Props to not this show.
On another day at another mansion in another zip code in Southern California with another crop of beefsticks trying to out-dude their Bachelorette's suitor Bob Guiney (mission: already accomplished. Are we free to go?), Chris "Host Of Treats As Well As A Treat Of A Host" Harrison all but slips into his own rapidly encroaching self-parody when he walks (again) (again) to (again) a pool (again) on a finely appointed lanai (aGAIN) and kicks it off, directly addressing us and sneering, "Good evening, and welcome to The Bachelorette!" The despondent audience of me looks around thunderstruck, certain that I accidentally threw in the tape from any other season of this show, before sighing the leaves off a tree just outside my apartment (for so gusty is my sense of resignation) and settling into that feeling like it's the first day of school again and that the kids around me are mostly new but I keep having the same teacher over and over again. With a surly roll of the eyes and the private assertion that the tallest kid in class is going to be in my gym class and pick me last for flag football, I drone the reply, "Good evening, Mr. Harrison," and another season of The Bachelor(ette) has begun.
"In just a few minutes, one special woman will meet twenty-five men from all across the country who have one thing in common." You could ace a Geometry AP using their perfectly square heads as a protractor? "They're all ready to get married!" Oh. That was my third guess, after protractor and "they're all secretly gay." Actually, move gay up to #1.
"Last time, we had a fairy-tale ending for our Bachelorette." Nice to know the copywriters of The Bachelor(ette) have included the queasy and jarring horror stories of Poe and The Brothers Grimm into the canon of fairy tales. Remember that "fairy-tale" wedding of Trista and Ryan that all but ended with the barely poised bride collapsing on the altar and screaming at the top of her lungs, "Dissemble no more! I admit the deed! Tear up the planks! Here, here! It is the churning of the hideous paparazzi helicopters!" Yeah, that wedding was the stuff dreams are made of. But let us speak no more of it, for "now they're married and living happily ever after." Just like all sham marriages! As if that closes the storybook on Trista with a curlicued "The End" while cartoon birds chirp merrily from high trees, Chris puts juuuuuuuust too fine a point on it: "See, this really can work!" Jeez, Chris. No need to get all defensive about it. It's true if In Touch says it's true. We get it. ["Plus, one marriage in five couples? I do not care for those odds." -- Wing Chun]
"And now, here we go again," Chris admits, because "derivative" is cheap and easy and "originality" is a merely a judging category on Puttin' On The Hits. Pivoting now and continuing on his walk, Chris prattles on, reminding us that the Bachelorette this season is someone we all "know" from last season. Well, I wouldn't say I know her, per se, because that would mean I was INSANE or a Manson whose TV talked to me or a guy whose head was slightly less of an oval.
Inside the house, majestically decorated by the fine folks at The Enormous Ottoman Feng Shui Emporium, Chris jams on like this is a Tull show and he's the ass-kickin' flute. "When Meredith was sent home by Bachelor Bob," he says, "we got emails, phone calls, and letters from single men across the nation." What contact information are these people using to signal their interest? chris@thebachelor.com? Leave this poor, broken-hearted woman alone. "So we listened," Chris boasts, adding that the twenty-five most eligible bachelors in the pharmaceutical sales industry ('cause seriously, they all are) are on their way to the house right now. There's an ominous, stealthily approaching quality to that sentiment, and I'd probably start humming the Jaws theme alone in my apartment, but it really doesn't apply. These guys are nothing like Jaws. For instance, they seem to have a lot more teeth.
But before we learn more about the men who want to fall in love with Meredith and make about a billion SpongeBob SquareBabies with her, let's meet the Bachelorette herself. If only there were some kind of, I don't know, montage-ing quality to all of this so that we might reduce her personality to a series of disparate photos and...ah, here we go. Chris voices over the clip package that begins with a modern-day Meredith posing for pictures. We learn that she is "gorgeous" (because she knows how to make I-have-pouty-lips lips when she poses for a photo in what looks like a big fashion shoot), "sophisticated" (because she wears a scarf), and "glamorous" (because she knows how to face away from the camera and look over her shoulder when she's posing). "There's much more to Meredith than you got to see on The Bachelor." We steam though all of last season (which, for those of you looking to catch up, is helpfully archived six thousand words at a time right here on this very website, though for most of you that season will still be fresh in your minds seeing as it ended exactly SIXTEEN SECONDS AGO), watching Bob give Meredith a rose, watching Bob and Meredith on some date somewhere, watching Meredith's six-week Shivah Call Tour Of Doom through national television as Nana deepens our understanding of what it means to be mortal and then goes six feet deeper as a reward for her troubles.
Portland! I've never been there, but two of my very best friends in the universe are marrying each other in Oregon this summer, so I'm going out early to see the Northwest, drive through the mountains, complain about the rain, visit Nana's gravesite (what's wrong? The way this show made it look was that it was Oregon state law that you had to make a pilgrimage to Nana's resting spot as soon as you crossed the border...besides, she's taken on a real Jim Morrison-like quality for me, so there's that). Meanwhile, Meredith stares purposefully at things in Portland, thinking, "It looks like I'm thinking really hard, doesn't it?" We learn that she grew up in Portland, where "she wasn't always...." A brunette? Look at how blonde that woman is. Meredith's mom, Sandy, adds, "She used to be unbelievably...." Blonde? "Shy." Awww, look at how cute she was! Her brother was a pretty cute kid too, so that should strike fear into any of you parents out there who have cute kids so you think you're home free when they grow up. Sorry. Fear on, Mom and Dad. The spin-lovers in the copywriting department throw in the fact that Meredith attended modeling school as a way "to get over her shyness," which possesses the same inherent logic as taxing Paxil to become a better model. That is to say, none. In any case, the phone book wouldn't find a place to balance on her head, as Meredith's coifs quickly descended into that my-sister-at- the-junior-prom hairstyle you saw so much of in '80s fashion. Meredith's father, Edd (seriously, we get it with one "D," Edd) tells us how popular she was in junior high, which is pretty much the kiss of death later on, personality-wise. If there's nothing to toughen you up in the early goings, you become soft. And kind-hearted in that way where "kind-hearted" means "boring." You become, in essence, Meredith. Shot of Meredith graduating from high school. Shot of Meredith being popular. Shot of Meredith with her albatross of a brother. Shot of tequila for me please, waiter.
After college, we learn for the first time ever, Meredith wasn't just a makeup artist (her stated vocation when we met her on The Bachelor), but a model as well. See, and she must have modeled for perfume ads, because that eau de shameless opportunism is wafting off her more effortlessly than ever now. All I'm saying is that no one goes on this show just to meet a mate. There's always an ulterior motive, and Meredith has certainly seen hers realized. Prove me wrong, people. Because I swear that I am right.
Back on a park bench wearing a Pensive Scarf here in the present day, Meredith voices over that she's ready to find someone who is ready for what she is ready for: "Love." And also attending culinary school. Wait, what?
Chris is allowed to use the front steps of the house, which he comes bounding down and tells us that we're going to meet the Bachelorette, "Meredith Phillips." Show of hands from people who knew that was her last name. Yeah, me neither. A limo pulls up the big, circular driveway of the house, and out pops our Bachelorette. She and Chris shake hands and exchange pleasantries, Chris promising, "You'll be seeing some big smiles on some men's faces tonight." Is he doing a callback to my Jaws joke? Well done, Chris. He and Meredith retire inside and sit on two plush couches, where Meredith launches in, telling Chris that she's excited, she's nervous, she's "every emotion that a woman can possibly imagine." Because men can't be excited and nervous? Or because Meredith's also "excited enough to menstruate" or "pregnant with anticipation" or "an hysteric, according to its literal Latin roots"? Which of those do you think she is? Chris, all the while, nods in an almost comical, Barbara Walters way. Meredith evokes Trista's name and barks too loudly that "this obviously works!" I'm sorry, but did the expression "the exception that proves the rule" win diplomatic immunity and get shipped off to a safehouse somewhere? What's wrong with you people?
The first limo is here! The first limo is here! "Meredith, let the journey begin." Back off, Chris. Don't you have a champagne glass to go practice ting-ting-ting-ing? You do? Well, see you then. The first limo is here!
Seriously, if any one of you was a contestant this season and you're reading this, I sincerely hope you don't take my calling you all "blockheads" as a measure of your intelligence. For once, I really don't mean it to be. What I mean is that, really, all of your heads are shaped exactly like blocks. Are we clear? Because the first limo is here!
Unlike in the girly seasons, there are no interior shots of the guys pulling up in the limos. Because rather than planting seeds of cattiness and shrieking at first seeing the house, I'm sure they're all just grunting sporadically and inventing tools. Just like a guy.
First out of the first car is Matthew, a twenty-eight-year-old from Friendswood, Texas, the most gay-ly named town in the Lone Star State and the reason for that old Texas expression, "Don't mess with Texas...unless they're from Friendswood, in which case they'll be way too faggy to fight you back." He's in -- sing it with me if you've got the prescription -- pharmaceutical sales. He forgets to say his name when he meets Meredith, but tells her it's great to "finally meet" her. He tells her breasts that she looks beautiful.
Rick tells us that he's "a director at three businesses and the president of one," which, translated, means "I run a pyramid scheme." Maybe we'll find out that's his other job when he becomes the Bachelor. Anyway, he's twenty-nine and from San Diego, and he tells us that he has a "bright future." He also tells Meredith that he brought her a present he'll be giving her later. For the sake of his own bright future, we'd all better hope it's "shades." He's gotta wear 'em. He believes in love at first sight, he confessionalizes, but I think that belief is considerably trumped by Meredith's belief that she doesn't want to marry someone three inches shorter than she is.
up is Brook -- er, I mean Lanny, a twenty-seven-year-old horse breeder from Mt. Vernon, Texas. He tells us that he's religious and likes hunting. That Friendswood sissy is toast, y'all. Lanny also tells us that the thing he's looking forward to most about being married is "being a dad," and that he hopes that he has the kind of relationship with his kids where they can "hang out" and "drink beer together." Not once in that romantic screed does he mention that it matters or not who it is he's marrying.
Justin appears to be Chris Harrison, trying to find a way to sneak onto the show and date a pretty girl. He's also a twenty-six-year-old pro baseball player from Orlando. That's odd. I've followed baseball my entire life, and...well, I didn't know there was a professional baseball franchise in Orlando. Maybe it's triple-A? Maybe he's the starting shortstop for the Orlando Overexaggeraters?
There's a Wall, New Jersey? Not according to Mapquest, there isn't. Well, apparently there is, though, because that's where Sean is from, where he works as an accountant. His looks would lead someone to describe him as "Sean, that guy who looks like he'd be an accountant, y'know?" He was engaged once, but now he's not. Uh oh. He's toting designer excess baggage from the Bob Guiney Travel Collection. It's a life lesson well learned, Meredith: avoid avoid avoid.
Another limo? Whose riches are spent to make this all so lush? Oh, that's right. Satan's. Anyway, out of fancy car #2 we meet:
Ryan R. He tells us that he's given a lot of thought to how he would propose to a woman. Would it be by hiding the ring inside of his giant chin dimple? Because that could be very romantic and also just like magic.
Brian, who is a thirty-one-year-old "Manager of Athletic Facility" from Quincy, Massachusetts. So...nighttime manager at a suburban Modell's, you think? ["Hee. That's my sister's boyfriend's job." -- Wing Chun] Maybe he's just in this for the corporate sponsorship possibilities, like, "Brian, will you accept this rose?" "No, Meredith, I can't, because...I gotta go to Mo's!" Something tells me it'll never get nearly that far for Brian.
Damon is a twenty-nine-year-old from a fake fantasy town called "Cardiff by the Sea," California. He tells us that he plays "arena football" for a living. Is that, like, where you pick players and put them in the computer and then those fake teams you made up play each other? Or is that fantasy football? And, in reality, is either one of those actually a job? No. No, it is not.
Keith. Keith has a ponytail.
Cory is a twenty-four-year-old "small business owner" (pyramid scheme) from Ship Bottom, New Jersey. What are these adorably named towns everyone is from? Why not just go all the way with it and find people from "Brigadoon" and "The Land Of Happy, Happy Make-Believe" whose jobs include "dancing in tall grass with sylphs" and "tending to the grove of yum yum trees" and be done with it already.
Limo Three! Limo Three!
Chad has a motto. And his motto is "life is short." I'll call Bartlett and let Bartlett know it's not Barlett's motto anymore. Because I feel like I've heard that one in the...well, never mind. Chad is thirty-two. Chad is from Buffalo, where the wings come from (that's right! The wings aren't actually made of buffalos!). Chad...is in pharmaceutical sales. Also, his father died, so technically he would have been better suited for last season's crop. I think he starts to cry a little during his confessional. Anyone got a read on that? He is, by Meredith's description, "ta-all!" He tells her that she's tall as well. Er, Chad? I'd tread lightly in the whole pointing-out-a- girl's-physical- attributes-from-the- moment-you- meet-her thing, okay? You read me loud and clear, Stretch?
Andy calls to mind an absolutely horrible joke my sister once told me about over-the-counter headache medication. But I can't tell you what it is or I'll get fired.
Todd is thirty-six (see ya, Todd), a -- get this wording -- "Brew Pub Owner" from San Fran. Dude works at a bar. And there's nothing wrong with that. But...brew pub owner? How many words does "suds jockey" really require?
Eliot is maybe 2% gay.
Aaron's got some clown blood in him, most apparent from his clowny face.
When Marcus made his appearance, the four women I was watching this show with (do I know how to host a bash, or what?) immediately deemed him foxy. He's tall and built and a personal trainer from L.A. He's also the lone African-American contestant this season. Pack your bags in Episode Three, Marcus. Or prove me wrong, Meredith. PROVE ME WRONG.
Let's talk about Harold. Harold is twenty-nine, from Rock Island, Illinois, and lists his occupation as "Pro Hockey Player." That's odd. I've followed hockey my entire life, and, well, I didn't know there was a professional hockey franchise in Rock Island, Illinois. Isn't hockey season currently, like, occurring? He got his hockey team to make Meredith a jersey. It says "Bachelorette" across the back, and is emblazoned with the number "1." Just like Harold's chances of winning. Out of a thousand.
Jeff is in pharmaceutical sales.
Chris is an architect! How utterly fahn-cy. ["I always wanted to pretend to be an architect." -- Wing Chun] He's also from Boston. Which I've heard of. He has a gap in his bottom teeth. Which can be adorable, were he upside-down. 'Cause, see, it shouldn't be in the bottom teeth.
Brad is in pharmaceutical sales. He promises us that he's the chivalrous one in a relationship, adding that he has no doubt he'll be the guy to "get down on [his] hands and knees to propose" to his fiancée. Hands AND knees, eh? Will that be after the two of you have the romantic dinner where you share a plate of pasta and you roll a meatball over to her with your nose and then you each start sucking on a strand of pasta before discovering it's the very same strand and meeting adorably in the middle? Knees AND hands?
This is where my friend yelled, "It's the goofy one!" And is it ever. People, meet Robert from L.A., who is thirty-two and has the crazy Sideshow Bob hair intended to show just how goofy he is! He played a lot of Commodore 64 growing up, I'll bet. I don't know why I know. I just know. Anyway, I like him immediately, until he gets on this talking jag with no punctuation and he's all, "I spend most of my time if I can laughing my butt off and having a good time probably has something to do with my hyper nature and being slightly ADD but we won't tell her that HA HA HA HA HA!" Hey, Robert? One Don Henley said it best: "You can't hide your CRAZY eyes and your smile is a thin disguise." Meredith? Use what the good lord gave you and use those legs to RUN.
Trever has nary a prayer.
Anselm is an ah-tist from Venice, California. I used to live about sixteen feet from Venice, and I don't for the life of me know which hair salon you can walk into in Venice and announce, "Give me the Tchaikovsky!" Which, it seems, is exactly what Anselm did.
Ryan M. is thirty and he's from Santa Barbara. He hopes for a "fairy-tale ending." Well then, what's he doing wearing a shrimp-colored shirt?
Ian is Jerry Bruckheimer, who has come on this show incognito in hopes of stealing trade secrets from Mike Fleiss. For some reason, Meredith spontaneously sees fit to fix his tie. If only she'd thought instead to fix Skin.
And we're done. La la lee lee loo.
Getting to knoooooooooow yoooooooooooou. Getting to know all aboooooooooooout yooooooooou. Getting to liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike yoooooooooooooou. Getting to hope you never wear a shrimp shirt again in public. Okay. We've been together a long time, right? So I can speak plainly without fear of reprisal, okay? Awesome. Here we go: I literally hate this part of the show. I hate it. It's this aimless milling about, people bumping into each other, talking over each other, wandering. Twenty-six strangers not making eye contact. This segment could be acted out by cows to exactly the same effect. What I think should happen HERE is that, immediately upon her entrance into the big-ass ballroom, the guys should line up and Meredith should have to axe five of them on sight alone. And you know she could. Any of us could. In a group of twenty-five, there are going to be five people you're going to look at right away and think, "No way. Never. Nice shrimp shirt, dick." The last limo that dropped off the last guy should stay in the driveway, and five guys should have to get back in it immediately. Then they each get confessionals. We feel the drama of the axe dropping early. And...back to the party, which now takes place over the course of two minutes. Thoughts?
But here it is. So here we go.
Guys ramble. They call Meredith "beautiful." She makes Tchaikovsky feel "weak in the knees." Marcus likes how she carries herself, calling her "classy" and "timeless." Two of the guys from San Francisco tell Meredith not to get "the wrong idea," adding, "We like each other, but...." How weird that I never thought to use "casual homophobia" as a conversational tip for success on the first date. Maybe that's why all my dates are so shitty. In either case, shut up, faggots.
But of all the square heads on display, Matthew's is by far the squarest. He tells us that he felt "something there" when they talked, and one-on-one time is forthwith seen as "an advantage." Wow. Bruckheimer steals Meredith away, and they talk about how he's "the outdoorsy type." Oh. Maybe he's actually Richard Branson.
Rick pins Meredith in a private corner that looks rather like it's a doctor's waiting room. He reminds her that he wanted to give her a gift, and goes on to explain, "I own a slipper company." Were that only sufficient explanation for what happens , gentle reader. He pulls out from seeming nowhere two enormous pink (wrong Bachelorette, shortstack) slippers with roses embroidered on the side. "Ultimately," he explains by way of a confessional, "I wanted her to see through the slippers to my heart." Can we just let that one quote stand on its own? In fact, let's see it again: "Ultimately," he explains by way of a confessional, "I wanted her to see through the slippers to my heart." Meredith tells us that Rick scored some points with the slippers, complimentarily deeming him "the silent killer" of the evening. Awwww...just like plague.
Look! A dining room! What a strange development. Meredith parks herself on Lanny's lap, and they banter about horses. Someone else gives her a rose. Someone else gives her windup monkeys that he pulls out of her pocket. Meredith tells us that she found the gesturing "weird but intriguing." I found it "disturbing but prosecutable." And that's why she's on TV and I'm not. Keith scoffs that he had no interest in bringing Meredith some silly trinket, adding, "I'm the gift." Ew. Well then, Keith, someone ought to put you in a big Tiffany box. With no holes in the top. And throw it into the fountain.
Chad and Meredith share a very drunk conversation in the dining room. Ryan M. and Meredith discover that they both like golf. Keith gives Meredith a kiss seemingly against her will, and down comes Chris, singing a rousing but familiar refrain of "I Ting Ting Ting The Body Electric." If by "body electric," you mean "champagne glass." Did I really just back that far out of my way to make a Fame reference? Because you know that line isn't originally from Fame? Yeah, neither did I until about fourteen seconds ago.
Thank you to all who contributed possible new names for the rancidly named "Room of Reckoning." I'm still thinking on it. Though I'd like to point out that, were this room a Janet Jackson album, it would be called DeliberNation.
Chris asks Meredith what it feels like to have the attention of twenty-five men heaped on her, and Meredith admits that she's not that sad about it. Chris says that her mood has gone from "excited" to "giddy," which means she's gone from "sober" to "drunk." She does look good here. But her earrings are slightly insane. On a plate on a small side table between Chris and Meredith sit fifteen boutonniere roses, fourteen of them red and one of them white. While I'm making changes to the show, I would like to propose that the meaning of the white rose is that whomever Meredith gives it to has to kiss another guy in order to stay on the show. Just trying to keep things interesting here, people. But, apparently, the purpose of the white rose is that whoever receives it also gets the first one-on-one date with Meredith. How climactic! Except it's anti-that. Also, the guy who gets it won't know what it means until...later! Wow. All the stops, they've pulled out.
Meanwhile, Chris brings the platter downstairs and offers the gentlemen a "good evening." There is a testosterone-fueled grunt of reply. Shut up, Anselm. Chris fills in a few more of the lingering rules for the dudes, pointing out the white rose because that's the only thing the producers have thought to do differently this season. Chris then escorts Meredith down the stairs because she's just a frail girl, and the music throbs as she stands before her swains. She thinks she'll start off with a short speech: "I don't want to do this. I have to tell you I'm very nervous right now." But she's okay with this, because she's followed her heart.
Meredith's followed her heart and it led her to Harold? Meredith, your heart hates you. Harold, will you accept this rose? Does the recipient of the white rose have to change his name from "Harold"? If so, Meredith, I have a suggestion.
Todd, will you accept this rose? I think that's the guy I nicknamed "Gay Mohr" the first time I watched this, but then he disappeared.
Marcus, will you accept this rose? He will, and so will all my dinner guests.
Brad, will you accept this rose? Oh, clowny Brad. It's so nice to see that Meredith wouldn't mind the love of a good carny.
Ryan M., will you accept this rose? Oh, but how it clashes with the poor boy's shrimp shirt.
Ian, will you accept this rose? Just don't blow it up, Bruckheimer. He replies with an "I do" that gets a laugh. Ah, never mind. Blow it up. Blow 'em all up.
Chad, will you accept this rose? I love that he has to bust past Anselm to get it. That's all there is to say about that.
Lanny, will you accept this rose? He gurgles a "yeeees" that makes it seem like he's about to feed again, but Meredith seems to enjoy it. Jeeper Creeper, will you accept this rose?
Robert, will you accept this rose? Robert doesn't recognize the sound of his own name. For he is Tom Green, but without all the money.
Sean, will you accept this rose? He will. How did Meredith even know who that dude was? There are five guys who all look exactly like Sean. Even Sean looks less like Sean than a bunch of those other guys who look exactly like Sean.
Ryan R., will you accept this rose? For example, this guy. Ryan R. looks exactly like Sean.
Damon, will you accept this rose? Oh, so I guess she just chose all the Seans, then.
Eliot, will you accept this rose? I think he's totally cute. I wish he'd gotten the white rose, if you know what I mean.
Matthew, will you accept this rose? Okay! Ready for this joke I just wrote about Matthew that could go in a joke book for kids who love reality television? Okay, here goes. Ahem. Why did the malnourished monster eat Matthew's head? Because the doctor told him he needed to start eating more square meals.
Hi, Chris! Chris thinks there's one rose left, and by my math, the dude isn't far off.
And Slipper Rick is the recipient of the white rose this evening. And he will accept it. Man. I guess he got Meredith to see through the slippers to his heart.
Ousted former contestant Chris isn't very happy, but Keith is too confident is his looks to believe that this happened. Anselm is all, "But I wrote Swan Lake!" Pity. Rick, meanwhile, wonders what the white rose could be about, but his attention shifts when the toast finds Meredith offering the following parting shot: "Here's to the ride, gentlemen." Ew.