Last night I needed a couple of hours of serious vegetation. Work has been grueling for the past couple of weeks, but will hopefully ease up soon. In the meantime, lowest-common-denominator television was called for. And I got just that by watching the weird-ass premier of the Pussycat Dolls show.
In case you missed it, "The Search for the Next Pussycat Doll," is pretty much a cross between "American Idol" and "The Girls Next Door." There's no real plot to speak of, which should surprise no one.
For some reason, the producers thought it would somehow add extra drama to the show to air repeated, graphic scenes of several girls vomiting when a stomach virus hit the majority of the girls. Unless you're into that particular fetish, it's certainly something that could have been handled a whole lot better. And considering the topic, I don't think I'm alone in wishing that "vomiting" had been replaced with "stripper pole."
I haven't really followed the "pop phenomenon" that the Pussycat Dolls have become. It was probably most interesting at its inception, when Carmen Electra and a bunch of her hot B-list celebrity girlfriends did the gig.
I remember they pretty much did Vegas and L.A. parties, and it always struck me as a sort of celebrity talent show. The famous faces in the crowd were mostly friends and family, who happily drank strong cocktails as the girls bumped and writhed.
The concept back then was more '40s burlesque as well. Standard-issue Pussycat Doll gear included garters, windowpane fishnets, and Moulin Rouge-esque lingerie. Frankly, it was a great look.
Somehow, this devolved into actually turning the Pussycat Dolls into some sort of Top 40 sensation. It's now a weird American version of the Spice Girls....as if the world needed that.
So the Pussycat Dolls are hunting for a new member. Good thing, too. The existing "girls" are way past aging out of the program. And that's what would have made for the best vegetative television last night, rather than the vomiting.
At one point, the wannabe's meet the Pussycat Dolls. While the newbies are all wide-eyed and starstruck, the existing members cautiously give each potential Doll a condescending and somewhat terrified once-over. When the girls are crammed in a room together, the physical differences alone become very clear.
In case you missed it, "The Search for the Next Pussycat Doll," is pretty much a cross between "American Idol" and "The Girls Next Door." There's no real plot to speak of, which should surprise no one.
For some reason, the producers thought it would somehow add extra drama to the show to air repeated, graphic scenes of several girls vomiting when a stomach virus hit the majority of the girls. Unless you're into that particular fetish, it's certainly something that could have been handled a whole lot better. And considering the topic, I don't think I'm alone in wishing that "vomiting" had been replaced with "stripper pole."
I haven't really followed the "pop phenomenon" that the Pussycat Dolls have become. It was probably most interesting at its inception, when Carmen Electra and a bunch of her hot B-list celebrity girlfriends did the gig.
I remember they pretty much did Vegas and L.A. parties, and it always struck me as a sort of celebrity talent show. The famous faces in the crowd were mostly friends and family, who happily drank strong cocktails as the girls bumped and writhed.
The concept back then was more '40s burlesque as well. Standard-issue Pussycat Doll gear included garters, windowpane fishnets, and Moulin Rouge-esque lingerie. Frankly, it was a great look.
Somehow, this devolved into actually turning the Pussycat Dolls into some sort of Top 40 sensation. It's now a weird American version of the Spice Girls....as if the world needed that.
So the Pussycat Dolls are hunting for a new member. Good thing, too. The existing "girls" are way past aging out of the program. And that's what would have made for the best vegetative television last night, rather than the vomiting.At one point, the wannabe's meet the Pussycat Dolls. While the newbies are all wide-eyed and starstruck, the existing members cautiously give each potential Doll a condescending and somewhat terrified once-over. When the girls are crammed in a room together, the physical differences alone become very clear.
The wannabe's are young, mostly 18-20. The oldest is 24. Next to the Pussycat Dolls, who've got to be in their late-30's with assloads of none-too-subtle cosmetic surgery, the newcomers look like they're 12. The Pussycat Dolls themselves wind up looking like the "Don't" list of cosmetic enhancement. As in, "Do..." get enough sleep. "Don't..." pull the skin of your face so tight that your eyes are suddenly near the sides of your skull.
So, yeah, the Pussycat Dolls should worry. Some of these new girls can sing. And there's one 'contestant' that I could have watched all night. I guess she's had years of ballet training, and fuck it shows. Her legs are about nine miles long, her dancing is beyond graceful, and if this Pussycat Doll thing doesn't work out for her, she could easily walk right in and take over for any showgirl out there.
With this in mind, I wonder if later episodes of Pussycat Doll boot camp will have the girls going through forced lip injections, boob jobs, rhinoplasty and microdermabrasion. Because the existing girls are already well on their way to becoming surgical clones of stretch-faced, ropey-armed PD choreographer Robin Antin.Considering that future episodes threaten to drag out Mark McGrath and Li'l Kim, I doubt anything short of my own stomach virus will have me tuning in again. And considering my low, low expectations to begin with, that's pretty bad.
My overall impression of television today is that of overworked plastic surgery victims, which brings me to the next "Worst Idea on Television." Some-damn-body has agreed to put the heinous Star Jones back on television. Thankfully, it's cable, but still.... expect to have your home invaded by this goofy bitch via CourtTV's airwaves.
This woman is such a fucking train wreck. The promo photo of her is just too much to not include. Because, above the tits, she looks like the vagina fruit that would be produced if Skeletor and a chihuahua were to mate.
Why the fuck should the viewing public have to see this in their homes?!?! And the problem is only compounded with Star Jones Reynold's queen-sized sense of entitlement. I'm pretty sure that Star called in her last favor or a thousand when she decided to throw that grotesque spectacle of an elaborately-sponsored wedding.
In a word, my feeling for television right now is BLEEEEECH.
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