An Ode to the Loathesome

In the late 1980s, MTV put a few people together and filmed them. This was prior to the "original" New York Real World, and the few clips I've seen are commensurate with anything MTV of the era: ridiculous outfits (in hindsight), amateur production, but the same je ne sais que that still makes MTV intriguing: the fact that you haven't necessarily seen anything that looks like this or anything that approaches the subject in this fashion. Anyone who has made numerous movies with friends probably has footage of a similar interest to this original reality living show- slightly off scenes that smack of potential or brilliance and elate the participants but leave the overall audience apathetic.

So while you and your buddies have either moved on to the pragmatic or continue to fuss over attempts at transcendence (I am guilty of column B), MTV has continued to tap this keg of mediocrity, hitting the occasional home run (Real World Hawaii and San Diego were pretty amazing in my book), and more often than not, giving you something that you kind of want to care about, but need a co-conspirator friend or significant other or an elaborate bet to continue experiencing any sort of excitement.

Next comes Jersey Shore. Holy tap-dancing zombie Pope balls. Let's take a quick recap.

Pauly D greets us, helmetless on a crotch rocket (if you don't count his blowout hairstyle as a helmet), and informs us that when Guidos stop, the chrome keeps spinning. He doesn't let us into the integral secret of whether his motorcycle rim spun due to him paying for a specific rim that performs said task, or whether this was a result of his Italian heritage. His ethnic pride runs deep, he says that it represents "...family, friends, tanning, gel, everything." The quoted portion is an exact quote, and each point was punctuated with him clapping his hands. Pauly D also likes to point out that he is "Your girl's favorite DJ" and that he does not intend to take other people's girlfriends but it happens nonetheless. We now should feel sorry for the tortured poet's soul of Pauly D. As he intends to make women [climax] in their pants on the dance floor, his sexual attractiveness is something of a burden, though he does not wish to diminish his star. He owns a tanning bed and requires nearly half an hour to do his hair, but he assures us it comes out perfect each time.

The counter on my DVR has reached one minute. One. And I haven't included anything about Pauly D's tattoos or room decor, both of which have been featured prominently in the montage to this point. The remainder of the show features amazing nicknames, hook ups, name calling, perpetual drunkedness, duck phone ineptitude, the worst boob job in America, genital piercing, infidelity, more infidelity, denial and acceptance of infidelity, a health code violation in the form of a hot tub, the most ridiculous attempt to pull rank in history (Angelina's point about working at a t-shirt store), heartbreak, a grunt-laden gym montage, and that's just what I can remember off the top of my head.

I previously referred to two Real World seasons as home runs. In that context, Jersey Shore would be a batted ball that not only scores the player at home and those on base, but also murders the opposing team and league and automatically results in a pennant and title by default.

In the last week I have attempted to spread Jersey Shore to my friends in the way the participants of the aforementioned attempted to spread whatever strain of designer STD they were carrying to whomever would play the role of "receptacle." And I'm not entirely sure if I'm basically carrying out my own version of "The Ring" or spreading happiness to the people I care most about. But cheers to you: Pauly D, Vinnie, Ronnie, J-Woww, Mike the Situation, Sammi Sweetheart, Angelina, and the Duck Phone-challenged Snooki. I am forever in your debt, and will begin doing episodic recaps after I recover from the premiere.