The A-List: T Lo Hit the Wall
Last week on the A-List: Everyone got botox injections and hair plugs while having drunken, tearful public fights over shit no person with anything going on in their life would care about. In the real world, Tom and Lorenzo traipsed all over Fashion Week, blissfully relieved that their hotel didn’t carry LOGO and thus, they didn’t have to watch.
This week on the A-List: Tom and Lorenzo had to watch. Are you happy now? Because we’re feeling a RANT coming on.
This is exactly what happened last season. We were right there, giving it our all and slinging the bitchy jokes with gusto. Then, somewhere near the end (This IS near the end, right? There’s not, like 22 more episodes or something, is there? We’re asking.) we find ourselves running out of “Rodiney sounds like a Hanna-Barbera character with a speech impediment/Ryan is puffy/Reichen is dimwitted/Derek is nasty/Austin is tragic” jokes. We start off the season gleefully shouting things like “Because you’re an IDIOT, Reichen!” at the TV, but last night the only words uttered by us were, “Oh my god. Oh my GOD. OH MY GOD.” in a trailing moan, our faces etched in weary disbelief that anyone, no matter how much they want the attention, would ever act the way these stupid queens act.
See, the “writers” of this show are doing the same thing they did last year about this time; they’re pulling a story right out of their asses without any warning. Last season it was the sudden whiparound to “Everyone hates Rodiney and likes Austin” story, and this year it’s the “Austin’s marriage is a VIOLENT SHAM and everyone LOVES it” story. Who the fuck cares? Who the fuck are these queens to suddenly get so judgmental? And how fucking twisted is it that a bunch of friends get together to discuss the possibility that their friend is in a physically abusive relationship like it’s a bit of delicious gossip? Not that we think Austin’s a battered spouse. It’s more likely that he and Jake are just a couple of idiotic drunks who never should have been more than the occasional fuckbuddy and drinking partner.
We’ll give the “writers” credit for one thing: they can get us to momentarily root for people we find repulsive. That is to say, we were seriously hoping Austin would lose his patience with Derek and just start punching him in the face repeatedly. Is that so wrong? “I’m just not ready to forgive you yet, Austin.” WHAM. Blood, shrieking, and Austin being led away in handcuffs while Derek’s plastic surgery collapses in the back of an ambulance. THAT’S how you do it, writers.
And another thing: why do these assholes have a party every time they take a shit? Are they so desperate for constant applause that they need drinks and a crowd every time they accomplish the most minor of tasks? Are there really THAT many men in Chelsea willing to appear on camera in the background? Is there NO dignity among the Manhattan queen set anymore? Don’t you all have anonymous sexual encounters to get to? For fuck’s sake, Nyasha can’t even fill out an online dating form without inviting over a bunch of queens to applaud every click. And that’s part of what’s so inadvertently hilarious; the fact that they throw these parties every ten minutes so their social circle can “show support” for every minor professional and personal achievement (My shitty tanner! My shitty wig line! My shitty song/fragrance/music video/marriage!) and they all show up just to trash the person they’re supposedly supporting or get into drunken brawls. That’s the ENTIRE SHOW now. Endlessly shitty parties for endlessly pathetic “achievements” (I’m six months older!) populated by a bunch of no-names acting like they’re at the Vanity Fair Oscar Party or something. Attention whores, listen up: The reason you constantly have to throw parties for yourselves is because NO ONE WANTS TO INVITE YOU TO ANY PARTIES. We’re pretty sure they all snuck into that God’s Love We Deliver Hamptons party last week. There wasn’t one shot of them standing any less than 200 yards away from the other attendees.
And you know something that just sets us off into teeth-gnashing? This insistence by these assholes that their little reality show shenanigans and money-making schemes are somehow “good for the community.” Stop putting the words “bi-national couples” and “Playgirl” in a sentence, Austin. Stop saying “My fragrance, which will be called ‘Reichen” in the same sentence with “HIV/AIDS Awareness.” “My gay ghetto dance video will totally help teens face up to their bullies!” Own your vapidity and need to be the center of attention. At least Derek isn’t pretending that her shitty tanner that no one’s going to buy is going to overturn DADT.
Here’s how you make this show better, LOGO: Everyone dies in a fiery plane crash. Failing that, everyone comes to the horrifying realization that nothing they do or say has any importance whatsoever to anyone else on the planet and they’re all just frightened children, desperately trying to hold back the dark by loudly declaring their non-existent importance to a universe that doesn’t care. This realization shatters each of them to the core and some overcome it through a firm commitment to better both themselves and the world around them in any small way they can. Others won’t be able to face it and slowly shuffle off to obscurity with alcohol and past imagined glories to sustain them. America (or at least the tens of thousands of Americans watching) applaud. Emmys rain down from heaven. T Lo breathe a sigh of relief.
All right. We admit it. This is just a long prelude to let you know that, much as we fake-love our little New York attention monkeys, you can’t pay us enough money to do this again when those Dallas queens come around. You bitches are on your own for that one.
But seriously, LOGO. Consider some onscreen violence to spice the show up. We’re not sure we can take another drawn out argument over nothing. Don’t even get us started on the whole “Mom, I showed my little dick on the internet” scene.