This is an edition of the newsletter Pulling Weeds With Chris Black, in which the columnist weighs in on hot topics in culture. Sign up here to get it in your inbox every Thursday.
The death of monoculture has been widely examined by people much smarter and better spoken than I am, but it is a stance I agree with. The splintering of culture via algorithm has created micro-niches that birth memes, slang, and whole approaches to life that baffle and astound someone not on the same digital wavelength. It’s depressing and fascinating. The days of everyone gathering around the TV set to watch the Friends finale on linear cable are long gone. Beyond tragedies, the only thing left that breaks through and sparks a powerful, polarizing discourse is relationship drama on Bravo reality shows. And it looks like Andy has done it again.
The first example of Bravo uniting a fractured body politic was only a few years ago; even if you are a casual viewer or internet user, you probably know the phrase “Scandoval” because the term (and the scandal) were on the tip of most people's tongues for weeks. It was a simple cheating incident on Vanderpump Rules that spiraled into a full-blown cultural event, igniting group chats, inspiring long-read think pieces and vocal-fry-laden Dunkin’- iced-coffee-fueled emergency podcast episodes. For the uninitiated: Tom Sandoval detonated a months-long affair with Raquel Leviss—his girlfriend Ariana Madix’s friend—inside a cast built on long-term proximity, questionable loyalty, and a certain brand of West Hollywood 1-bedroom apartment-grade fame. The betrayal wasn’t new, exactly. It was the scale, the on-camera sloppiness, the almost performance-art aspect of it: ugly matching secret necklaces, an unlistenable self-funded cover band. Thank god everyone was mic’d and a little bit drunk. It was reality TV magic; you could feel the cameras catching up in real time.
As I write this on March 31st, it is happening again, this time on Bravo’s Summer House. A simple show about mostly NYC-based hottie professionals escaping to a big house in the Hamptons every weekend in the summer. By day, they drink Loverboy (a canned hard seltzer brand owned by cast member and main character Kyle Cook) and throw elaborately themed and cheaply decorated poolside parties. When the sun goes down, they drink even more at nightclubs. They flirt, fight, fuck, and argue. Bonds form fast, fall apart, and then everybody has to coexist in the kitchen the next morning over Nespresso lattes and mimosas. By Sunday, the housemates all pack their Away suitcases, slightly hungover, emotionally drained, and promise to do it differently next weekend. They never do!
Amanda Batula, a hot graphic designer with an unfortunate nose ring, and Kyle Cooke, a long-time mullet wearer and the CEO of the aforementioned Loverboy, broke up after four years of marriage and ten years together. The split followed intense tension over their lifestyle differences—Amanda wanted a quiet home life of smoking weed and walking dogs, while Kyle is pursuing a newfound DJ career that kept him out all night, surrounded by a gaggle of post-college baddies. Westling Wilson, aka West, is a charming former football player from Columbia, Missouri, who is now a “sports social and editorial producer for Complex Networks.” Wilson had a weird on-and-off nine-month relationship with Ciara Miller, a hot nurse/model from my hometown of Atlanta. West and Ciara also didn’t make it for a myriad of reasons. This is sort of par for the reality course.
