Too Girly to Be Girls?

Once averse to the boob tube, author T cooper is now in love with TV -- specifically with the hair-extended, acrylic-nailed sort, a la Rock of Love .



When I recall cities based on the type of toilet in my hotel rooms, and my brain is fried over-hard and my heart is lonely because my most meaningful human contact has been from people pressing business cards into my hand, sometimes I just need to fall into the couch and be reunited with those I know best -- and who know me best, know intrinsically how to both talk me down from tour-induced mania and coax me out of deep, alienating writing jags during which I shower only when the fumes turn visible, like Pig Pen's.

Which brings me to Rock of Love with Bret Michaels. I had assumed nothing could rival my Housewives, but this series came along and significantly upped the ante. (I see ROL as the flip side of the Housewives coin, the ROL girls just a few years -- and four-score Botox injections -- shy of themselves becoming leathery O.C. wives. Well, the lucky ones, that is.) And the newest installation of the series, Rock of Love Bus , is like a Tranny Roadshow pulling into your living room, a smell-o-vision assault of strawberry Bubble Yum, Nair, cheap leather, Jean Naté, and nonoxynol-9, with an overtone of FDS spray (and when Bret starts jamming his tongue down all the girls' throats, you can count on a healthy splash of Drakkar Noir added to the olfactory mix).

VH1's brilliant twist on the show's current season finds the girls and their accoutrements crammed into a couple of tiny bathrooms and several sandwiched bunks on two different tour buses. I love how when tempers flare and acrylics fly, the biggest insult slung by girls at other girls is "She's a man!" when the trash-talker herself would probably have a hard time being granted entry to the Michigan Womyn's Festival. I mean, sure, every rose has its thorn, but I doubt that when Bret first sang those words he was thinking of the kind of thorn that can be tightly tucked inside an Exxtreme Cleavage rhinestone thong from Frederick's of Hollywood.

I can't help but don my tranny goggles for every Sunday night show, when the girls and the bachelor alike perform femininity so hard it breaks on through to the other side, where girls will be boys, and boy will be girl. (Each successive season reveals some new juicy detail about Bret's hair extensions and degree of baldness under all those bandanas and cowboy hats -- not to mention, dude wears more eyeliner and pancake makeup than Amanda Lepore.)

It's certainly a mixed-up, muddled-up, shook-up world in which to find a mate, so will Bret ever find his true lady (or whatever he's into) love? God, I hope so -- or I'll never get off this couch and finish another book.

Tags: television