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n the realm of reality television, dating shows are the lowest of the low, which is pretty much like being the bottom feeder in a bowl of suckerfish. Dating shows have no pretensions to sociological significance — unlike The Real World — and no promises of money or cultural eminence, unlike American Idol. Ever since The Dating Game premiered in 1965, dating shows have had one goal — true love, discovered in the fakest of circumstances. So it's no surprise that, in 2001, The Bachelor became one of the first reality-television sensations, prompting a boatload of imitators. But none of them were able, in any sustained way, to puncture the storybook cliches and final-rose seriousness of the show. And then came Flavor of Love.

Flavor of Love was great, because it replaced the beauty-pageant bitchery of The Bachelor with grade-A ghetto throwdowns. And at a time when MTV was becoming a whitewashed parade of snobby, privileged youth — from My Super Sweet Sixteen to The Hills — Flavor of Love was a multiculti, hedonistic celebration of trash culture. In its most memorable moment, one contestant hocked a loogie into the hair weave of another. (And "most memorable moment" is no faint praise. This is a show wherein one contestant shat her pants during an elimination ceremony.) The recipient of that fabled spitwad

promotion

was "New York," a.k.a. Tiffany Pollard, a shit-stirring diva who managed to get herself eliminated by host Flavor Flav not once but twice. VH1, fearing the loss of their wildly successful franchise, gave her a show, I Love New York. Now nearing the end of its season, it is, much to my surprise, almost as entertaining as its predecessor.

As a protagonist, Pollard was a gamble. She is not traditionally attractive — I've seen prettier transsexuals — though her surgically enhanced curves were enough to make one contestant blurt, upon her arrival, "You put the hurt on my penis." More problematic than her appearance, however, was her unlikability. In its first two seasons, New York played the villain, the scheming Iago stroking her fake Indian hair and chainsmoking Dorals as she incited drama just for screentime. The only thing worse than New York was her mother, the evangelical Sister Patterson, who treated the clownish Flavor Flav as if he were nothing but a gold-plated toothpick. If Sister Patterson's daughter looked post-op, then she herself looked like a crossdresser, and a clumsy one at that. When I Love New York introduced her as an ongoing character, I couldn't imagine two less appealing hostesses.

I was wrong. The duo make a terrific double team, which has everything to do with the cast of characters competing for her affections. The twenty men are a jaw-dropping combination of cheeseballs, hustlers and assorted wackos. There was the guy with the wandering eye who hadn't had sex in three years. There was the male stripper, Pootie, who had a meltdown on episode three and ended up crying in a stairwell. There was the slick rick who claimed to be worth $100 million and was exposed as a deadbeat who couldn't get approved for a credit card. Indeed, if there's one unifying reaction to watching I Love New York, it is "Where did these guys come from?" One poor kid carried around a picture of his dead dog, and teared up every time he mentioned her name (Princess). When Pollard kicked him off the show, she didn't even feign guilt. "Baby, you need Prozac," she said. "Now get out my house." Even Flavor Flav played the good guy when he booted people, but not Pollard. On the first elimination, she announced to the three guys going home, "Sorry, you're just not good enough for me."

Were this any other group — the vaseline-toothed sorority girls of The Bachelor, or even the hip-hop princesses of Flavor of Love — her hostility could be offensive. But the one thing these twenty cats have in common, aside from questionable taste, is boundless egos. They are so bizarrely full of themselves, so obnoxiously dick-swinging, that Pollard's smackdowns feel justified — nay, gratifying. When the boys try to butter up Sister Patterson, she just bats them away like flies in her face. "Don't try to charm me," she says. She is the ultimate Bronx mama bear. This Monday's episode promises even more upendings, with a teaser hinting that one contestant worked as a stripper in a gay club and may even come out of the closet. Love, shmove -- the real sport is watching these Southern California smoothies revealed for the opportunists and hucksters that they are. After all, what masochist watched Flavor of Love and said of Pollard's psycho-bitch persona, "Mmm, that's the one for me"?




And to her credit, Tiffany Pollard has softened her rough edges. She is surprisingly charming as the center of attention, playfully flirting with each of the men as they try to court her into bed. As affable as Flavor Flav was, he was one of the least appealing lovers onscreen. When he kissed women, he seemed to be snarfing their faces. It was disgusting. On this count, Pollard excels. She's comfortable in a bustier and fishnets and seems genuinely at home with the show's orgiastic kink. Watching a truly likable woman in such a situation could be difficult — you might fear for her heart or, depending on what generation you are, even her reputation. But if New York wants to rub naughties with some Chippendales man-meat, then baby, she can handle it.

Of the men who remain on the show, a few have emerged as genuinely entertaining figures. "Chance" is a poor man's Nelly with gap teeth and sass. "12 Pack," the beefy suitor with the neck of a tree trunk, couldn't have a more apt nickname — not only does it reference the rippled contour of his abs, but it also seems to be what he drinks every afternoon

. And then there is "Mr. Boston" — oh, how I loved you, Mr. Boston — a dorky, somewhat bungling white guy who was the show's greatest source of comic relief. "That dude looks like Al Gore's nerdy brother," someone said of Mr. Boston. And it's true! But the surprising, wonderful thing about Mr. Boston was that he was perfectly capable of being the hero in his own story. On the first night, he stepped up to Chance, the bully, and held his own. He proudly pranced around in a thong, flaunting his fluorescent white ass. And in a house of self-professed playas, he was the most sensuous lover, prompting Pollard to dub him the best kisser in the house. Even New York had to give him props. "I'm really feeling the fuck out of this nerd," she said at one point. "We can make love on a stack of textbooks." If Mr. Boston is often the butt of the joke, at least he takes charge of the punchlines. When the men were enlisted to construct a dog house, he deadpanned, "The only wood I'm any good with is my own."



But, of course, all great things must come to an end. And so it was that Mr. Boston was kicked off the show last week. What a drag! Sadly, the show must stick to its premise of finding New York a mate. Right now the strongest contenders seem to be a pair of brothers, a lover boy (Real) and a bad boy (Chance). But I'm just waiting for Mr. Boston's spinoff show. "Who's the Boss-ton"? Hmm, maybe I'd have to apply for that. Where do they get these people, indeed.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
	Sarah Hepola has been a high-school teacher, a playwright, a film critic, a music editor and a travel columnist. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, Slate, The Guardian, Salon, and on NPR. She lives in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

©2007 Sarah Hepola
and Nerve.com.