While most of you were drooling over “True Blood” last night, I had much more important things to attend to. Namely, the season finale of “Daisy Of Love.” What went down wasn’t a shocker to anyone who’d been watching the season, which took trashy reality dating shows to a whole new glorious low. In the end, even when given the choice of the mega-hot, super-sweet, and totally amusing Flex, Daisy chose London, the homeless 30-year-old rocker from Brooklyn with perma-eyeliner and maybe a girlfriend. Yep, she chose the guy who passed out drunk in a hallway the first night of the series and left midway through because he couldn’t take it, only to eventually come back, with his mohawk between his legs. These two had a gravitational pull towards each other, even though they’re obviously a trainwreck-about-to-happen. The show’s host Ricky Rachtman seemed totally surprised by Daisy’s choice. But I, on the other hand, was not.See, last week I had the pleasure of seeing London face-to-face. I went to see a friend’s band play at a small punk-rock club in Brooklyn. When I arrived, my friend asked, “Do you watch ‘Daisy of Love?’” To which I responded, “Are frogs green?” After discussing what happened to Daisy’s face for a few minutes, my friend let a bomb drop: the band playing after his was none other than London’s.
I watched his band’s van pull up to the club and start to unload, and beheld him in all his reality TV glory. Only, he wasn’t actually that glorious. Is he cute? Sure. But there were way more smokin’ guys in the club that night. Was his band good? They were alright, though frankly a little emo and whiny. But what was so fascinating was watching women’s reaction to him. As soon as his band took the stage, the gender composition of the club shifted from 80 percent male to 70 percent female. Women flooded in to see him, most of them wearing outfits I didn’t know could get that skintight. When they finished playing and retired to the pool table area, I couldn’t stop staring as woman after hot woman walked back to essentially throw herself at London. A large number of them had on tight, pink jeans with hair teased to the sky. I felt like I was witnessing a moment out of 1984. And I’ll totally fess up—I considered for a split second going to talk to him too. But I decided this was a moment to observe rather than participate.
So my big question to you is: Why are guys like this so, so attractive, even when all logic tells you they shouldn’t be?