Flava Flav!! Workin’ the Love Machine
Flava Flav!! Workin’ the Love Machine by Roxanne McDonald
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Okay, so I was pretty sure that the celebreality TV show genre would bring us as close to RUNNING MAN attitudes as we would witness them in our lifetime. But some shows have accelerated this game show genre, putting it almost over the top. I’m just sayin’ … The Flavor of Love is certainly unique, certainly meets the criteria for television that is appealing, but is also whack. (Does anyone say that anymore?) Flavor of Love is The Bachelor with a “straight-up”, hip-hop “ghetto” rap turbo engine drivin’ it smack into the twenty-second century. |
Okay, so the bachelor (Flava Flav) does the dinner date, gondola ride, berry-pickin’ thing. He brings on the champagne. He works to get a connection with the contestants so he can find a partner. But Flava Flav adds a unique panache to the episodes/moments: he eats a giant lobster at that dinner that is way bigger than his head; he drinks and toasts with that champagne but also dumps it in dribbles on his plush carpet, in honor of the eliminated girls (the ones for whom “time’s up”); he does a lot of grab-ass and bedroom time, using the willingness of the girls to entertain, kiss, and be his queen as the measuring device that will help him decide who gets a Flava Flav clock (the emblem of his performer royalty in the form of giant bling hanging from a thick-ass rope).
Oh, yeah. Flav also renames all the girls–
from Jasmine to Payshintz, Tarasha to Bamma, Britney to Tiger, Tykeisha to Somethin’, Betty to Nibblz, from Darra to Like Dat. They’re his pets, his girlz, and he makes it known he is the man (or the “king”).
He gives private camera time, reporting on the happenings (one girl, for instance, poops on his stairs – though not out of spite but emergency) and his responses (giggles and comments on how he is tryin’ to “git past” all that, for example).
As you watch the first episode or two (of season two!? As season one was a train wreck), you might balk at the ego, the goofy, warbly, presentation, and Flav’s ungodly bizarre get-ups (Viking helmet or crown, giant clock, furry or velvety pj’s topped by a king’s robe). His teeth are crooked, his articulation skills are either barely audible or excessively dramatic, and his abstaining from doing what gave him celebrity status in the first place make him fairly unusual but eh reality material.
And the contestants, the girlz from the hoods, vying for Flav’s love, are OUT of control: they bitch, snipe, hurl invectives as often as they hurl their locks of hair in posturing. They attack one another, push each other into heated arguments that explode because of their comments about who’s a ho, who’s ignorant, and who’s a fake (just there for the camera time).
But then again, watch a few more episodes. Give this show a chance, and you will find the diamonds in the flying dung heaps. The girls brought on as Flav’s friends to spy on the girls and report back to him are beyatchy as hell, downright cruel, but then fair and accurate when giving him the lowdown about who is there for him, who is too shy, or who is pretty or pretty cool.
And Flav is a marketing genius, one who keeps his name alive despite the absence of his art, one who is cute, funny, cuddly, and even endearing. We can get past the calling out of the girls with nasty pasts or phony facades and we can dig on how the man is just truly looking for love.
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