Poor Bruce Jenner.  Not only did he have botched plastic surgery 25 years ago, but he has to deal with the escapades of the Kardashian women, too.  (I kid, I kid!)  Celebrity plastic surgeon Dr. Garth Fisher helped restore a bit of Bruce’s good looks on Sunday night’s episode of Keeping Up With the Kardashians, and has also created his own skincare line: CellCeuticals.  Kim is a fan, saying, “I am in love with how these products have changed my skin. Every makeup artist now has commented on how smooth my skin is! Even with my traveling and grueling photo shoots, my skin has remained calm and flawless.”

Let’s put Kim’s claims to the test.  We’re giving away five bottles of CellCeuticals CerActive, an organic, deep penetrating moisture and barrier repair treatment that soothes skin and provides long-lasting skin hydration. The contest is open to North American residents and a winner will be chosen Friday.  Enter below with the name of your favorite reality show for a chance to win!

Call me cheesy, but I am seriously into the new VH1 reality show Confessions of a Teen Idol, produced by Scott Baio and Jason Hervey from the Wonder Years, which follows several former teen idols as they decide whether they want to throw their hats back in the fame ring.  (Deciding this…on a reality show?  Putting the cart before the horse here, boys!)  The guys–some of whom I’ve heard of, and some of whom I haven’t (Jeremy Jackson?  Wha?)–are seriously humbled by the fleeting nature of fame, so the genuine emotion, bruised egos and slow transformation makes for surprisingly compelling TV.  (Plus there are lots of shots of Eric Nies and David Chokachi shirtless, and in this week’s episode, stylist Jen Rade goes toe-to-toe with Buddha-wannabe Eric, calling him “delusional.”  Riveting stuff.)  Check it out!

Ladies and gentlemen, your teen idols: Jeremy Jackson (from Baywatch); Christopher Atkins (the little hottie blonde from The Blue Lagoon); Jamie Walters (from Beverly Hills, 90210); Bill Hufsey (from Fame); Eric Nies (from The Real World New York); Adrian Zmed (from Grease 2); and David Chokachi (from Baywatch).   (Dude, where’s Leif Garrett?)

Coming UP!

Ah, yes, tonight begins cycle 73 of the Godfather of all reality-dating shows, The Bachelor.  This time…the stakes are higher…because for the first time ever…the Bachelor is a single dad.  (Cue dramatic music and long-lens shots of a backlit couple walking into the sunset hand-in-hand.)  Cheesy as hell?  You betcha.  Will I be glued to my TV in rapture?  Um, do you even need to ask?  I have an inexplicable love for this show–we’re talking crack-level addiction–and as long as they make ‘em, I’ll be there watching.  (Equally exciting tonight, the premiere of the Ashton Kutcher/Tyra Banks “inner beauty” show True Beauty.  Can’t wait!)

Way back in 2001, when I was the grooming and fashion assistant at men’s magazine FHM, we put two young, blonde social climbers on the cover.  They were primarily known for their obvious desire to be famous, which meant they’d attend any party that would have them (or featured a red carpet) and frequently landed on Page Six for their bad-girl hijinx.  Why are we helping this trash to become famous? I’d thought grumpily, taking consolation in the fact that, surely, they’d fade into oblivion just as quickly as they appeared.

Their names?  Paris and Nicky Hilton.

Over the years, I’ve tried to ignore Paris Hilton–The Socialite Who Shall Not Be Named–hoping she’ll go away, but I think it’s obvious as this point that that’s just not happening.  Last week, I went over to the dark side: based on a hilarious review on Jezebel, and against my better judgment, I watched Paris Hilton’s My New BFF…and felt ashamed of myself for completely loving it.  The very concept of reality TV usually makes me want to gouge my eyes out, but much as I’ve had to come to grips with the fact that Paris, for better or for worse, is an icon now (each generation really does get the idols it deserves, huh?), I’m beginning to make peace with the fact that the collective we is strangely fascinated by reflections of ourselves on screen.  (You know, ourselves…just louder, more obnoxious, less shame, tighter vocal cords, more promiscuous, lighter feet, skinnier, blessed with a uterus that incubated six kids simultaneously…whatever.  Pick your poison.)

Who says you need talent to be famous?  Not America in the oughts, that’s for damn sure.

Fellow Anglophiles will either delight or disgust in the official start of summer: Big Brother 2008 premiered yesterday in England.  Now, to understand the cultural impact of Big Bruv, you have to realize that England is much, much, much smaller than America, so the 16 initial housemates make up, like 2% of the entire population.  (I kid, but only sort of.)  Housemates are voted off weekly by the nation (much like American Idol), and the program is shown basically 24/7 on various channels, so voyeurs can—and do—watch in real time as things happen.  Finally, there are several nightly wrap-ups hosted by famous English comedians (Russell Brand from Forgetting Sarah Marshall hosted a particularly hilarious version of Big Brother’s Big Mouth), and all the newspapers have breathless write-ups on a daily basis.  So even though the numbers for this season’s premiere were the lowest ever, it’s pretty much everywhere on that side of the pond.  Each year I insist I will not watch, bemoan the crappiness of the new contestants, raise my fists at the gods for the deterioration of society…and every year I get sucked in.

Stephanie McMichael believes the most signifcant moment in her life was her birth.  Deep.

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