I'm no square. I'm pretty hip to what the kids like these days, even if my interests do tend to skew toward the more nerdly aspects of popular culture. So it was a humbling, surreal experience to march in the Gay Pride Parade alongside a celebrity I'd never heard of and listen to the frantic screams of her many fans.
The Voice sometimes partners up with other companies and sponsors for big events like parades and ritual bull slaughters. Our partner this time was Bethenny Frankel, who through a failed experiment with gamma radiation morphed into a creature who is both a woman and a brand. As far as I can tell, she uses her powers to sell low-calorie Skinny Girl Margaritas and garner ratings on her many Bravo reality shows, though whether that makes her a hero or a villain is anyone's guess. All I know is that while the Street Team was roasting on 38th Street for three hours, waiting for our turn to enter the parade, SHE was sitting in a nice, air-conditioned restaurant. Out of a mixture of jealousy and overheating, I decided to cultivate a simmering loathing for her. As a reality TV star, I expect she's used to it.
Seriously though, for someone I've never heard of, this chick was really, REALLY popular, to the point that people on the parade sidelines were screaming at me to get out of the way so they could take her picture. They wanted her picture more than they wanted her brand-sponsored free beach balls and frisbees. Even the cops, that's the NYP-freaking-D, were almost inappropriately happy to see her in the parade.
And the weirdness doesn't stop there. Frankel's fans knew stuff about her. Like, intimate stuff that I suppose you have to broadcast when you're a hybrid human-commercial property, but still: they knew she was getting married, that she'd just had a baby, the names of her friends and family--you wonder how the real stalkers distinguish themselves from the regular fans at this point. Well, maybe YOU don't wonder that, but I do, because I'm sick and twisted on the inside like a knot hidden deep in a bundle of yarn that you don't find until you're halfway done knitting your sweater and it pops out at you like the second little mouth inside the big mouth of the creature from "Alien."
What was I going on about now?
You know what, I don't even care. Screw reality TV stars. I'd actively hate them if I hadn't been to a reality show taping at the Knitting Factory a few weeks back and seen for myself how sad and miserable their lives are. Man, talk about twisted knots of humanity.
Oh, and speaking of the NYPD, a cop stopped by our booth after the parade and was hitting on Brian. It was awesome.