Reality Bites

I’m not much of a reality TV guy.

And that clearly puts me in the minority.

Sure, I watched The Real World on MTV.

In the 90’s.

And I have a pretty good read on how that genre has changed the TV biz.

But as a viewer I just haven’t bit the hook.

Like so many others.

Ok, I’ve nibbled.

I watched an entire season of Biggest Loser.

Like five years ago.

And LOVED it.

But I never went back.

I watched season 2 or 3 of Big Brother.

But I just read they are now on Big Brother 13.

So I’m not sure that would qualify me as a fan.

I’ve dabbled in The Bachelor.

And Bachelorette.

And The Apprentice.

I am definitely excited about the return of Fear Factor.

But I could care less about Survivor: Abu Dhabi.

Or wherever they are headed next.

That’s just reality.

Other than American Idol, none of these shows have hooked me for more than a few months.

And with my love of music, I think American Idol is more of my fantasy than reality.

But you don’t need a degree from MIT to see how popular these shows are.

You just need the internet.

And an extra long keyboard.

http://tvbythenumbers.zap2it.com/category/weekly-tv-ratings-rankings/nielsen-weekly-top-broadcast-tv-show-ratings/

That’s where I found the latest network ratings.

And in the much beloved “Adults 18-49 Demographic”.

It’s reality, reality, reality.

All the way down to #15.

That’s where 60 Minutes was listed.

To be totally fair, 60 Minutes was a re-run last week.

And to be more fairer, 60 Minutes was ranked 4th overall among “PrimeTime Broadcast Network Total Viewers (all ages)”.

But still.

And when I went to go look at the latest cable numbers.

Fuhgetaboutit.

The #1 cable show last week was Jersey Shore.

Season 4.

With 7.37 million viewers.

SEVEN MILLION VIEWERS!

Now let me come clean.

I have seen Jersey Shore.

About 10 minutes of a re-run.

About nine months ago.

It was the episode where they yelled at each other.

And then went to a bar.

And got drunk.

Have you seen it?

Well based on the ratings, you probably have.

Now I’m not trying to sound like some old fuddy duddy who doesn’t like to watch real people act stupid.

But isn’t that what CSPAN is for?

Somehow I’ve managed to avoid the reality onslaught.

But I can’t say the same for my wife and kids.

My DVR has been overtaken by.... Housewives.

Real Housewives.

Of New Jersey, Orange County, Beverly Hills.

Papillion, Nebraska.

Put “Real Housewives” in front of it and my 14-year old daughter is hooked.

And if she is hooked, the seven-year old can’t be far away.

They know all of the characters too.

(Are they really characters?)

And these damn shows are so damn addicting.

Usually I’ll walk by the TV.    See what they are watching.

Prepare to yell at them.

And then fall into a trance that won’t let me walk away for at least 35 minutes.

Can you believe what a bitch Kyle is?

Oh, sorry.

I suppose one of the nice things about these reality shows is.

They are real.

Real people.

Real stories.

Real drama.

And plenty of it.

But it’s all fun and games.

Until someone gets hurt. 

A few days ago we learned that Russell Armstrong, a Real Househusband of Beverly Hills, killed himself.

No joke.

The police said he was hung.

And they was right.

Honestly I don’t watch the show enough to even know who he is.

Was.

But my daughter does.

And when I broke the news to her about this story, she was shocked.

Shocked that he was dead.

Shocked that he took his own life.

Shocked that anyone would do such a thing.

At 14, she is not so naive.

She understands that these things do happen.

“But what would it take for somebody to do this to themself?” 

She said.

Then we spoke about Russell.

And Taylor, the real Housewife.

And their five-year old daughter Kennedy.

For a few moments.

But that conversation quickly moved into a discussion about life.

And death.

And why.

And what.

And how.

How could anyone do such a thing?

I’m not sure I had the answer to any of her questions.

But we talked.

And talked.

And it was real.

More real than anything you can watch on TV.

Inspiration Point

James Durbin.

You may not know his name.

Yet.

But you will.

Over the next few months, he has a chance to do something only nine others have done before him.

Become an american idol.

Actually, an American Idol.

His powerful voice and magical energy is sure to make him a fan favorite on the most popular show in the country.

He already has my vote.

I have no idea if James has ever met Tim Howard.

Or Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf.

Or Jim Eisenreich.

I don’t even know if Durbin has heard of them.

And why would he.

They have nothing in common.

Well, almost nothing.

They were each born in different decades.

In different parts of the country.

And they have each lived different lives.

Abdul-Rauf is considered the greatest high school basketball player in Mississippi history.

He averaged 30 points as a freshman at LSU.

An NCAA Record.

Scored 51 points in an NBA game.

Howard is one of the best goalies in the world.

In 2008 he was the U.S. Soccer Male Athlete of the Year.

In 2009, this Jersey Boy led his English Premier team to the finals of the FA Cup.

In 2010, Howard was in the nets for the U.S. as they reached the top 16 at the World Cup. 

Eisenreich played 15 years in the major leagues.

A .290 hitter in nearly 4,000 at bats.

His career was capped off by winning a World Series.

Each of these men has reached a level that only few enjoy.

But statistics hardly defined them.

As athletes.

As men.

As role models.

Each has overcome tremendous odds to even make it out of bed each day.

No less what they have accomplished.

And Durbin’s story is no different.

Sure they come from unrelated locations.

But they each live in the same place.

Members of the same club.

A club that only 5-to-10 out every 10,000 people get to join.

Whether they like it or not.

The club is called Tourette’s Syndrome.

Tourette syndrome is a neurological disorder in which you display unusual movements or make sounds over which you may have little or no control (tics). For instance, you may repeatedly blink your eyes, shrug your shoulders or jerk your head.    (mayoclinic.com)

Jim Eisenreich’s symptoms kicked in at age 6.

Howard was diagnosed in fifth grade.

As a teenager, Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf had episodes so bad it literally knocked him out.

For James Durbin, he learned of his disease at the age of nine.

In 2008, he told the Santa Cruz Sentinel:

"I'd go to school and all day, I'd try to hold it back and not let it show. But then when I would get home," he makes a gesture to suggest he would engage in a rush of behaviors to "let it all out."

While the others found their safe place on a field.

For Durbin, it was the stage.

Where he has been performing since he was diagnosed.

Playing a variety of roles in a variety of local theaters.

But there is nothing local about American Idol.

Each week, tens of millions of fans are glued to the set to see the next big thing.

And the next big thing could be Durbin.

Not only does he have a chance to win the contest.

But the 22-year old has a chance to tell his story.

Tell his story to the thousands of kids who are just like him.

Thousands of kids who can’t see tomorrow.

Thousands of kids who are ready to give up.

A few years ago we got a call from a friend.

A close friend, whose son had just been diagnosed with Tourette’s.

Our friend knew very little about the disease.

And certainly had no idea where to turn.

So I told her the story of Jim Eisenreich.

That was the only story I knew.

For at least that moment that gave her great comfort.

And helped her realize that her son’s disease was not a death sentence.

Far from it.

I have no idea where James Durbin’s story will take him.

But he has a chance to be an American Idol.

Even if he doesn't win the contest.

Not So Silent Night

Every so often I run across a new creation and I slap my head like its a V8 commercial.

WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT???????

That happens EVERY time I go by a fantasy sports website.

Or listen to the words from a Katy Perry song.

Or drive by a Starbucks.

Damn Starbucks.

Well, it’s happened again.

And again.

Every Tuesday night.

It’s called Glee.

Just imagine if Grease had a baby with American Idol.

That’s Glee.

If you haven’t seen it, shame on you.

It has everything you would ever want in a show.

At least everything I would ever want in a show.

It is the greatest show of all-time.

At least the greatest show of this time.

This week.

Sure some of the characters are a little cliche.

A little predictable.

A little page 19 of the stereotype handbook.

But the creators of Glee have all the food groups covered.

Gay kid.  Jock.  Wheelchair.  Black girl.  Hot girl.

I clearly haven’t watched the show closely enough, but I imagine there is a Jew or two in there as well.

Actually, I haven’t watched the show much at all.

I’m guessing it is in the 2nd or 3rd season at this point and I’ve only seen two or three episodes.

But my oldest daughter is addicted.

As is my friend Rick.

And since Rick is old enough to be my daughter’s father, I figured it was good enough for me.

So now we watch it every week.

And as my family sits there singing the songs, I sit there thinking how rich we would be if I would’ve come up with the idea for this damn show.

Doh.

Singing is big in my family.

I do it.

My wife tries to do it.

My son would like to do it.

My oldest daughter refuses to do it.

And my youngest daughter loves doing it.

The Osmonds have nothing on us.

My wife and I have helped the kids find something they are passionate about.

And then we encourage them to do it SO much they are destined to hate it.

Ok, just kidding.   I think.

My oldest daughter is the dancer.   

My son is the baseball player.

And now child #3 is a singer.

Officially.

She loves soccer and softball... and reading, but she’s definitely the entertainer in the family.

So we signed her up for the local choir.

Not a church choir or school choir, this is the real deal.

Practice twice a week.   Payment once a month.

This singing school actually teaches the kids how to read music AND how to sing.

A few days ago this choir held its 21st Annual Winter Shindig.

In all there were 204 kids on the stage and more than a thousand people in the stands.

They broke the kids up into several age-specific groups and each group performed several songs.

I’m not sure if it was the father in me or the singer in me, but I loved every second of it.

When I was her age I sang in the Synagogue Choir.

That was a big deal.

Then.

Every Jewish New Year they would give me the solo.

About midway through the endless service, I would belt out a few words in Hebrew that I had no idea what they meant.

Then, as a form of appreciation, the old men in the audience would pinch my pudgy cheeks and squeeze my right hand until the blood stopped.

I would’ve preferred a little coin.

But hey, they loved me, they really loved me.

My daughter’s performance was a lot more official than anything I was ever part of.

There was a maestro.

And a pianist.

And a fluterist.

And for one song they had a glockenspielski.

Good thing this wasn’t a spelling bee.

The concert must’ve run close to two hours as the kids performed 22 songs.

My wife secured seats in the fifth or sixth row so that my daughter could be distracted by us.

When she came on stage she scratched her nose to say hello.

Waiving might’ve got her kicked out of the choir.

Then she stood front and center, singing three songs and spreading Christmas cheer for more than ten minutes.

And this was no generic Christmas cheer either.

There was no “Grandma got run over by a reindeer” or “I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus”.

This was the real stuff.

“Snow is falling still”.

And “Sleep, my child”.

And “A Winter Carol”.

Three songs I had never heard of.

And they had never sounded so beautiful.

So good in fact, I almost pinched my daughter’s cheeks.

There's always next year.