Always the bridesmaid and never the bride, we (the Media Whore) often find ourselves home alone of a weeknight, watching what is commonly known as “the television.” The Media Whore domicile is not generally filled with technological gadgets. We don’t even keep the Sharper Image catalog in the bathroom. But we couldn’t imagine life without our personal viewing device. The majestic 17” Magnavox is conveniently located just across from the bed and only one room away from the refrigerator. An alter, an oracle, a convenient wood-veneer drinks coaster, what would we do without it? 
    We understand that most of you out there have seen television, at least once or twice, so you know the basic schedule. Starting at 8 p. m. an absolute embarrassment of riches blares forth from the screen. Everyone loves a sitcom, especially one starring a group of cute “kids” making their way in New York City with bottomless pockets of disposable cash, vast amounts of free time, spacious and quirkily decorated apartments, and no visible means of income. Every time the Media Whore sees that David Schwimmer we just want to pinch his adorable little cheek…very hard. Then we want to shove red-hot pokers into the vapid, brown saucers that are his “warm” and “sensitive” eyes. But that’s another column. 
    Nine o’clock brings hour-long family drama. Ten brings hospitals, police precincts, and shaky cams. Afterwards the pickings grow slim. The networks devote themselves to what they call news and everyone else plays reruns of Seinfeld which the Media Whore just can’t watch (it’s so hard to look at the early seasons of Elaine, before she could afford a proper stylist). 
    Thank the lord, there is one shining beacon at 11, an hour-long program so filled with  the purest strains of irony and meta-celebritic cross-pollenization that it qualifies for the Media Whore as positively pornographic. And it’s all brought to us by those oh-so-concerned people down at the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. What do we talk about when we talk about love? The Media Whore talks about The Charlie Rose Show. 
    Charlie reminds us of no one so much as (to seize upon a random example) Marilyn Chambers, star of Deep Throat. Down on his knees from first to last, he cuddles, he preens, he strokes, he kisses if not eats every ass he comes across with a proficient enthusiasm rendered mechanical only by it’s uniformity. Whether speaking with Angelina Jolie or Henry Kissinger, our hero dives straight for the g-spot and massages relentlessly until he gets that money shot. And as in any cheap porn, the objects of his ministrations provide a weak but necessary simulation of pleasure. Charlie himself? You figure he’s making okay money, or maybe he’s just on drugs. 

    Moments. So many moments have the Whore and the Rose shared. The RuPaul show. The Sonny Mehta show. The Winona (Ryder) and Wynonna (Judd) shows. The special, Los Angeles, on-location audience with Michael Eisner and Michael Eisner’s personally trained pectorals. The list goes on. So MANY times when Charlie pretended to be interested and the guests pretended to be humble and we lapped it up. But none can compare to the very, very, very special evening when the Media Whore settled in with a pint of Haagen Dasz and no particular expectations to be presented unawares with one of the finest Charlie Rose moments ever, the up close and personal interview with Mariah Carey.

    Of course this was before all Mariah’s drama, all Mariah’s problems, Mariah’s on-going need to “rest” and her assertion that Osama bin Laden was trying to RUIN her movie premier. If she ever finally pulls it together, the artist formerly known as Mrs. Mattola is supposedly slated for a prime time interview with Barbara Walters. It will no doubt be a yawnfest similar to Diane Sawyer with Priscilla and Jack-o or Connie Chung with Gary Condit (Yes! We have sex all the time! Of course I didn’t kill the intern! If these things weren’t the case, you and your millions of  TV viewers would be the first to know. That’s why we live in America!) Babs and Mariah will no doubt follow a similarly mundane script. “It was a struggle…I’m stronger than ever…I love my life and my career…control top girdle? Of course not.”

    The genius of Charlie is that he doesn’t talk to people at their moment of repentance or disaster. Famous people who fall from grace aren’t interesting. Humble? Boring. You'll note, children, that people tell the truth when they’re drunk and there’s no more potent elixer than fame. Charlie seems to understand this, almost instinctively. By taking someone like Mariah seriously he gives her the rope and she gladly hangs herself. The Mariah that Charlie spoke with was riding on the crest of “Heartbreaker,” at the absolute height of her popularity and here she is on PUBLIC TELEVISION, at last someone willing to reckon with her as a cultural force. She’s totally serious, totally earnest, and totally out to lunch, and Mr. Rose? He just keeps on coming back in-cess-ant-ly (she wrote that herself you know). 
    First of all she looks and SOUNDS like Amy Fisher. What we have is a rather plain girl from Long Island who happens to be able to yell really loud, in several octaves. Still our man at Thirteen nods his head sternly at every painfully nasal utterance, furrowing his brow in concentration as if he’s conjured the ghost of T. S. Eliot to discuss The Wasteland. Mariah on self-expression in her music: “Ya know, maybe not as much on Buttahfly, but yeah, totally on Rainbow.” On her diversity of talents: “I see pictuhs of myself in all the magazines, like this lipstick ad I did? And it says Mariah Carey, singah. And ya know, I’m more than just a singah. I’m a writah, and a producah! It makes me real angry.” At this point a lesser interviewer would have reined her in, brought her back to what’s next for Mariah (plug project here)? Who’s the most important person in Mariah’s life (insert tribute to Jesus here)? But Charlie just let’s her blaze on, and even feeds the fire. “You’re just fascinating! Fascinating!” She giggles, thanks him, starts to demur, then thinks ‘why bother?’ I AM fascinating.
    The final shot of the evening is the two of them in bed, sheet pulled demurely up to their armpits. Charlie’s Dick Cavett comb-over is a little disheveled. Mariah’s make-up a little smeared. They’re sharing a cigarette. “At last, a man who truly understands me. You’re BETTER than Derek Jeter.” He looks into her eyes, windows on her soul but also mirrors on his face. “You’re fascinating. Fascinating…” 
    Of course, the Media Whore may have dreamed this part. We have been known to fall asleep as it gets toward midnight. Not that we weren’t hanging on every word, but you know. Nothing’s more important than that beauty sleep. 

If you want to send the friendly neighborhood Media Whore your thoughts before the next column arrives, you can send an email to mediawhore@innerswine.com.