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Sucked into 'The Bachelor'

BY JULIA ALLISON | SPECIAL TO amNEWYORK

January 16, 2006

I have to admit, I've never watched The Bachelor before last week. The hormone-charged, fake-mansion-housed catfight for love never held my attention.

Maybe it's my tendency to become acutely embarrassed for the poor bachelorettes, who seem to alternate between sounding desperate "I'm here to find me a MAN," and getting rejected, "Why??? WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME? We've only known each other three days but you were my SOULMATE and I WANT THAT ROSE, DAMNIT!"

Maybe it was because I was still pissed about being assaulted with so many photos of "Trista and Ryan" ("Trista and Ryan sunbathing!" "Trista and Ryan still in love!" "Trista still a lot shorter than Ryan!")

Maybe it's because the last few bachelors have been, frankly, an orgasm killing turn off. And you know a man is undesirable when he's in a tux and still looks like Napoleon Dynamite (like the curly haired tool Bob Guiney).

Or maybe it's just my tendency to be doing something better on Monday nights, like reading US Weekly.

Still, I recently got on the DVR bandwagon, so I threw caution to the wind and set my recorder to tape yes "The Bachelor: Paris."

I figured I could just fast-forward to the Rose Ceremony and if I felt too traumatized, hit play immediately on a saved Daily Show for an emergency dose of sarcasm. (Hypothetical of the Day: What if Jon Stewart hosted The Bachelor? Hmmmm)

So I was more than surprised when the chisel-jawed Dr. Travis Stork and his harem of wannabe girlfriends 25 over-coiffed commercial-model types (most a decade or so younger than the 33 year old bachelor) actually kept my attention. Yes, Stork looks more like an actor playing a doctor and yes, with a name like Stork, he really should be a gynecologist, but bottom line, he went to MEDICAL SCHOOL and that's just hot.

Which brings up the central tenet of The Bachelor: Women. Will. Never. Get. Over. Their. Prince. Charming. Fantasies.

And this is the reason that we'll continue to watch it even if it's somewhat okay, totally artificial. And even if the premise is very 1950s. And even if we do think it's mildly degrading to fight for a man. And even if the host is made of cardboard. And even if not once did any of the participants, including the cardboard host, say anything that remotely resembled wit and/or intelligence.

This, and the fact that the only bachelorette to also have an M.D. actually went up to dear Dr. Stork and announced that her "eggs were rotting," and she was "ready to start the reproductive phase" of her life.

Now I see why people love reality television.