An altered state of reality

I’m still not sure what to make of the invasion of reality shows on network television.

It’s hard to change the channel anymore without seeing a hunky lunatic trying to ingest some poor farm animal’s reproductive organ, or some marginal celebrity (say Anna Nicole Smith’s interpreter) going on an embarrassing date with a marginal celebrity wannabe, or some program designed to produce a matrimonial match between two impossibly attractive strangers but which actually results in a union more fleeting than Michael Jackson's lucid moments.

It’s only a matter of time before we see "How to Marry a Pretend Rich Guy after being Marooned on a Desert Island Populated by Backstabbing Marginal Celebrities and Forced to Eat Something Extremely Gross."

While watching the finale of "Joe Millionaire" the other night (yes, like a nearby trainwreck, I couldn’t help but watch), it occurred to me that these shows are appealing to the wrong demographic. I mean, how many young, rich hunks and young, gorgeous lasses really exist in the Heartland of America?

If the networks were truly after "reality", they would take some fat plumber with major buttcrack and a mouth like Ozzy Osburne, set him up in a Red Roof Inn just off the freeway, and have him choose a mate from among a group that included:

A worn-out hooker with thick ankles and varicose veins the size of pasta.

A three-time divorcee with a cigarette glued to her lips and a cackle like a drunken witch.

A Mexican "immigrant" with eight kids under the age of seven and a thin, dark mustache below her nose.

Dates would include an evening making fart-bubbles in the hotel hot tub, a trip to the All-U-Can-Eat dinner buffet at the nearby Sizzler, and bowling beneath a huge disco ball.

They could call it, "Who wants to Marry Mr. Drain-O?"

But seriously, the best reality show ever made was probably the first -- a little program from the 1960s entitled "Gilligan’s Island."

Seven people marooned on a desert isle, trying to survive against all odds (and the occasional visit by astronauts, musicians, mobsters and cannibals) until they are rescued (or renewed for another season).

You think I jest? It is a well-known fact that shortly after the show first aired, the U.S. government fielded more than 100,000 calls from people demanding that we send out a search party and rescue Gilligan and the other six castaways.

In fact, people continued to make these calls throughout the three-season run of the show. One can only imagine how they reacted when the show was suddenly canceled without airing a final "rescue" episode.

So maybe it can be argued that "Gilligan’s Island" contains a bit more reality than much of the current slate of reality programming.

In my mind the biggest flaw with this argument, and something that has troubled me since first watching reruns of the show as a youth, is the fact that the Professor, while a renowned genius with six advanced degrees, couldn’t figure out how to patch up a couple holes in the SS Minnow so the castaways could leave the island.

I mean, the guy made a pedal-powered sewing machine, a bamboo lie detector and a coconut shell battery recharger, but he couldn’t build something that would float?

I was thinking about this the other day when it hit me like a falling coconut: The Professor was a single man marooned on a tropical island with two gorgeous single women (Mary Ann and Ginger), and his only competition for their affections was the Skipper and Gilligan.

Of course he wouldn’t fix the boat…Of course he wouldn’t build a raft…The Professor didn’t want to be rescued…He liked it on the island!

Talk about a case of reality!

Heck, the situation on Gilligan’s Island was far more realistic than some underwear model holed up in a French chateau with a bevy of beautiful gold-diggers. There was more reality in Mr. and Mrs. Howell’s trunk full of fancy clothes than any single episode of "How to Marry a Millionaire."

So there you have it: "Gilligan’s Island " -- the first, and possibly best, reality show ever aired on network television.

Which leaves me with just one question: Did they ever rescue those poor castaways?

Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.