I avoid Reality Television because each show is geared to create - and will always arrive at - that stinking dramatic crux when "The Ugly" comes out. No matter the set-up: Re-hab, dream marriage, cosmetic surgery, side-order stardom, it's all incidental fodder for the true reason everybody tunes in: a televised display of evil shining bright as bile. That moment when the worst a human has to offer is captured on camera. When"The Ugly" comes out. This is not entertainment I need to be salivating over.
But if someone starts acting out on the subway or the street and I have no remote to mute, I'll give in completely. Can't help it. Funnier than a $50 pedicure buried in horse shit up to the ankle on Fourth of July.
The other day, I shared an elevator with Ann Coulter. Of course, my involuntary hate 'n destroy response was activated, but, since she was obviously accompanying an older woman who needed some chaperoning, I dialed it down to 'simmer' and waited for the hideous, heartless harpy to reveal itself.
The likelihood of this occurring increased exponentially as, each time the doors parted, it was almost impossible to tell what floor we'd stopped on. The usual indicators - both inside the car and out - were either invisible or malfunctioning and every floor looked identical to the last. Feeding the potential flames a little higher, that complete sweetheart - mother? aunt? - she was accompanying needed a good portion of Ann's attention, which, I was astounded to micro-observe, was given without the slightest reservation or resentment.
Now, in New York, I've seen otherwise nice, normal men and women, when finding themselves in similar "lack of control" scenarios, turn into deadly bitches and complete assholes. This is Manhattan, after all, "a little island off the coast of America", to quote poor, frozen Spalding Grey, where patience is often synonymous with fear, weakness and that deadliest of metro-sins, idiocy. The unwritten law governing every possible combination of human interaction clearly states: if you hesitate a moment too long figuring out, say, what floor your elevator's actually on, you'll be punished with a soul-searing chorus of exasperated deep breathing and TONY-worthy rolling eyes, followed by a professional brusque to the side.
I sense Ann getting a little rattled and expect her face to pucker up tighter than
But guess what?
Bitch ripped me off.
We've all seen that flash of nearly imperceptible pleading, a tiny apologetic look that comes over someone who's silently asking for help. At it's most effective, it's played very low-key, telepathically whispering, "I'm sorry, but I seem to have lost the plot - any ideas?" Ann hit me right between the eyes with one of these. It lasted only a split-second, but it's authenticity melted my heart, a chain reaction setting in motion my desire to put her ease and toss out a little snark re: a lack of intelligent building design. After I helped her find their floor, she gave me a little smile on the way out. Yes, she also insta-scanned me to see if I recognized her, but I played it tight, like I didn't, just smiling back evenly. My first thought: Howard Stern. Downright offensive on-air, but anyone who's every met him outside the studio nearly pisses their pants when describing how incredibly nice and smart and wonderful is the monster. Complete act. Second thought: She's just like everybody else, dutifully helping out an older relative, needing a little help herself and silently asking for it. And, finally, smiling a grateful little goodbye.
Fuck!
Like any aware, dedicated NY liberal, I already despised this chick and hoped, after this encounter, that my hate would only become more deep and meaningful. I'd, of course, seen her in action repeatedly and, each time was moved to thoughts of bitchocide way before the camera was finished with her. But my self-justified hate hard-on got iced by this, well, okay, attractive tiny blonde trying to help her older friend get somewhere.
They say, "Don't meet your heroes", which is good advice if you don't want to end up disappointed.
But there are no such warnings offered for that alternate universe where your enemies are paid handsomely to piss you off.
I wanted to hate Ann Coulter, but ended up falling in love a little.
Just don't expect me to feel anything less than orgasmic when Sean Hannity finally drinks himself into a coma as that tectonic hairline shifts and merges with the eyebrows.
