WEST CHESTER, Penna. – “Being Bobby Brown Houston,” which premiers tonight on the Bravo channel, is a bold, unsparing attempt to deconstruct the myth of celebrity; and judging from the back-to-back episodes, sandwiched proudly like a pair of silicon-augmented breasts between 10:00 and 11:00 this evening, the effort is a resounding, cup-runneth-over success.
Indeed, if “Being Bobby Brown Houston” (BBBH) does anything, it proves that apart from the fawning sycophants, the mountains of blow, and the fancy hotels, the lives of the rich and famous are as tedious, devoid of meaning, and lacking in elan as the lives of the people who help to make the rich and famous rich and famous.
This irony is not lost on Brown or his legions of post-modern-worshiping fans, who are sure to nod sagely at the fact that Brown is reduced to the role of second fiddle in his own composition, which depends on the orchestrated psychodrama that is Whitney Houston for its raison d’etre. A star to whom stardom has not been especially kind, Houston is queen of this castle while Brown is its court jester.
”That’s my family,” confesses Brown with a wry, existential shrug. ”We live hard, play hard, and try to stay out of Whitney’s way.”
Brown has no intention of staying out of Houston’s wake, however. Were it not for her meltdowns, rehabs, tantrums, and the warrants she swears out against him from time to time, Brown would have a difficult time getting arrested in most cities, unless he resorted to grabbing strangers’ asses on 52nd Street or hurling telephones at desk clerks.
BBBH is an important reminder that contrary to perceived wisdom, which sees celebrities as “America’s royalty,” celebrities are, in fact, America’s low-rent rendezvous made morality play—more to be looked down upon than emulated. Breathes there a person with soul so dead, bills so mounting, or flesh so sagging as not to feel better after watching Ozzy and Sharon and Jack and Kelly and Britney and Bonzo and whoever-the-hell-else slouching toward Bethlehem, whose spelling they might not be able to manage but whose directions have been seared into their DNA?
Even if the repo man sends you Christmas cards and your nextdoor neighbor has candid digital photos of your common law wife, you’ve got to take some comfort from the fact that you daughter living in the basement with her two out-of-wedlock kids didn’t go and marry that Kevin Federline lookalike and then appear on television with him.
Once you have accepted the premise that reality shows exist to take the worry out of being real people, BBBH bids fair to be the fairest in the land. See Bobby get out of jail just like a real man, just like your uncle Rasheed; see Bobby visiting his kids just like a real dad, just like your dad and his new bling visit you; see Bobby waiting at an Atlanta hotel—a hotel where he would be working instead of staying were it not for the prima donna on whom he waits—just like a real whipped husband waits on his wife.
BBBH, therefore, is not tawdry, it is instructive. Bobby and Whitney sit around wondering what to do with themselves just like real people do. Substitute a deck and above-ground pool for a $3,000-a-night suite, and you’ve got a close approximation of real life.
Ask not for whom the bell tolls, all y’all, let the answering service take the call.
In other news, Canadian officials say that although they can no longer be America’s drug store, they would consider being America’s fifty-first state if the price was right.
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