WHENEVER I EXPRESS my penchant for reality television in the circle of snide, knowing, not-as-smart-as-they-think-they-are crosspatches that I’m cursed to call friends, I often do so defensively, as if I am advocating Satan-worshipping or kid-touching. No more. From it’s earliest dawn–when MTV’s “Real World” debuted in 1992–I have been there for reality television, and it has been there for me.
For those who watch television, it is a pointless exercise to pose as a television snob, for the simple reasons that even the most cerebral shows are generally accessible to the average seventh grader. The traditional narrative television vehicles–the drama, the comedy, the dramedy–have basically exhausted the possibilities with their endless parade of wacky neighbors and poker-faced detectives. While it’s occasionally possible to find a refreshing spin on the form (HBO’s Curb Your Enthusiasm or Fox’s “Arrested Development”), the medium has, for the most part, become like three-chord rock’n’roll: the music’s still getting made, but most of the good hooks have been taken.
