens as Trista regales him with stories about "how fantastic" all the guys are, noting that "Charlie, Russell, Ryan, and Jamie" all stand out in her mind. Realizing that his quiet mantra of "say my name say my name say my name what about me" might soon become audible, Chris bites down hard and turns the topic to the inarticulate asshole (those aren't his words, but they are his facial expression) who wrote a poem. And the asshole who tried to buy Trista off. And the asshole who...oh, look! These are all of the guys she said she likes the most. Chris and Trista agree that Bob is "hilarious," because it feels pretty safe for Chris to say nice things about him. Because, c'mon. Chris asks if she thinks her husband is in that room, and she responds that she thinks he probably is. Chris shows Trista the roses, and tells her it's time for the first of her difficult decisions. Chris stands to leave, taking the roses and telling her, "I'll be back." In confessional mode, Trista voices over as she wanders around the room, staring at the picture wall, "My heart is feeling full right now." Does that mean she's happy? Sad? What a strange, Benigni-esque sentiment. Maybe the rest of the thought will explain it: "I can look at some of these guys and go goo goo ga ga." Yes, thank you Trista. That was very helpful, indeed.