“Let’s watch some stupid televison,” said Jorge.

“God, no. I can’t stand it. Please, no.”

“C’mon, it’s Sunday. We’re exhausted. I’m sure there’ll be something ridiculous on.”

I caved. I had no idea, and I cannot emphasize this enough, no idea just how spectacular a gem I would find.

I turned on the T.V.

There, on screen, was a girl with long flowing black tresses, standing next to some wanker-ish dude looking like a hyped up terrier, the two of them facing four Mexican guys of the type you would find in an upscale money laundering disco in the part of town where upper middle class women wear skin-tight fluorescent yellow dresses and makeup that makes them look dead.

Sometimes you can just tell that damn, this is gonna be good. And it was. So, so good, to the point that forty-five minutes later I was still glued to the couch, on my second beer, and Jorge, who’d long since given up and started reading, tried to turn off the T.V., and I shouted – shouted – “NO!! I have to see it! I have to see it! Stop!!” At that point Ana Maria was already in her lime green sequined disco outfit with the oversized patent leather white belt and the knee high white boots, and she was deciding which David to eliminate in the final round.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Me Quiero Enamorar is the latest reality TV show from Televisa, the Mexican television network that brings you news delivered in tube tops and more or less directly funded by the government, non-stop Pan Bimbo advertising, and some of the most mind-numbingly dense women in the history of Latin America, complete with full-on Charlie’s Angels hair. It’s hosted by a woman who fits squarely and proudly in the latter category, hair, slutty prom gown and all, and a guy who I really can’t find a better description for than terrier, one of those little dogs that’s still abhorrent no matter how well groomed and trained it is. He pants and coos and calls the women “corazon” every five seconds, which is both creepy and fascinating.

So the idea is that Ana Maria, a sweet-faced Mexican girl who is the very embodiment of Marianismo, machismo’s twin that insists that all women should be sexy, beautiful, innocent virgin Mary’s, and Marcos, a dashing Brazilian who looks like he walked off the cover of a two dollar romance novel, find their soul mates by way of reality T.V. They, tragically, have not found love, which means that you or I, or all the other sad Mexican characters who are now mocked in the show’s casting videos, are essentially screwed. But all the better, since it means we’re that much more obsessed with seeing what happens to Ana Maria and Marcos.

The deal is that each week a new set of glossily attractive young men and women will send in videos of themselves riding white horses, walking through the park in Mexico City in stiletto heels, hitting tennis balls in mini-skirts, or flexing half-naked in the mirror. Then, they will come on the show and perform some sort of act, like dancing to “how much I love you” in bell bottoms or going down on one knee to profess their undying love and commitment. Ana Maria and Marcos will then briefly quiz them with soul-probing questions like, “What’s your favorite sport?” and they’ll eliminate one or two before the show is over.

To say that I sat and watched in utter stupefication would be an understatement. The show contained more cultural references than any Saturday Night Live skit attempting to make fun of Mexican T.V could ever have done. And it did it in dead-on, dramatic, earnestness, the way only Mexican T.V can.

First, the casting requirements:

Men and women between the ages of 19 and 35, with solid principles and values.
Capable of doing anything to find true love.
Attractive, athletic, winners.

“Solid principles and values” is definitely the first thing that popped to mind last night. Solid principles and values, along with white sandwich bread and legitimizing stolen presidential elections, are absolutely number one priorities for Televisa.

I won’t even begin to deal with the “attractive, athletic, winners” category. Obviously this is meant to eliminate 99.9% of the general population, but that’s the point of reality T.V.

But alas, onwards to the show.

First there was the pretendiente David Ortega, whose video showed him galloping on a white horse through the Jalisco countryside. It then cut to him grinning at himself while flexing in the mirror, and then finally to him looking very seriously at the camera and saying, “I just want to find love. I want to find a good girl I can take care of.”

Next came the pretendiente Johnny, the token virgin, whose video consisted of him praying to the Virgen de Guadeloupe and talking about how he doesn’t want a girl who just cares about sex (after all, what Mexican man does? Really??) He was by far the female favorite, with his basset hound gaze of innocence. The advice panel (I’ll get to that in a second) deliberated over whether he was capable of having a mature relationship or not, but ultimately the redhead came down in his favor, saying he obviously was expressing the kind of willingness necessary for a solid relationship. He looked relieved. The other guys looked like they wanted to beat the shit out of him after the show.

All the male pretendientes, in seventies disco meets Mexican cowboy wear, danced one by one with Ana Maria in her knee high white leather boots and her green sequined jumpsuit with the patent leather white belt. This dance was meant to show their chemistry. Most of the time, it ended with Ana Maria perched on their knees or clasped in a dip in their loving, pulsating, psychedelic arms.

Well, I must say that compared to what the women had to go through to woe Marcos, the dance was like Sunday brunch with grandma.

The women pretendientes, you see, had to do what the show dubs a “cuarto oscuro” or dark room session. Marcos is blindfolded and the woman gives him a sort of soft porn sensory overload while an infrared camera films it all and feeds it to the salivating Mexican public. In the dark room, gentle music plays as Marcos strokes the woman’s hair and the two rub hands and then feed each other cinnamon and grapes. Then, after all the rubbing and the feeding and the groping of hair, the two get to meet live on air to decide if they like each other. Or rather, Marcos gets to decide if he likes them.

Oh, Mexican women. The pretendientes here put me in physical pain. Sabrina, a divorcée from Mexico City, came on in a black mini-dress so tight you could see the curves of her belly button and the nether rolls and regions no casual viewer should be exposed to. She kissed and winked at Marcos anytime the camera panned her way. She was the type of woman that would scare the shit out of any high school boy, giving off a feral cat-ish vibe.

Then there was the innocent athletic girl, Daniela, who I liked, and who seemed a little bit sad, and finally, the mega-preppy tennis bitch who told the other girls to give up, since this man was hers. She came out in a red nearly backless tube dress and three inch dangling diamond earrings, and when given her token thirty seconds to explain why Marcos should fall in love with her, said “you guessed the color of my hair.” Giggle giggle. She made it to the final round.

It was all a little too much to handle. The advice panel, which consists of three very white Mexicans, one older man for the token image of wisdom, one vampy little redhead, and one guy that looks part surfer, part pothead, part cover model, offers insights like, “I don’t know, Maria, it’s so hard…do you like him?? Do you??”

I had to turn off the TV when I realized that the show would last for twelve weeks. Twelve weeks. After I turned it off, I felt a little sick to my stomach. I also felt like saying to the sociology professors who lurk around the local café talking about indigenous traditions and how quaint it is that Mexico isn’t obsessed with progress and how the revolutionary graffiti is just so inspiring and how they’re really seeing “the real Mexico” that they sit their asses down and watch some Televisa.

I’m afraid I might, next week.