A Brush With Reality

Much to the disdain, dismay, and even disgust of my family and some friends, I have been a devotee of certain reality TV programming for the last decade or so. The eye rolling and tongues in cheek of these loved ones is so exaggerated at times in reaction to this foible of mine that, I fear, could lead them to permanent disfigurement.  Yes, truth be told, I have been a huge fan of Survivor, the Amazing Race, American Idol, Top Chef, and others for years. And, yes, I have often been forced into seclusion to give full vent to my fandom or risk expulsion from the family Golland/Matheson, but I have done this without flinching, without complaint. Sacrifices are sometimes necessary. After all, I have even applied and auditioned for more than one of these shows. My devotion is beyond reproach. But, let me be quick to say that I am, I believe, selective in my viewing choices. Kim Kardashian and her ilk will never cross my TV screen, nor will the unhappy housewives of Beverly Hills, Atlanta, or Mongolia, for that matter. I will not indulge former football players or over the hill entertainers as they prance across the stage as dancing “stars.” 

But, watching these reality programs on TV and being there in person to bear witness are two different things, however. Which is why I lunged at the chance to attend a screening of The X-Factor, the johnny-come-lately to the singing competition universe, courtesy of erstwhile American Idol judge – Mr. Simon Cowell. I saw this as a way to immerse myself in the experience, to have my own brush with reality, you might say.

The lines were long at the North Charleston Coliseum. While I got there an hour before they recommended, the place was already crawling with sun-dressed young ladies replete with fancy sandals and the ubiquitously displayed cell phones, sometimes in the company of an occasional adult chaperone. The male species was represented too, but with only a slight sprinkling throughout the lines. A very slight sprinkling. Hazarding a guess, I would say the median age of attendees was maybe 16. Folks of my ancient ilk were few and far between. Let me just say that there weren't a whole lot of folks who could lay claim to being born in the first half of the last century.

After standing outside the arena for more than an hour, we were blessedly ushered into the arena away from the searing sun and the avalanche of Facebook traffic, where I took my seat seven rows back from the stage, about 15 feet from where the inestimable Mr. Cowell would be seated along side his fellow judges. The host of the event – a very able and amiable fellow named Frank – guided us through the pre-program do's and don'ts, encouraging us to boo what the judges say, but not to boo the contestants who were, after all, already exposing themselves to public ridicule to millions of viewers. Frank also directed us in a walk-through of how we should execute our standing ovations, which, he enthusiastically intoned, would be done in waves depending on one's birth date. Who knew? We were also advised never to stare into the camera and warned us that cameras were everywhere – that nothing would go unnoticed. A nice lady named Amy – one of the crew – came out to test the sound system while simultaneously getting the crowd warmed up through a rousing rendition of “Rolling On The River.” Her skills were passable, but would never pass muster with these judges were she a contestant, but you had to give her props for her energy and enthusiasm.

The tension mounted. When would the judges appear? The pre-pubescent teens would scream whenever they sensed the judges' appearance, and, through the cacophony they created, they could get the entire audience to swivel their necks at all manner of awkward angles – much like the Linda Blair character in “The Exorcist” – whenever they thought the moment of their arrival was at hand. And, finally, an hour after being seated, they did arrive amidst all the fanfare normally reserved for national heroes or epic pop icons. In they walked to swirling lights and deafening screeches: Demi Lovato and new judges, Kelly Rowland and Paulina Rubio (apparently a mega Latina star). But, wait. No Simon? No, no Simon. Where was he? Demi announced to the crowd that Simon was “running late” and would arrive....uh...."soon."  In the meantime the three “awesome” ladies, as Demi humbly described the lady judges, would carry on. And, so they did. For an hour, performer after performer marched on to the stage trying to look their perky best and sound the most professional they have ever sounded. Some had success, some did not. Country singers, hip hop artists, church singers, groups, you name it. Judges got booed, contestants did not. One husband and wife team performed, and it was clear to the judges that the husband had a terrific voice while his spouse most definitely did not. When the husband was asked whether he would consider going on as a solo act, he said “in a heartbeat” whereupon the judges passed him on to the next round. I'm thinking, my oh my, that should make for an interesting, if awkward, ride home for the two of them. One lady, a professed hip hop artist, said she was 38 years old, but I wasn't buying it. Notwithstanding her metallic mini-skirt and stiletto heels, she was 50 as sure as the sun sets in the west. She didn't get the judges best wishes although the crowd tried its best to convince them otherwise to send her on as they chanted her key lyrics and stomped their feet to no avail. As was true for all the contestants, as they sang, you could watch the judges for their attempts at seeking a conspiratorial consensus off camera. Their smiles or frowns, their nodding heads and winks spoke volumes as they tried to minimize their own embarrassment at appearing fragmented and without support.

With an hour left, Simon Cowell entered the fray appearing in his traditional white t-shirt. He blamed his late arrival on Demi's erroneous advice that the afternoon session began at 4 rather than 3 hours earlier. Right. Simon's apparently been eating way too well and seriously needs to consider upping his shirt size which, given his outsized ego, may be hard to do. But, I must say, his one line zingers to the contestants were vintage stuff, and he very quickly asserted his dominance over the panel.

After almost four hours in our seats, Simon announced the afternoon session was over. A break would be taken and the evening session would begin. I would not be there for that. I couldn't wait to get home, pour myself a nice helping of rum and put my feet up. I had no idea this day would prove to be so taxing.

The X-Factor season on TV is coming this Fall. Plenty of time to perfect my couch potato credentials.

And....so much for reality.