It's 10 a.m., do you know where your car is?

There are a million reality shows on the naked television. We're going to watch them all, one at a time.

You know, I don't ask for much. I'm happy to take this weekly bullet for the amusement and horror of Art Attack's readers, because it (usually) allows me an outlet for my more misanthropic tendencies and (occasionally) gives me an unexpected glimpse of something genuinely entertaining.

But I require a certain level of authenticity. So-called "reality" shows are carefully edited for maximum shock value, if not staged outright, but rarely have I come across something like South Beach Tow, which is more fake than Mickey Rourke's bout with Chris Jericho at Wrestlemania XXV.

More >>

Is all that camo really necessary? They're freaking ducks.

There are a million reality shows on the naked television. We're going to watch them all, one at a time.

Up until about 15 minutes before watching this show, I had almost no idea what Duck Dynasty was about. I half hoped it was nothing but 30 minutes of following the famous ducks of the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee. How they'd scamper and cavort to the delight of that venerable hotel's guests, as well as an appreciative TV audience.

Yeah, not so much. I'll give the folks of Duck Dynasty this: While they may embody some of the more...colorful Southern stereotypes, they don't fail to entertain. And of all the terrifying shows I've been subjected to since I started "Reality Bites," this and Full Metal Jousting are the only two I'd consider putting in regular viewing rotation.

Sorry, Ghost Adventures.

More >>

I don't think is what Stevie Nicks was talking about.

For a country that likes to crow about how great we are for throwing off the yoke of British oppression, we sure like to steal a lot of their shit.

I don't mean "steal" in the, well, Gypsy sense. But The "Learning" Channel's (please make air quotes every time you say the network's name) latest foray into reality grotesquerie is a rather faithful domestic version of Channel Four's My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, the show that celebrated British Romani Gypsy and Irish Traveller culture by filming them in all their drunken, mullet-headed glory.

Jesus, who *wouldn't* want an American version of that?

More >>

I come to praise Joey Greco, not to bury him.

There are a million reality shows on the naked television. We're going to watch them all, one at a time.

"To be with another woman, that is French. To get caught, that is American." -- Inspector Andre, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels

I know the premise of this weekly exercise is that I'm supposed to check out a reality show I've never seen before and review it for your reading pleasure, but we're talking about a reality TV institution here, and one with which I have a long and sordid history.

That said, I don't know if I can really call myself a "fan," as that implies some level of affection. I can tell you I've been an off-and-on viewer since the Tommy Habeeb days, and that until its hard drive gave up the ghost recently, the episode where Joey Greco got stabbed was one of the only permanent residents of my DVR.

How, then, do we explain the End Times harbinger that is Cheaters? Very carefully, as it turns out.

More >>

"And this little number was driven by a nice man named Dale who only took it out on weekends. And only turned to the left."

There are a million reality shows on the naked television. We're going to watch them all, one at a time.

I can't claim I was excited about the prospect of watching American Pickers, especially when it felt like my recap of Storage Wars was just last week (it was actually six months ago). But as the current glut of junk-related reality programming attests, we are living in a pack-rat society. Thirty years ago, the idea of a "storage unit" separate from one's garage was almost unheard of; now people have two or three. And why? Because we can't bear to throw away our crap.

Even shows like Hoarders only elicit extreme reactions when the homes are particularly squalid. More and more, as long as the clutter is reasonably organized and there are no obvious infestations, people can overlook seven-foot stacks of phone books and a dozen garbage bags full of yarn.

This is especially true with a show like American Pickers, which yields up hope to those of us unable to part with even one of our 800 snow globes: hey, there could be gold in them thar landfills.

More >>

The "Wagon Queen Family Truckster." Extreme version.

There are a million reality shows on the naked television. We're going watch them all, one at a time.

Confession time: Ever since Red Dawn, I've been intrigued by the idea of putting together a survivalist stockpile in the event of Commie invasion/global pandemic/"low level" nuclear conflict/"Obamacare"-related economic catastrophe. Like many people who came of age during the Cold War, I gave at least passing thought to taking to the hills and fending for myself should the proverbial shit hit the fan.

Then I remembered I live in one of the largest metropolitan areas in the world and not, in fact, on the edge of the Rocky Mountains. But just because we Houstonians are doomed to be devoured by mutant cockroaches doesn't mean everyone is, and NatGeo's Doomsday Preppers offers a sometimes fascinating (and occasionally disturbing, or maybe it's the other way around) window into the lives of those preparing for the end of days.

More >>

Winces of Persia

There are a million reality shows on the naked television. We're going to watch them all, one at a time.

TV has always held the power to inform as well as entertain. At its best, the boob tube provides us with a means to further our education and helps give us a wider perspective of the world around us. Amidst all the crime procedurals and shows about Hollywood washouts attempting to dance, television occasionally imparts a valuable lesson about who we are.

And the lesson of Shahs of Sunset, it would seem, is that the repulsiveness of rich people knows no ethnic or cultural boundaries.

More >>

One of these malignant narcissists is not like the other.

There are a million reality shows on the naked television. We're going to watch them all, one at a time.

The subjects of most reality shows mostly fall into two broad categories: people who are quote a bit more successful than you are, and people you want to make fun of. Sometimes these categories intersect (anything Kardashian-related), but more often than not, the audience is left to choose between hooting at people holding Bigfoot conventions or gazing enviously upon the perfectly styled, Dior-clad glitterati we secretly (or not) long to be part of.

A substratum of the "more successful than thou" category are those who provide a service to wealthy types. Maybe they "pimp their rides," or cut their hair, or -- in the case of Million Dollar Listing New York -- sell them ostentatious and overpriced living quarters. Hey, Bernie Madoff had to live *somewhere*.

More >>

I think they call this a "reverse Heimlich."

There are a million reality shows on the naked television. We're going to watch them all, one at a time.

The women of Mob Wives are the embodiment of Karen Hill's description from Goodfellas:

They had bad skin and wore too much make-up. I mean, they didn't look very good. They looked beat-up.

The title sequence of the show is simply the four principal wives strolling purposely through Battery Park, the camera briefly highlighting each of their faces, and your first thought is: here is Snooki and JWoww's endgame. But even beyond that, these faces are what one must assume you're left with after a life attached to organized crime: careworn, embittered, and..yes, a little surgically enhanced.

But I'll tell you what, I wouldn't even take odds on these women squaring off against any of the Real Housewives. It'd be like that time Manny Pacquiao annihilated David Diaz.

More >>

U mad, Philo T. Farnsworth?

Now that reality shows are as commonplace as well, I dunno, Starbucks locations, it's hard to be shocked by new ones when they are announced. Shows about teen moms, amorous Italian-Americans, and waxed and lumbering Armenian girls are now as American as Walmart, plasma TVs and Tim Tebow.

An American Family, the first reality show, aired in 1973 on PBS and followed a typical family, the Louds, as they went through a divorce, just as divorce was becoming the norm in society. Oldest son Lance Loud became a pioneering figure in the gay community for being one of the first openly homosexual "characters" on television.

Now, almost 40 years later, reality shows aren't the keen slices of life that they used to be. Series now are mostly staged, but still just as entertaining, like Pawn Stars, and the drama seems to be manufactured. I am pretty sure they throw money at Kim Kardashian that coaxes her to cry crocodile tears on her show.

More >>