THE CHARM OFFENSIVE (Book Review)

By Alison Cochrun

 

 

(Atria, 2021)

 

I’ve watched too many seasons of both “The Bachelor” and “The Bachelorette.” 

 

I will try to redeem myself by saying I’ve stopped. Haven’t watched for several years. I can thank Colton Underwood. He was a football player who never quite made the NFL and was a contestant on a season of “The Bachelorette” but ultimately got sent home in the rejection limo. Then they made him guy women would woo on “The Bachelor.” I bowed out. The guy was incredibly dull and I didn’t want to watch a whole season that would focus on the fact he was supposedly a virgin. As it turns out, he was gay.

 

Alison Cochrun’s The Charm Offensive is a gay romance set during a hetero-focused season of “The Bachelor.” Correction: a season of the fictional show “Ever After” which is different in name only plus a few cosmetic tweaks. Cochrun’s reality show plays up the fairy tale factor more blatantly with Charles Winshaw being the show’s Prince Charming who actually wears a crown to meet twenty prospective princesses. What’s shocking—SHOCKING!—is that Charlie hasn’t gone on the show to find love. He’s a wealthy tech genius who got booted from his own company and is trying to rebuild his reputation so he can re-enter the field. 

 

Because geeky tech companies in the Silicon Valley seek hunky Prince Charmings. Surely that’s on the job posting for app creators and game designers. Maybe the way to take a chunk out of Facebook (or that stupid “Meta” rebrand) is to hire a figurehead who’s easier on the eyes than Mark Zuckerberg. It’s possible. I know nothing about tech.

 

The fact Charlie isn’t looking for love doesn’t sit well with Dev Deshpande, an “Ever After” producer assigned to manage its star. Dev’s been with the show for six years, having watched it since he was ten, fully enrapt with the idea that people can go on the show, fall in love and live happily ever after. Even though most of the relationships don’t last, Dev is still married to the idea that the show offers the potential of everlasting love. As the new season begins, Dev’s trying to build himself up again too, having recently ended his six-year relationship with Ryan, another producer on the show. Ryan had always said he wasn’t looking for longterm; Dev just chose to believe he could will his own ever-after onto them. 

 

Charlie is an awkward reality star. He’s got the good looks—blond and impossibly handsome—but he can barely form a sentence under pressure and his OCD makes him reticent to human touch, a huge problem on a dating show with multiple women vying for his attention and affection. 

 

The book becomes more implausible than the show upon which it’s based when Dev ends up working 24/7 by living in the same house as Charlie. (What kind of employment contract did Dev sign?) Jules, Dev’s best friend who also works on the show, suggests that Dev get Charlie to relax more on the filmed dates with the women contestants by taking Charlie on practice dates—not between Jules and Charlie, but between Dev and Charlie. 

 

Um, what? 

 

Charlie goes along with it because, well, isn’t that what any ridiculously good-looking straight guy in his late twenties will agree to do so he can improve upon dating women whom he’s not really interested in falling in love with? 

 

Are you following? If it seems nonsensical then, yes, you’re following.

 

Just go with it. I managed to. I’m telling myself it’s because reading The Charm Offensive was my way of getting another taste of “The Bachelor” without committing to a whole maddening season of cat fights, limo cries and icky Fantasy Suite dates where we’re led to believe the guy has three consecutive nights of sex with the final three women. God, I really watched that show. Season after season. And somehow it made me believe in the possibility of love. Shame on me.

 

Cochrun’s Charlie has anxiety in addition to OCD. He’s also not sure about his sexuality and parts of his journey to figuring that out feel like information dumping as possibilities are explained to him (and the reader). It didn’t bug me since Cochrun chose to bring something different to the romance genre. She ups things by making it so that Dev also deals with mental health issues. Being as I have mental health challenges too, I welcome seeing this in the main characters instead of in a supporting character. (The story progresses in alternating chapters, told in third person, from Dev’s point of view and then Charlie’s point of view.)

 

Cochrun takes liberties from reality in having every “Ever After” staff member be queer other than its creator. All the queer employees have something good about them. The straight character is a villain. I never got a feel for any of the supporting characters. I expected Dev’s ex to have more of a storyline, playing on the inherently awkward circumstance of Dev and Ryan continuing to work together after a not-so-great breakup. Ryan is only used to advance the plot instead of to create conflict. This felt like a wasted opportunity. The story, as written, is all about Charlie and Dev.

 

You can guess how things go. It’s a gay romance, folks. Happily ever after is how these stories have to end. Knowing this, it felt like the story went on longer than it needed to. Cochrun had to stick with the show’s structure, with the group of twenty women getting narrowed down to one over two months’ time. Connections happened too soon and the ensuing barriers, miscommunications and jealousies seemed trivial. There’s nothing particularly wrong with The Charm Offensive; I just wanted to get to the predictable ending fifty pages sooner. 

 

The book is better than “The Bachelor” because it’s willing to acknowledge that a dating show about finding love may not actually be about finding love. Stick with romance books instead. 

 

 

REJECTION READJUSTMENT

Something to add to my reading list?

I’m teetering. It could just be ordinary sadness and frustration. And lack of sleep. So what if those things are signs of depression. This time I know the triggers.

Please, let this pass.

Two months ago, I started dating a guy. Two guys, actually. Concurrently, not together. First date, first date. Lo and behold, second date, second date! Seconds seem so hard to come by. Times two?! I started to worry. Too much of a good thing.

Third date, third date. It was almost a relief when one of them said he didn’t feel a spark. Almost.

So I was down to one. I’d shaken off that cheating feeling. More dates. I’m guessing seven. (It’s a good sign when I stop counting. I suppose my math has gotten rusty.) But then the dating stopped. He got busy, I got busy. He got sick, I got sick. And four weeks passed. You can’t call it dating when there are no dates. I’m guessing it’s done.

And so what was momentarily an embarrassment of riches is now a barren landscape once more. Square one. It’s back to the dating sites. Keep smiling. Keep hoping. Oh, god. It gets harder each time.

Don’t think about it. Hard not to when the only TV show I watch is “The Bachelor”. I get refueled off watching impossibly beautiful but nonetheless rejected contestants tear up as they part in the rejection limo.

I don’t know what I did wrong!

It seems I’ll never be loved!

I’m ready but no one seems to want me!

Only they usually add in some bleeped-out expletives. These are reality show contestants, after all. I recommend they find Linda Ronstadt’s “When Will I Be Loved” on YouTube and play it ‘til they laugh. Or break their iPhone.  

Yes, I’m solo again. No limo. I have my monthly bus pass.

This has got to be at least part of the reason I booked a trip to London. A trip I can’t afford. It’ll take some budget shuffling. I guess I can go another year without furniture in my living room. I do live alone. I seem to get by with a stool.

So, yes, I’m down. This is a normal reaction. As long as it doesn’t stay. If it goes away in a couple of days, I’m good. I’ve got a trip to focus on. What’s the best time of day to see Big Ben?

Please, don’t let it have anything to do with going off my meds a week ago. I want to be in control on my own. I don’t want to take pills, even if there are no apparent side effects. I want to be okay. I want to handle life’s downturns.

The fact that I’ve only had three hours of sleep compounds the foggy, gloomy brain. The night before the first day of the work week is often a miserable bed-tossing-and-turning exercise. And that slice of Baileys Irish Cream cheesecake before bed didn’t help. Too rich despite going with nonfat ingredients. I nursed my belly with a pillow, rotating it regularly to keep the coolness. Still can’t even think of eating this morning. Maybe it’s the start of the flu.

That would be a good thing. It beat the return of my personal dark cloud.

Hands down. And head up.  

DON’T PLAY IT AGAIN, SAM

WARNING: Ghastly hair appears in all but one link within this post. Writing distractions come in many forms...my dog resting his head on my lap and staring up with those manipulative “Pet me” eyes, a hangnail that requires immediate attention, a sudden realization that I haven’t checked Aunt Clara’s Facebook updates (Oh, what birds feasted in the feeder today?). Being so distractible, I find I am more productive working in any of the five town stops on my Café Circuit. Sure, there are patrons who come and go, but they don’t notice me so I pretend not to notice them. Having frequented all five of my coffee-ing holes this week, I returned to Destination Number 1 this morning. The big news here is they are out of large mugs and to-go lids. (That should make page three of the weekly paper, along with some angry letters to the editor. (I deleted mine.)) With a teensy cup in hand—the kind you’d use at a tea party with dolls (not that I ever have,...really!)—I sat down, opened my laptop and began to address the list of “fix-its” I assembled for my screenplay.

 But, of course, I became distracted. The adult contemporary soundtrack playing a little too loudly in the “background” segued from a Richard Marx song I pretend not to like anymore to Natalie Cole’s lovelier-than-it-should-be duet with her dead dad, “Unforgettable”. Instant writing break. My first “date” only came a month before my twenty-fifth birthday and first love hit when I was twenty-six. “Unforgettable” became my first official “our song”. By then, I’d heard many candidates for “our song”—a sappy Michael Jackson hit, Teri DeSario with K.C.’s “Yes, I’m Ready”, Elton John’s “Little Jeannie” (more of a novelty from his period of confusion)—but without an “our” they were just songs. I’d only known John for six weeks when he drove me to the LAX to drop me off for a two-week trip to the family cottage near Ottawa. He played “Unforgettable” on repeat in his cassette player the whole way to the terminal. Anyone who has driven the 405 through Los Angeles in rush hour knows that Nat and Natalie went through the motions ad nauseam on that trip, but I was too almost-in-love to press EJECT and hope for something fresh from New Kids on the Block. Every time the song started up again, I squeezed his sweaty hand anew. Ah, yes. Nothing like love in bloom. While we spent fourteen days in different countries, I sent him a daily postcard (beginning with one I deposited at the airport). These were pre-email, pre-Skype times. I paddled the canoe and imagined John taking the empty seat the next summer. I envisioned us picnicking on Big Island (a lovelier image than reality as it’s a favorite haunt for seagulls to go to die). I flirted with the idea of sharing my joy with my parents. But then why break from routine? They weren’t used to seeing me flash any sign of joy. When I drove to Ottawa to look for Canadian souvenirs for my sweaty stud at The Bay, “Unforgettable” played on the sound system. A sign, no doubt. We were truly meant to be! John and I lasted a grand total of nine months. Yes, I returned to the cottage the next summer alone again (naturally). The breakup crushed me. I remember showing up at his place at 3 a.m. a week after being dumped. My tearful “WHY?! WHY?!” episode would make any limo exit on “The Bachelor” seem positively subdued and rational. Five months later, I’d moved on to something so much better with a chain-smoking, alcoholic and former coke head. (It was an authentic L.A. relationship.) John became a thing of the past. He only comes to mind now when I need to draw an emotion or memory for a writing endeavor. Or when that bleeping “Unforgettable” resurfaces on someone’s oldies playlist. The tune still evokes memories...some good, some just embarrassing. Thankfully though, I can take the lyrics and set them to a future scenario. Maybe another love will come. Maybe Future Guy and I will actually be a good match. Regardless, despite the baggage, I’m still not tired of “Unforgettable”. That’s the power of a classic song.W

GUILTY PLEASURE: THE BACHELORETTE

How is it that the American public broke up with reality show "Joe Millionaire", but "The Bachelor/Bachelorette" keeps cranking out seasons and hot tub spinoffs? The concept: a man or woman shops from a pool of twenty-five attractive, "successful" single candidates in search of someone who will propose or be proposed to after three or four one-on-one dates. Weird? Sure. But then there are the group dates. Creepy. The host gets paid something in the bygone-Joe range to say little more than "Ladies/Gentlemen,...the final rose" and "Minnie/Mickey, take a moment to say your goodbyes." And then there are the icky handwritten invitations from the host, encouraging the Bachelor(ette) and his/her final three to spend the night in the Fantasy Suite. Not all at once, but over consecutive nights. Still mighty sleazy.

I should hate this show. It's drivel. It's beneath me. Heck, it's beneath my dog.

And yet I love it. Well, maybe "love" is too strong. Sticking with the show's lingo, I'm starting to really have feelings for it.

Oh, how can I justify the time wastage? To be fair, I multitask to reality shows, especially during the frequent commercials and all the "Coming up..." clips that precede these commercials, the creation of producers who fear that viewers' attention spans will drift elsewhere. (Guess they've got a good take on the target audience.) As the show airs on Monday nights, I have the easiest-of-the-week versions of Sudoku and the The New York Times Crossword to trick my mind into thinking I'm a brainiac. I also sort through piles of papers that have mysteriously taken up floor space since the last "Bachelorette". And, if I am really restless, there's always dusting. (After they cure cancer and the common cold, I hope they get to work on extinguishing dust. By golly, give them a decade's worth of Nobel Prizes.)

Whoa. "The Bachelorette" and the Nobel Prize in the same post. Seems I've strayed.

The multitasking argument doesn't hold up. Why not clean while watching more highbrow fare such as--let me check the TV schedule--"Gossip Girl" or four consecutive episodes of "Cake Boss"?

The truth is I can relate to "The Bachelorette". There, I said it.

Years ago, I had plenty of single friends, gay or female. We would go for dinner, grab a coffee, walk the seawall and talk about our dating dilemmas. Or non-dating dilemmas. Each encounter, each brush-off had entertainment value, but the talks also allowed us to comfort and commiserate. And, to prevent each of us from hitting rock bottom, the other would add a timely, "What about so and so?" to keep hope alive.

Yep, good times.

But the single friends have gotten married or they live in far off exotic places like Boise or they've taken dating off the conversation menu. Now I go it alone.

And that explains my loyalty to "The Bachelor(ette)". People can speculate all they want about how real the show is. What I see is people getting excited about possibilities. This could be the one. Casting aside the over the top gimmicks (Anyone want to buy a mask on eBay?), there are relatable awkward dates and promising encounters between the dating world's walking wounded. And after each inane rose ceremony, there's the castoff's painful limo ride where an eager producer sits off camera with a box of Kleenex.

Watching any Reject Ride, I feel I am not alone in being alone. Turns out others feel the same--not just the unrequited wooer, but many a viewer. As I clicked over to ABC's website, I discovered you can watch past episodes or simply the ouster segments, entitled "The Diaries of the Departed".

There's Lucas, the cool, reserved Texan: "Rejection's never fun but...you always look for that better day."

And Ryan, the excitable, optimistic water heater expert: "I'm shocked. Um, uh,...hey, you know,...sometimes I guess people don't feel it. Now I want someone more than you have any i-- (choking up) I want to find that person....Someday."

Last night it was preppy, wordsmith Ames: (Covers eyes, hands shaking; recovers) "I feel pretty numb. I've fallen in love with somebody who clearly didn't fall in love with me back. And...I just wonder, you know, what it was. I was really excited to see what was gonna happen between the two of us next. And that's something I'm never going to get to know. I was just hoping to share a lifetime of adventures with this beautiful woman. Now I'm back to sharing a lifetime of adventures with myself...which is, uh...less enticing."

Oh, boys, I can relate. Ames, I'm choking up myself. Less enticing indeed.

There, I've done it. I think. I've justified my addiction to "The Bachelor(ette)".

Haven't I?

BAR FLIGHT

How much do we actually change as we grow old(er)? As much as I'd like to think I'm more composed, more comfortable in my own skin, there are humbling moments to remind me that that might not be the case.

Yesterday afternoon, I had another coffee date with a fellow who contacted me online. Pleasant enough experience, but I left knowing I had no desire to continue the conversation. Walking back to the car, I fought off Booted Contestant Syndrome, a combination of tears, despair and a Why-am-I-not-good-enough meltdown you can see every week in the final minutes of ABC's "The Bachelor". Instead, I admired the lovely tree-lined street and asked myself the same question I had twenty years ago: "Where does a single gay man look if he hopes to find a decent lifelong partner?"

Back in 1989, I first stepped into the unknown in an attempt to find love. I'd heard about Oak Lawn neighborhood in Dallas and driven down the main street on a few occasions, not daring to stop, illogically fearing that parking or getting out of the car would result in my being spotted and fired from my job with a religious institution. If not unemployed, weren't there homophobic gangs lurking around corners? (As a kid, I had a paralyzing fear of the bogeyman. And cracks in the sidewalk.)

When I finally dared to walk into a Dallas gay bar, it was a brief, jittery visit. It was a weeknight and too early for bar hoppers. I ordered a drink, found a stool and kept my eyes on a TV screen. Yep, don't mind me. I just stopped in 'cuz the ol' Zenith was on the fritz. To my surprise, I had an intruder by my side in minutes. Darrell was his name. I remember him spelling it for me. (Was he wanting me to send him a card?) I nervously answered his questions with disinterest. Clearly, I wasn't ready for love or whatever it was Darrell had in mind. And then he swooped in. What was going on? I bowed my head at the last moment and his kiss landed on my nose. I panicked and hurried for the exit, managing a slight smile as Taylor Dayne's "Don't Rush Me" played on the sound system.

Driving home, hands shaking, I already sensed that the bar was not going to be my haven. Love would have to come from somewhere else. But where?

Okay, still no answer. So last night, after months of contemplation, I went where I was almost certain Mr. Right would not be. I headed to Numbers, one of the few remaining gay bars in Vancouver.

It was a struggle from the outset. I walked the dogs and decided to stay home. Then I told myself to just walk by the club. No need to go in; another walk would burn off the Häagen-Dazs (a spoonful or two anyway).

As I walked, my inner voice taunted me. "This is a mistake. Are you really looking for an aging boozer? You're old now...middle-aged for Pete's sake! (Proof of your ancientness: You use phrases like 'for Pete's sake', for Pete's sake!) You'll be the creepy old guy everyone thinks is leering at them. Yep, a mistake."

Methinks my inner voice watched too many seasons of the Simon Cowell era of "American Idol".

In addition to the nagging negativity, I was overcome my nervousness. Remember Tom Hanks asking someone out for a date in "Sleepless in Seattle" as "Back in the Saddle Again" played on the soundtrack? I hadn't been in a gay bar in Vancouver in a dozen years. What had changed? Wasn't there a bathhouse next door? What if I accidentally walked in the wrong place? What was the crowd like now? Was there still a coat check or would I have to lug my bulky winter coat around the place? Did people still dance? Was the dancing different,...more complicated now that there are all those dance shows on TV?

Deep breath. Maybe it's easier to be Tom Hanks in "Cast Away", talking to Wilson the volleyball.

I managed to walk up the steps to the club. The right club. Step one, check. The guy inside the door told me to spread my arms out and ran something like a curling iron up and down my body. Security measure or was this an odd way to warm up the crowd for a drag show? I then had another guy take my driver's license and scan it. After forking over six bucks (for Numbers?!), I was granted admittance.

Apart from the security screening the other immediate difference was the lack of a heavy smoke cloud filling the bar. I easily spotted the signage for the coat check, shed twenty pounds and tried to march confidently to the bar to order a drink. Cash only. A smiling bartender directed me to convenient ATM on the lower level. At last, I had my Corona in hand. Beer goes straight to the gut with middle-agers, doesn't it? At least the lime wedge could count toward my daily fruit and veggie intake. Yes, beer can be good for you.

The bar looked the same as it did in the '90s, only darker. Maybe it was my vision that was failing me. Don't squint. Doesn't look attractive. Adds wrinkles. Ooh, was that what all those "leering" guys were doing way back when?

I toured the various levels and rooms of the club. Total time warp. No changes, except the place had about a fifth of the people I recall it having on Saturday nights of yesteryear. The beer belly/too tight t-shirt look prevailed. One guy bucked the trend with an argyle sweater. (How is it that a conservative look comes across as loud?) The dance floor was empty. There was no crowd to blend into. I retreated to the main level and parked myself on a stool as speakers pounded out Kylie Minogue's latest. Yes, she's still making music...just less relevant.

I was that uncomfortable guy from Dallas all over again (only now I wore an aging face mask like the guy who slipped into Canada on a flight from Asia last year). What to do, what to do? I couldn't smile and amuse myself by the dancing fools. There were none. Couldn't try hopelessly making eye contact with a wardrobe-challenged handsome man or a Check Out My Biceps stud. None on both counts. I gazed around the sparsely populated room and took the cue from the other singletons. I pulled out my BlackBerry and read my emails from work. Bar goers are as closed off as ever, just supported by different crutches.

I much prefer wine to beer, but I downed my drink in fifteen minutes. I fought off the urge to flee, eying the door hoping to see a nice looking, possibly approachable man make his entrance.

Not him.

No way.

Nah.

Am I too picky? Being in a bar brought back the judgmental, superficial me. Dismiss him before he dismisses you. I realized it was a protective stance but also a non-productive one.

I scurried to the coat check, retrieved my jacket and made for the fresh air outside...or at least the smoky clouds the wafted about until I'd passed the twentysomething throng that blocked off the sidewalk area at nearby Celebrities.

On the short walk home, I didn't have any tree clusters to distract me, just masses of concrete that blanketed the ground and towered on all sides. I knew the bar wasn't the place, but I'd gone in to rule it out based on experience rather than on speculation. The bar was a bust. Same for online dating.

I walked faster as Booted Contestant Syndrome fought for dominance. Not even a disastrous nose kiss to console myself. That's it. I'm done. Single for life. The dog guy. I could learn to knit little coats for them. How about online Scrabble? Maybe I should collect something from the Franklin Mint.

Everything's better, of course, in the light of day. I don't even like those stupid collectors' plates. Besides, I'm clumsy; they'll chip or break. I can cancel my order, right? No more thinking about dating. Just be.

I should go for a jog though. Work off that beer. You know,...just in case.