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Monday, September 29, 2003


Be Forewarned, This Post Contains the Word "Postlapsarian"

I officially grant all of you permission to cease the hue and cry against another postless Monday. I'm not going to call it a pattern or trend that yet another Monday passed without an update in this space. It happens to all guys. That's what she tells me. Besides, wasn't it obvious that the piece on the filthy, groundbreaking show "Coupling" needed a few days to marinate in its own scandalous juices? I thought it was.

But this is Tuesday. And on this Tuesday, I choose to invite you, the longtime reader and you, the ardent fan of all things Bunsen, into my home, where you may sit on my couch and listen to me talk about my personal shame: my unbridled passion for a reality television program called "Paradise Hotel."

There is but one two-hour special left in the historic run of a show that is the distillation of all things that make reality TV great. I am not going to tell you what those things are, but "paradise Hotel" (herein referred to as "PH") has them in abundance, spades upon spades, a shit-load underneath a heap. Perhaps I will relent and tell you one of these things: unintelligent people who are frequently drunk and forced to sit by a pool. But that's just part of the picture. Some of these unintelligent people have very large breasts.

It is hardly an exaggeration when I tell you that one of the most satisfying moments of my life was when newcomer prettyboy Keith sent musclehead Zack [author of the Confucian declaration "I got lawyer in me!" despite an I.Q. that was surely the result of severe, self-inflicted head trauma after failing the paste-eating section of his special-ed class for the third time] out of Paradise forever. Forever, of course, was something less than an eternity; the brilliant, mindfucking PH producers brought back Zack just long enough to work himself into a hateful, dim froth moments before expelling him once again into a postlapsarian life of shopping cart collection at a Los Angeles Ralphs.

Allow me a moment to sigh as I realize that I have made it through an entire paragraph without mentioning the bikini. Also allow me to lament the loss of the two-piece swimwear of Holly, Tara, Kristen, and the curly-haired girl who lasted only a week before the producers realized the Original Members of Paradise would instantly devour all newcomers and so changed the rules midstream to prevent such tragedy.

Ah, the rules changes, the ballyhooed "twists" that kept contestants on edge and made PH not an escape from the everyday world but a perfect reflection of it: life is not fair, and people more powerful than you can decide on a whim to ruin your life. I half expected the producers to decide to capriciously ban gravity if one of the contestants professed an affection for it, just to teach them a lesson about desire, and watch the hotel residents swept up into the ionosphere just so homely, favored Dave could enjoy a cocktail in peace.

Tomorrow night, it all ends. I am already sad and more desolate than a Russian snowscape.

Following the series finale, I will sit and relish the aftertaste of this goulash of perpetual inebriation, low Stanford-Binet scores, and revealing bikini tops. Shortly thereafter I'll retire to my bedroom and fall into a deep depression because PH is no more, letting the pile of empty Ketel One bottles mark the passage of time, until I am shaken awake by PH's second installment. Which, no doubt, will be held poolside in a geodesic dome in the first moon colony because fake tits will bounce slower in artificial gravity.

About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
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