The A-List: Dallas

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 I have already written about “The A-List: New York.”  To recap: it’s Logo’s gay reworking of the “Real Housewives” formula (a group of upper-middle-class women who barely know each other, but who pretend to be best friends on camera; naturally they can barely tolerate each other, and they are scripted and filmed to within an inch of their lives, but they are assured! that they will be give branding opportunities to make up for all the onscreen unpleasantness.)



“A-List: New York” borrowed the same formula but staffed it with gay men, and at first Partner and I were speechless with horror, but now we’re raving fans.  We love Rodiney Santiago, the heartachingly handsome Brazilizan model who came to New York to be with Reichen Lehmkuhl, a former Air Force pilot and winner of “The Amazing Race,” who’s also amazingly handsome, but who has (evidently) accepted Botox into his life as his personal lord and savior.  We hiss and boo Austin Armacost, the pudgy little troublemaker who cries at the drop of a hat.  We admire Mike Ruiz, the serious (and slightly older) professional photographer, who just proposed to his (also very sweet and very handsome) boyfriend at the end of Season Two.


And now Logo has gone one step further: they’ve expanded the franchise to another city, to wit: “The A-List: Dallas.”


Oh my dears.  This flock of puerile goobers makes the New York group look like the Algonquin Round Table. 


For one thing, every third word in their conversation is “gay.”  Gay gay gay.  Yeah, we get it: the concept is probably still kind of new in the Republic of Texas.  (I wonder if they know about Donna Summer yet?)



Also, the group is exceedingly – well – juvenile.  All the drama in the show comes from who’s dating who.  The hunk-of-the-moment is the self-defined “cowboy” Levi, who’s not bad-looking, but who has a strangely off-kilter face – sort of a less-attractive Owen Wilson.  Partner pointed out the other night that Levi rubs his nose a lot, which might indicate a number of things . . .  (By the way, Levi is also a fashion designer.  He has a line of swimwear/underwear called "Inch Wear," which - well, hm.  But it's now on TV, and it will probably actually sell.)



There is James, a trust-fund baby with a fat toothy face, who drinks too much and inserts himself in everyone’s business.



There’s Philip, the (sorry, but it’s true) token black man, who’s as gay as Christmas at Bloomingdale’s, and who shrieks and wags his ass at the drop of a hat.  (Much of the drama in an early episode revolved around Philip being pushed into the pool at a pool party.  “My Salvatores!” he wailed.)



Then – why? – there’s Ashley, a woman!  Well, a girl.  She is headache-inducingly chirpy, and a self-proclaimed Christian (though you could never tell it from the way she acts), and a photographer, and a cheerleading coach. She is Reese Witherspoon multiplied by Kristin Chenoweth and minus all talent.


And the others: the fat-faced Christian Republican, the guy with gigantic hair, and somebody else.


The show is utterly repugnant. 



We’re watching, kids, we’re watching.

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