(Okay, so before I talk about what I meant to talk about...how am I only just discovering Slate? Where have I been? It seems like someone went "hey, let's write about everything emma loves and/or wonders about and put those articles in one place." Infinite kudos to Carrie for leading me here.)
I am a TV junkie. I'm not proud of it, but I admit it freely. My already crack-like habit was ratcheted up while I was in England, when streaming American TV over breakfast became a closely held ritual that simultaneously kept me entertained, provided a bit of home comfort and (on days when I watched House or Grey's Anatomy) severely curbed my appetite. besides the medical dramas, I'm also a crime addict. NCIS, CSI (but only Las Vegas or Miami...New York is worthless), Law & Order: SVU and Numb3rs are all must watch for me. Add to the mix the latest Joss Whedon offering, Dollhouse, and you can see how my week is quickly eaten up.
But even with that embarrassingly long of shows, I still need more. Which brings me to the most shameful element of my TV obsession: reality TV. I adore it. There are very few reality TV shows that I won't watch and quickly become obsessed with (those few exceptions include American Idol, anything involving Tila Tequila or Flavor Flav and the mind-numbing uselessness that is The Hills). AMNT? Check. Project Runway? You got it. Rock of Love? More! So You Think You Can Dance? Bring it on. Top Chef? Hell's Kitchen? The Biggest Loser? Charm School? If it involves food, dancing, fashion or former lead singers of Poison, I dare you to try and keep me away. Even the ones I don't follow religiously are able to suck me in for an episode or two should they come across my channel surfing.
But the mother of all of these trashy, low-brow guilty pleasure is any iteration of The Real World/Road Rules Challenge. I absolutely adore them, have watched them for years, know way too much about every player and just can't stop. Even my former roommates, Jacey and Jo, who would happily settle down to the Sunday night line-up of My Fair Brady and Scott Baio is 45 and Single couldn't bring themselves to watch an hour of self-obsessed 20-somethings tackle each other in Gladiator-like challenges before drinking themselves into oblivion.
Which is is why I was so happy to read this article from Slate. I am not alone!
Now, to go find some reruns...
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I am pleased I helped you discover Slate! I wasn't sure if you knew about it, it seemed like a you kind of place. I <3 Slate.
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