Not yet a week back from this intense, ten day writing conference where we're talking about ideas and how to write the truth and here I am back, ready to blog about the least realistic show on TV. I missed two weeks in a row, including last week when Amy Schumer was a guest, which bums me out.
She admits that she is "a make-out bandit right now" explaining that if this physical side of the relationship isn't there for her, she can't marry the guy. She is covered in sparkles. She tells the other guys that Ian called her shallow. They go, "Like, seriously?" and their hair gel and muscles stiffen.
Are they now flipping the rose ceremony so that it happens at the beginning and not the end as a cliff hanger? Ashton Kushner is still on the show. They are in Texas and remind us of that by having the guys go to the Alamo for the rose ceremony. Or wherever this is...There's a cannon.
First rose: Bryan.
Second rose: Someone
Third rose: JJ
Fourth rose: Joe
Fifth rose: Ben Z. Big tall dude, looks like a former football player.
Sixth rose (last one!): 17 guys are left. Only one gets to stay. Who will it be?? Nick is safe, as are a few others. All of the men will be very shocked if they do not get a rose right now. Tanner. He pushes this guy out of the way to get to her.
Going home: A man with a satin handkerchief and slicked back hair, an unshaven blond, maybe from Kansas.
She picks Nick for the first one-on-one date. Kaitlyn can barely walk down the street because she has a fear of pigeons or I guess all birds. Nick loves it but will likely send her a box of dead mackinaw when they break up. They do a jig on the street with strangers, because that's what happens in Dublin all the time. They go to a pub to drink a Guinness with the locals. They make out a lot. I think he did the exact same thing with the other woman. Kaitlyn worries that their chemistry is too passionate. He does that thing they all do where he puts his hands all over her face when kissing her. Has she forgotten that this is what he does? He puts his hands on their faces and then they sleep with him and he tells everyone about it and the woman becomes the whore. Not him. She will be the one who is labeled as promiscuous.
They have dinner in a castle with two dozen long candles burning. Or maybe they're in a church. Or is it a crypt? Smooch noises as the wary stone statues and stained glass figures look on with blank eyes. She wears a black turtleneck sweater and he wears a hounds tooth jacket. They cut to a shot of a gold crucifix to remind us that she's a slut who makes out in churches. Funeral flowers surround them. She invites him back to her room. Shot of them kissing in an arched doorway outside and then she leaps on him and wraps her legs around his waist, in case we didn't have any idea what's going to happen next.
A whole hour left. While Nick and Kaitlyn are having sex, the men speculate if the two of them are having a good time or not. The next morning, she goes out on the balcony and hides her face in her giant sweater. Nick walks away with his jacket over his shoulder, dying to tell everyone about it. He's whistling and doing everything but kicking up his heels in triumph. She thinks he's a really good guy and she is definitely falling for him. She worries that he will tell the other guys about it, and they have this fake scene where she's pretending to have second thoughts and speaking them out loud on the balcony, sotto voce.
The big faced guy wants to remind her of his humanity by showing him photos of him with his dog.
Another one on one date with Ashton wherein not much happens.
My laptop stopped working so I didn't get to capture the remaining 15 minutes, but Nick didn't tell anyone, one of the blond guys was practically crying because he didn't get time with her, and the upcoming episodes show everyone in tears. How is Cupcake still on here?
Tomorrow, I am going to post an open letter to the producers of this show.
Let's return to literature. Here's the last paragraph from "The Dead," by James Joyce:
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, on the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.