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April 05, 2006

Unless Your Name Is Jacinda Barrett...

Did anybody see MTV True Life: I’m a Reality Star?

True Life is a pretty good show. The one about the poor people, the one about the obese people with pen pals, the one about the raver dad, the one where the obviously gay guy gets calf implants and orders pizza in his hotel room as his leg is oozing with blood – all really good episodes. Now, this one here about the life of a reality “star” post show is a little crazy.

Not to be stank or anything – I love prefacing a tirade with that because all I will be is stank so hooray – but I am a little annoyed with the selection of participants or maybe the direction or message of the show. I have nothing against Jonny Fairplay, Daniel WHO and Tonya Cooley. I quite enjoy Tonya's company. It’s just that that’s not an accurate portrayal, in my opinion, of what happens to reality people. Or maybe that is an accurate portrayal and I should just kill myself for being a part of the problem even though I’m privately suburban and completely absolved of my former delusions.

Yes, I’d say I’m a little more grounded than my 22-year-old self. And yes, I’ll say that I do sometimes think back on things I could have reacted to differently post-reality show. However, I have found that the things that come with ageing like slower metabolism, the absolute need for eye cream morning and night and of course, emotional and dare I say spiritual maturity and evolution are what make for better decisions these days. How could I have known then as a knobby-kneed girl with a Class II malocclusion what I know now as a woman-girl-lady person with forever-covered knees and $10,000 worth of satisfactorily executed orthodontia? I couldn’t have known all that I now know so I am at peace with everything. Really.

So the day after the show aired, I was sitting next to my friend MaryAnne who said to me, “WOW, Melissa, is that really what it’s like because those people are assholes but I never thought of you like that…” She said that – not me.

I was absolutely devastated. My first thought was, So do you think that’s what my life was like pre Long Island and now you are re-assessing our friendship? And my second thought was, Surely she can’t think we’re all like that? That all-inclusive “we” talk always gets me a little riled about the face and neck. I don’t hate reality stars! One of my best friends was on a reality show. I can hear it all now. Must I defend myself for the rest of eternity? Get into heated debates about this issue wishing, all the while, that I lived in Belgium? Or am I totally not famous enough anymore to even care? I think that might be the answer, but still, this “fame” shit affects my every day life so how can it really be my fault that I have an opinion on the matter? I suppose a simple eye roll and subject change would handle this issue efficiently. Example: (Eye roll) You thinking about sushi for lunch?

But, see, I didn’t roll my eyes and change the subject. Instead, I said, “Girl, did you see when Tonya double-stick taped herself into her top before she went clubbing while her uncle lay dying after surgery?”

And with that, I have become simply a viewer with an inside scoop.

So let me provide a little bit of clarity. Keep in mind, I have nothing but love for anybody with a hustle. And do not confuse this information with the notion that I am not happy I appeared on a reality show. I love you reality television. As much as I want to rep for my hometown of Valrico, I had to get out of there and this was the yellow brick road that I chose to skip along. Seriously. Get your money, man. Now, this will be personal and probably self-deprecating (or as my boo would wrongly say self-deprivating), but it will be an honest account of my experience six years post-reality show. And no, I don’t think I’m better than anybody that is in this reality boat. It’s just that I view the whole thing an entirely different way that I think is, um, healthier maybe?

Let me step up on my self-righteous soapbox now.

First, I must say that not all of us do what Daniel the only Asian ever in the world to ever be on a reality show apparently does. We don’t all make our mothers pose as publicists. Oh please. Can you imagine Mercy trying to run a press line, holding on to her purse (containing inkless pens and soy sauce packets) for dear life like she always does, looking and acting totally confused?

All of us do not show up a little bit uninvited to red carpet events. Well, yeah, most of us do I guess. But some of us do have enough sense to NEVER walk out of the front of the event holding (!) the goodie bags. Some of us have the intelligence to send our less-than-savory uninvited non-famous-at-all friend out to the car first with two or three of the bags if there are hair products, Havaianas flip flops, spa gift certificates and things that will be wonderfully re-gifted in those bags. Duh.

Red carpets. I did some of those things when I was on Girls Behaving Badly. It’s a whole big situation where you learn exactly how to pose -- chin down, legs close together, foot tilted, handbag in back if not so cute but in front if amazing, not too much teeth, look genuinely happy and do not have arms flush against you as they will look fat in photos. Click here for a hilarious example of me in red carpet glory where I am entirely running (not necessarily following) the above mantra through my head as the flash bulbs go off.

And then, you answer the questions. Be positive, vague and gracious that your ass is even in this position. Never say you’re “producing” something. Be quiet, not flashy and keep it moving! Now, having had this experience, that doesn’t mean I look forward to it. It’s nice and everything but I’m sure it’s way nicer for say Jessica Simpson – someone that is insane FAMOUS and really confident that her stylist, makeup and hair team are doing right by her, you see. I, a girl that applies her own makeup sitting on a big pillow on the floor facing a mirror that is hung on the inside of a small closet filled with a bunch of things I’ve already worn, am a little shy in the red carpet department. And now that I totally don’t live in LA, red carpets are few and far between. Few few.

Having said all of this, I personally don’t run to a red carpet because strange as this may sound having been as attention-starved as I was, I sometimes feel quite awkward or underdressed or worst of all completely rushed off that mother fucker once Amanda Bynes or OJ Simpson shows up.

Case in point: Last night, my boyfriend and I attended the launch party for Krucial Keys the interactive website. He makes the merch for Krucial Keys. I had no idea this was going to be as fancy and star-studded as it was. I was simply going by a paper flier and my boyfriend’s camouflage jacket and orange Nikes to determine that this was a low-key casual event. I wore jeans and a black shirt (my new uniform) with some Versace boots (purchased on deep discount, don’t trip). Because it was raining out, there was no sense in fussing with my Diana Ross mane so I put it up in a messy bun and threw a wide black headband on. There were no flashy earrings. Just my little diamonds. And I didn’t feel like unpacking my day bag in exchange for a night clutch, so…

I arrived at this party in the above-mentioned attire with a big ass daytime bag drenched in rain with a frizzy bun.

We walk in and there are flashing lights and a red mother fucking carpet. I was like, “J, my darling lovely bee, what is this? You did not tell me it was going to be like this. Babe, I have a bun on my head right now. I reek of Malaysian peanut sauce. There’s undoubtedly some kind of Chinatown debris on the bottom of these boots and look at my day bag!” He, of course, as all good-intentioned but LYING boyfriends should was like, “You look awesome. Relax.”

Just as I was coat-checking my soaked green military jacket, I turned around to face the ladies that see if you are, in fact, invited to this here event. This publicist turns to me and says, “What is your full name?” And I say, “Melissa Howard” and she says, “Real World New Orleans right?” and I say, “Um yes…” and somehow I was confused as to where all this was going because I was steady tripping off my BUN. The other publicist ladies closed up the lists and said, “You’ll be fine…” So that was nice. She wasn’t even going to bother checking the paper to see if I was in fact invited. I mean, with a six-year-old expiration on my 15 minutes that was cool of her to stroke my little ego.

Then, she says, “Would you like to do the red carpet?”

My heart just sunk. The BUN. The RAIN SOAKED BUN. The wet boots. The day bag. The wet day bag. Where’s my lip gloss? And suddenly I remembered I have a larynx and mind with which to say NO and I said, “Um no thanks…” and she said, “Why! You look great!” And I’m thinking to myself, Is this really happening? Is my suburban blogging-in-my-pajamas ass being practically begged to walk this red carpet with the likes of LA Reid and Nick Cannon and Farnsworth Bentley?

And yes, that’s exactly what was happening and again, I said no thanks. And then the internal dialogue kicked in. Does she think that I think I’m better than this event? Surely, she must know that I am just feeling a little under-prepared for an event this fancy. Does she know this? Or does she think I’m being entirely difficult because I think I’m a celebrity? I felt like I had to explain so I pathetically just pointed to my bun and made a sad face hoping she’d understand my body language and she left me alone to stand behind my boyfriend, a self-conscious and miserable mess.

Ten minutes later, she approaches me again and this time says People magazine “spotted” me and would like to do a quick interview. I say, “Of course, but I really am too shy to have my photo taken.” And she assures me I won’t have to have my picture taken and I head up to the red carpet media section. They immediately pointed to the spot on the carpet where I should stand and with the bun on my mind, I froze like a potty-training child too far from the big girl toilet.

So of course, everyone with a camera or microphone is like Who does this bitch think she is not taking a picture? Or that’s what I thought in my overanalyzing little mind anyway. Reality check – no one cares, Melissa. No one cares.

So I do the People interview. They asked me if I was pursuing acting here in New York. I let out what I would call a straight up guffaw. I was gleeful (maybe) to report that I am not on that train, and instead, pursuing writing – something that I am much more comfortable with because of that whole DOABLE factor. And this brought me back to the True Life episode.

You see, I don’t know how or why acting, this far flung idea, has become the go-to “career” move for reality people. Don’t we all see? You are from a REALITY show. You must pursue HOSTING (or real estate or high end retail or envelope stuffing). Or candid reality that isn’t really about you. Sure, if you happen to get a manager or an agent, you do everything they tell you to do and take whatever opportunity comes your way and again be gracious about it, of course. But do not believe that acting is going to be your golden ticket out of this reality spiral. You will always be Such and Such from Such and Such Reality Show. Always. When you’re buying tampons at 3 am with a 102-degree fever and a massive painful not-yet-erupted chin zit – you are still Such and Such from Such and Such Reality Show. And if you happened to be trampy Such and Such, am I or the not-to-be-insulted public to believe that you are now a librarian in the latest Hilary Duff film? No, but you won’t be getting that part anyway so whatever.

Now, MTV did approach Coral for this here show. At the time, we were living together in West Hollywood and she was informed that they’d need to have access to film in her (our) apartment for three whole months. To this proposition, y’all know Coral, she was like OH HELL TO THE NAW. Let us not mention that I, the innocent roommate, would also be filmed. Do you think I want to give MTV permission to clown me when I’m innocently coming home from my never-gonna-book-it Taco Bell I’m Full commercial audition where my hair is braided so that I can look Native American? (Just doing what the paper says.)

No. And I don’t want MTV listening in on my conversations with Coral where I say, “I’m fucking Melissa from the fucking Real World dude. I’m off to go to this prostitute audition. Could you have my bloody mary ready in about thirty minutes when I’m back here with my rejected ass?” Coral was always supportive though. Every time I would say, “Dude, I’m going to go pretend to give birth in a parking lot except that the parking lot is a small room with a casting agent. See ya in 30…” she would always respond, “Girl, at least you’re going out on that shit, you never know…” to which I would say, “Yes, that is a blessing I guess” and she would say, “But yeah, text me when you’re on the way home so I can make the drinks. Cool stripper shoes.” I’d skulk to my car, script in hand, listening to her cackle fade in the background. See, this is the attitude, this is the thick skin that you need to even bother with this Hollywood dream. I viewed all of it as really good fodder for storytelling later in life. This is what it is! If I didn’t find humor in HEARING Andrew Firestone badly audition for a sitcom while I sat in the waiting room wondering if he was still with Jen, then who would I be?

You do never know. Did I start to lose hope after auditioning for and not getting that random hosting job in the E! building 9, yes 9 times? Yes but I was happy to be invited back 9 times. But there is sometimes light at the end of that sad little tunnel of rejection. I had no idea when I auditioned for Girls Behaving Badly that it would be my real job with a real paycheck for the next three years. And what a joy it was to discover the show was syndicated. See, you never know. And for that blessing, I am not mad. I am just thankful and happy for the experience. It had to have been a combination of luck and I don’t know what, but God bless (as my boyfriend would say).

So yeah, I do appreciate that once you get off a reality show it’s only natural to want to pursue that good sometimes easy money based on your level of recognition. The Laguna Beach kids are still an enigma to me, but that’s the power of scripted (?) reality plus a great publicity team. Real World and Road Rules don’t get that type of treatment post-show. I’m still trying to figure all of that out but that is not my point. There should be a sense of understanding that this Hollywood thing might not pan out (or really just won’t). You’ve got to have a Plan B, C, D, E and F and be OKAY with that. You just must. And the plan shouldn’t include trying to exploit your reality counterparts in their vulnerable and delusional state. You would be surprised to learn how many reality people get it enough that they know they won’t be able to extend the 15 minutes but think somehow that they can “manage” the “careers” of reality people they think can break into that 16th minute. Are we all retarded here? Let’s put a realistic cap on the whole thing. I mean, Mark Long, how much longer can you take the 24-hour frat party? How much longer? I heard he’s “retired” but still.

What else, what else, what else?

Oh, um, we don’t all go to Saddle Ranch. Yes, lots of reality people do go there but my idea of great night on Sunset Blvd is not the one bar with a mechanical bull in the middle of the room and peanut shells on the floor. Try Beige on Tuesday nights. Gay men, pretty drinks and Ghost Town DJs My Boo pumping through the speakers. This blending of all reality people, Apprentice Next Top Model Bachelor Big Brother, it’s…it’s mind-blowing! It’s like a little support group. So if I said to them, “Dudes, we can’t make a 2006 calendar in the middle of September 2005 and furthermore, we can’t make a calendar at all if all we have is her, her and her!” would they hate me? Probably. They hate me then. Because I think that shit is crazy. And they’d say I was jealous of their fame, that I’m this nobody. They totally would say that!

And maybe I am a nobody.

But I’d rather be a nobody whose booking agent does not lie about my bed, all hugged up in the pillows. Did you see that? I thought it was a little weird. Tonya’s booking agent was laid up on her bed, half in the covers all hugged up on the pillows. I don’t even see my booking agent much less have him laid up in my bed. It’s called email. He sends the information. I say yes or no. I get on the plane. I am escorted into the event where there are seats and no alcohol. I answer the questions. I go back to my hotel room ALONE. He calls the next day to see that the event was nice. I say yes and thank you and then I go on about my business. Which is to pick up the dry cleaning, Lysol the doorknobs and phones, Google Passover and bite my lip nervously waiting for some good news about my writing project.

What else about this True Life episode must I address?

Oh yes. We do not all miss flights repeatedly for paying jobs. If your job is to show up and be yourself, it’s not much to ask that you show up and be yourself, is it? I mean, that’s just ludicrous and unprofessional. Get your ass up. Get on the plane. Put that drink down. Tell your reality lovers that you’ll be home soon and get it together. None of this three-way kissing in the terminal as you miss your flight. That, to me, is just taking the position of being sorta famous for granted. If someone is paying you, make it your PRIORITY to get there and be cool. Don’t spend the night before sneezing and boozing at the Saddle Ranch. Come on.

And we don’t all run home to Wire Image to see if our picture from the event the night before has surfaced (anymore). Daniel, learn this lesson quickly. It’s pathetic and disappointing to go and check that shit. One day, he will run to the computer to find that yes, his photo was taken but it was not posted because real celebrities, even junky real ones like Haylie Duff, showed up and their status bumped him entirely off the list. Or worse, you’re on there all right, but your name is spelled wrong or incorrect altogether. Once I discovered that my name was completely incorrect at an event where I was one of the guests of honor. With this type of shit, you have to just laugh. But these people are not laughing. They are dead serious. But I am here to tell you we are not all like this. I promise.

I am not above getting a day job when that becomes necessary. Sure, I would have no idea where to start or how to explain the six year gap in my resume, but if and when the finances burn completely to the ground, I will get a job. And that’s going to be okay! And while I don’t have to have a “regular” job, I will take advantage of this time and nurture the little flame of actual talent or skill that I may actually possess but I surely won’t be self-aggrandizing and embarrassing myself along the way. Put this shit into perspective, people. Being on a reality show in and of itself means that every day, in regular day to day life, you will face some type of awkward or embarrassing moment. Yes, I am Melissa from the Real World buying this big ass box of Tucks medicated pads, hi. Why add fuel to that fire by hanging photos of yourself in a 2004 calendar all over your apartment?

And to those of you that asked by email, YES, people do randomly take your photo when you’re just sitting there. With cell phones, with cameras, yes, that does happen. I know you don’t want to believe it, but it does happen. And that’s the thing that everyone that “hates on” reality people don’t get. Part of this belief that we are special is entirely fed by this type of thing. People do want your autograph. People do ask for your picture. People do come up to you and ask you if you are, in fact, who you are and then they LOUDLY run to their friends and say, “See dude, I fucking told you.” Or they do, my personal favorite, that loud whisper that Melissa from the Real World is buying a hamper and some Junior Mints at Bed Bath & Beyond and they obviously make a tiny scene about it merely 4 feet away from me trying to appear as if they don't care that it's me even though I can hear and see everything which is just as weird for me as it is for you so um yeah.

So, yes, we are treated like we are famous. And if famous is too offensive for you to take, we are treated like we are, in fact, recognizable, because um we are. And because it’s reality television, people really feel like they know you and you’re in this little time capsule where you are asked questions about what really happened in the summer of 2002 on that challenge in Jamaica. And by this point, you actually can’t remember and you don’t bother answering the question anyway because the person that asked is usually TELLING you what really happened because in her mind what she perceives to be the actual events ARE the actual events so there is no point in disagreeing or correcting. Just smile and be like, “Totally!” Shake that hand. Take that picture. Say it was nice to meet this person and keep dragging that luggage to the plane that will take you to the next paying gig. Life is cool.

There.

That is my two cents on true true life post reality show. Is it ironic that I am now blogging about the very thing I claim to be so over? Yeah. Dude, duh. But some of us are not chasing red carpets and claiming to be better than "regular" people. Some of us are making our beds in the morning. Kissing our boyfriends goodbye as they head off to work. Staring at cursors on blank pages trying to conjure up a cohesive thought that might be fit to be published. And yes, some of us are watching reality people get clowned on reality shows aired on the very network that started this whole reality situation about reality people pursuing their acting careers and then fielding questions from non-reality people about the truth of it all.

I am delighted and mortified at the same time.

Now, in the spirit of amazingly terrible reality television, I will leave you with what I believe to be hilarious for some unknown reason. Coral and I have asked each other WHY we both think this is so funny and we don’t understand it. It can’t possibly be that funny. But every time I see it, I am cracking up and it’s totally self-involved and very reality of me, but I don’t know why. I think it’s the way she claims she saw tassels on her shoes. Nevertheless, in the spirit of reality, watch this video and hate me all you want for thinking it’s just really funny. You see, we're all a little delusional I guess. Plus, I'm addicted to and overjoyed for knowing how to add links.

Stepping down from the soapbox. Goodnight friends.

Posted by melissah at April 5, 2006 06:03 AM