The Shallow End of the Reality Pool

Tonight I caught-up with a former music-industry compatriot and overall brilliant individual. But even brilliant minds can fall prey to good reality television. And by good, I mean programming showcasing people whose narcissism is on 10 while their self-awareness hovers around 1. Okay, zero.

In a moment of vulnerability, she confessed to enjoying VH1's Rock of Love. While I myself rarely watch television, I do read Entertainment Weekly (a paradox, I know). So I'm familiar with the show's concept: Poison frontman Brett Michaels hosts a hard-rock version of The Bachelor, as, ahem, ladies vie to be his one and only. For at least 72 hours. I envision the entire series taking place in one giant hot tub.

Considering that every reality show concept known to man, woman, and alien has aired, it would seem that the "talent" pool for contestants would have to be shrinking. By this point, what person with even a modicum of vocal ability has not auditioned for American Idol? 

If the singing pool has shrunk, then the dating contestant pickings must be slimmer than an Olson. After multiple seasons of The Bachelor, Average Joe, Paradise Hotel, Flavor of Love, and countless more, what women are left to take part in Rock of Love? I must believe that, if they so chose to form a coalition, such a frightening ensemble could end war, bring Wall Street to its knees, and travel through time at will. They scare me.