Desperate for The Golden Bachelor

In the catchy 1978 song “Found a Job,” the everlasting Talking Heads know that watching TV creates relationship frustrations: 

"Damn that television! What a bad picture!”
"Don't get upset! It's not a major disaster.”
"There's nothing on tonight,” he said, "I don't know what's the matter!”
"Nothing's ever on,” she said. "So I don't know why you bother."

I respect people who don’t watch TV. But as a couple, Joe and I can’t quit it. Not finding something to watch before bed often feels like a major disaster. 

In the earlier days of our relationship, we had better choices. The previous era of prestige TV gave us groundbreaking shows like The Sopranos, Breaking Bad, and Mad Men.  

 

But in 2023, Joe and I have succumbed to the nadir of TV’s most worthless genre, the reality show. We have traded Tony Soprano and Don Draper for one lachrymose golden bachelor.

The Golden Bachelor is a competition among 22 women aged 60 to 75 to win the hand of “grandzaddy” Gerry Turner, a well-preserved, hearing aid-wearing, 72-year-old crybaby from Indiana. When he is not weeping, Gerry lengthily sucks face with each of the show’s randy bachelorettes. Every emotion Gerry feels makes him want to grab the nearest contestant and make out.

It is even more disgusting – and I have this on female authority – to see a bevy of women with centuries of combined life experience acting like teenagers desperate to win a man’s attention. Infatuated, bitchy, and undeterred, they each confide to the camera their singular soul connection to Gerry. Never mind that he is probably off swapping spit with some other competitor. 

“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” asserted one conniving contestant who faked a Pickleball injury to get Gerry’s attention. This scheming sexpot happens to be a freaking therapist in real life. 

Another contestant skipped her own daughter's wedding to go on a date with Gerry. It served her right that her lactose intolerance flared up and she spent the time on the toilet instead of Gerry's lap.

During our recent trip to LA, Joe and I saw ubiquitous billboards promoting The Golden Bachelor. This advertising seemed discordant in a city famous for worshipping youth. But then I remembered: watching others humiliate themselves is a ratings draw on par with sex and youth. 

Bob and Judy, the TV-addicted couple in that old Talking Heads song, eventually change the channel on their self-imposed TV imprisonment. They become auteurs, “inventing situations” of their own and putting them on TV. 

This may be an option for Peter and Joe as well, a way out of our mind-numbing TV habit. Should we make our own reality show? At my age, it just might be a golden opportunity.