Reality TV show discussed in rural Ohio county

By Rory Ryan
The Highland County Press

They're gonna put me in the movies,
They're gonna make a big star out of me.
We'll make a film about a man that's sad and lonely,
And all I have to do is act naturally.

– Johnny Russell and Voni Morrison

Do not overthink this one, Folks. It has been snowing all day. It is cold. It is going to get colder.

It is a well-alleged Scientific Medical Fact (SMF) that the human brain requires sunshine and warm temperatures – those higher than 65 degrees Fahrvergnügen – for proper function. Too many consecutive days of sub-65F temperatures can impair the brain – and lead to columns like this one. It happens.

Thus was my state of mind this afternoon – after leaving your favorite local newspaper office a bit early in order to split additional logs for much-needed firewood.

The purported television show producer and his associate from New York pulled into our already snow-covered driveway. The older man (60 isn’t old, is it?) pushed a button and his passenger side window came down about halfway.

After a reassuring glance from his female driver (by appearances, probably a sister or at least a close cousin, the poor girl), the man – he seemed genuinely excited – asked three rapid-fire questions:

• Do you do this every day?

• Is this your home or a hunting retreat?

• Can we take a few photos and shoot some digital video for a TV show?

Before I could respond to questions one through three, his associate weighed in.

“This would be perrrfect, darling,” she told her brother. Or cousin. Or something. “What a perrrfect setting for our TV show.”

Hmm. I thought. (I always think better by saying “hmm” to myself.) What a bizarre development. Two people from New York find my home and it’s not even a Thursday like the last time this happened. (That is reality.)

Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot, I figured. Why not play along with these two Big-City Rubes for a few minutes. I needed a break from real work, anyway.

So I replied: “Do I do WHAT every day?”

The unidentified cousin (or brother) of the unidentified sister (or cousin) quickly explained. “Do you use a chainsaw and an ax and a pickup truck every day? And in THIS weather?”

“Well, I do when we need some additional firewood to heat our hunting lodge retreat. I mean our house,” I told the rube. (I can pick out rubes really quick. It’s a family trait. This guy is all rube like Ruby Monday.) Having sufficiently answered questions one and two, we moved on.

At that point, he repeated question number three: “Can we take a few photos and shoot some digital video?”

“Of what?” I asked.

“Oh, just continue what you are doing and be natural,” he replied.

“So, all I gotta do is ‘Act Naturally,’ just like the Buck Owens song made famous a second time in ‘Remember the Titans?’”

“Who?” he asked.

“Buck Owens,” I said, somewhat indignantly. (Who hasn’t heard of Buck Owens?)

“Whatever,” the brother/cousin responded. “What we’re talking about is filming you in your natural environment. Man vs. Woods. One man. One chainsaw. One ax. One pickup truck…”

“Uh, the truck’s not mine,” I informed TV Rube Man.

“That doesn’t matter, Sir,” his sister/cousin chimed in. “This is Reality TV. The truth Never Matters here. We just want something that is so out of the ordinary so, so …”

“Extraordinary?” I offered.

“Eggggzakkkleee!” she whined. “See, we don’t care about any of the facts. We focus on our ‘make-believe’ Reality. TV viewers love this tack – or is it tact? They want diversion from their day-to-day existence. They want the Reality TV that we provide. And what we see here is a man, living alone in the woods, with a chainsaw, an ax and a pickup truck. What A Story!”

“I don’t live alone,” I said.

“No matter,” the brother/cousin piped up. “Leave all that to us. TRUST us.”

“Why should I, when you obviously could not care less about the truth?” I asked.

Sister/cousin answered for Rube Man.

“Don’t you watch Reality TV?” she asked me.

“No, I don’t,” I said.

“Well, if you did,” she replied, “You would know all about some of the shows that are similar to what we’re trying to do. There are shows about people driving semis across frozen creeks and lakes. There are shows about people who hunt alligators. There are shows about people who run pawn shops. There are shows about people who live in West Virginia and hunt ginseng who aren’t named Honey BooBoo. There are shows about cooks, crooks, gold diggers, well wishers, bartenders, shrimp boat captains, you name it.

“ANYONE can have his own Reality TV Show today. It’s really that easy.”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“Yes!” the twosome answered in unison. “You’ve heard of some things being tougher than Chinese calculus. Well, getting a Reality TV Show is easier than Chinese checkers.”

“How did television sink so low?” I asked.

“We’re not really supposed to talk about that,” the rube said. “But just between us, the truth of the matter is this: Several years ago, some of the television writers went on strike. They wanted more money. After all, they were the talented nerve center behind all of the award-winning shows, from sitcoms to dramas to murder mysteries. The writers really were the ones who made these shows – and they knew it. But the producers wouldn’t pay what they were asking. Fast-forward a few years, and Americans are left with an endless supply of mind-numbing ‘reality shows.’ And everyone who wants one can have one. Well, almost everyone.”

“That’s very interesting,” I said. “So, what’s in it for me?” my capitalistic alter ego interjected.

“Oh, you’ll get the usual,” Rube Boy answered. “You keep chainsawing and axing and truck driving – and cussing like you do, we heard you say the ’s’ word when we drove up …”

“That last oak tree jackknifed and hit me in my bad knee,” I tried to explain.

“Never mind,” he continued. “You let us film you in your everyday environment and we’ll make a Reality Show, I promise.”

“But I only do this a few hours a week,” I said.

“No kidding! What else do you do?” he asked.

“Well, for the last quarter of a century, I’ve tried writing the truth for a living. Think anyone wants to watch that?”

“No way,” the couple exclaimed, as they drove out of sight on a cold winter’s night.

Rory Ryan is publisher and owner of The Highland County Press.