Bachelor Nation

by Amy Kaufman

  Why I’m a Fan

  NIKKI GLASER

  I honestly probably got my ideas of romance from Ross and Rachel. A guy needs to pine over a girl for years, and then the forces that be finally bring them together, but it’s a long struggle of not being able to say how you feel. And it’s all very spontaneous and in the moment.

  When Friends went away, there was no other romance I really cared about, so I was like, “I’ll check [The Bachelor] out.” You see someone legitimately fall in love, whether it’s lust or love or just, you know, getting caught in the moment. I relate to the show a lot. Like, just falling head over heels, in a very unsafe way. “This isn’t going to end well, but it’s fun to watch.”

  Because of the nature of the competition on the show, you have to be emotive. It’s so interesting to me, because a lot of times the Bachelorettes want to hear from the guys, “I love you and I’m ready for marriage.” In regular life, it would be a terrible decision to reveal that stuff—to say “I’m all in, I love you, I want to get married.” That’s an insane thing to do. In real life, my advice to men would be to play it cool even if you do feel those things. Even though, on paper, I want to hear those things, hearing it would scare me away. I would want the guy who doesn’t seem into me.

  I’m not proud that I watch The Bachelor. I don’t think it’s a feminist show, but I do think feminists are into it because it’s an interesting case study. I don’t have guilt about it, because I just like what I like and I’m secure in that. I think we are seeking out these shows that remind us of the ’90s and the early 2000s when Britney Spears was the woman to be. It’s kind of like a throwback, because it is so vapid and so stuck in the early 2000s. I’ve watched the Kardashians and when I watched that show, I wasn’t one to be like, “I just watch it to make fun of them.” It’s truly entertaining to me. You shouldn’t be ashamed to enjoy reality television, because it’s like reading nonfiction. You’re just watching people—it’s real. I know that they’re set-up situations and I suspend disbelief to be able to watch it, but I don’t think that there’s anything wrong with wanting to watch people be put in a situation that you would never find yourself in.

  It’s really not a feminist show because the goal is to get married, and I’m just so annoyed by that. Why does everything have to be about getting a ring at the end of this? Why can’t they just progress enough to be like, “This is the person you choose to be with in a committed relationship”? It’s a sad ending, these two people who barely know each other saying they’ll get married. We don’t care that much. Just tell us they’re going to be together and work on a relationship. That’s way more interesting than locking these two into eternity together.

  It’s all about kids. I think people get married because they want kids. You know virgins who want to have sex but can’t until they get married, so they just get married to get this other thing out of the way? It’s like that. We need to change the conversation. “OK, so if she wants a family, she still has a family without marrying someone.” We don’t want to see them getting married. We just want to see them getting proposed to, because the idea of someone wanting to spend the rest of their life with you is better than actually doing it.

  —Nikki Glaser, comedian (Not Safe with Nikki Glaser)

  CHAPTER 4

  The Road to the Mansion

  If you are over the age of twenty-one, you are eligible to apply to be a contestant on The Bachelor. If you are over the age of twenty-one and have been banned from attending official Bachelor events by ABC brass, you are still eligible to apply to be a contestant on The Bachelor.

  Not that you’ll have a shot in hell of making it on The Bachelor. But you can still apply!

  This was my logic as I scrolled through the casting website the show always advertises during its commercial breaks. Let’s just look at what the application would require. No need to actually press Submit, right?

  As it turns out, if you want to apply to be on The Bachelor—or The Bachelorette—the online application is your best bet. It doesn’t involve much critical thinking—only a few vital biographical details: Height? Weight? Do you have any children? Occupation? What is the nearest big city to you, and how far is it? Have you ever applied to be on the show before? What’s your Instagram handle? How about Facebook? Can you send us (the hottest) picture of yourself (in minimal clothing)? Note: parenthetical additions are (obviously) my own.

  And, finally: Why do you want to be on the show?

  Aha! A deceptively simple question, akin to those horrifically broad “Tell us about yourself” or “Why do you want to go here?” prompts you encounter on college applications. But it was so hard to separate myself from the reality of the situation—you know, the ban, my lack of a bikini body, an overwhelming fear of helicopters/bungee jumping/mean girls—that I found it difficult to pursue the question seriously, even as a thought exercise. Come on, Amy. Just imagine you look like Margot Robbie. Think about all the fun travel you’ll get to do! The potential sex you’ll have in a body of water! The Neil Lane ring you’ll get to wear for less than a year! The thousands of dollars you’ll make from Instagram sponsorships! The lifestyle blog you’ll launch! The free plastic surgery you’ll get! The subsequent tabloid photo spread! So many gems await you.

  I had nada. So I decided to check out the mail-in application. Perhaps it would necessitate even less effort on my part.

  To my horror, this bad boy was loaded with far more probing questions than the online application. This was serious—the kind of thing I imagined the casting crew taking a much harder look at than the online application, which, let’s be real, is probably all about the photograph.

  If I was going to take this seriously, the mail-in application was the obvious choice. I readjusted my attitude, put on some Brad Paisley—that’s what people on The Bachelor listen to, right?—and got to typing.

  Nickname, age, job, hometown, siblings, yadda, yadda, yadda. No, I’ve never been arrested or had a restraining order issued against me—but aren’t you gonna background check this shit, anyway? I did audition to be on a reality show once, but it was about aspiring journalists who got to work at Rolling Stone, so I feel like that doesn’t even count. I’ve never been engaged, I don’t have kids, I don’t drink and will not start on this show.

  OK, now we’re getting real: “Are you genuinely looking to get married and why?”

  Yes. Because I’m thirty-two and society/your show/my parents make me feel ashamed of being single at this age. Also because I like spooning, watching Netflix, and splitting bills.

  “Why would you want to find your spouse on our TV show?”

  Truly, how can one answer this honestly without acknowledging one is somewhat of a fame whore? I want a shot with a cute, highly sought-after dude, and if I win, my confidence will skyrocket? I want to go on lavish, over-the-top fantasy dates instead of meeting a guy from OkCupid at a taco truck because “Jonathan Gold gave it a good review”? I want to be engaged but I also would like to make $5,000 by posting a photo with teeth whitener on Instagram?

  “Please describe your ideal mate in terms of physical attraction and in terms of personality attraction.”

  Bearded. Hairy. Not Jake Pavelka.

  “How many serious relationships have you been in and how long were they? What happened to end those relationships?”

  Ugh, do we really have to go down this road? Fine. Let’s say . . . three serious relationships. About two years a pop. I eventually realized: “I don’t want to marry you, bye.”

  “What are your hobbies and interests?”

  I am interested in my dog, Riggins, and hanging out with him.

  “Do you have any pets?”

  See above.

  OK, let’s zoom through the rest of these. Special talents? Um . . . I’m good at getting people to tell me their secrets. And picking out the perfect gift. Languages? I can speak very poor French tha
t magically gets better when it is being spoken to an attractive Frenchman. And no, I do not have any tattoos. Three surprising adjectives about me: Compassionate. (I’m not as mean as I seem!) Kooky. (I’m pretty weird.) Naturey. (My mom suggested this. It just means I like lying in fields and looking at the moon and stuff.)

  Proudest accomplishment? Eek. Maybe moving across the country and setting up a life for myself in L.A.? Is that lame? WHATEVZ I DON’T CARE I’M NOT GETTING ON THIS SHOW ANYWAY!

  Oooh, yay, final question! “What have you not found but would like to have in a relationship?”

  I guess I’ve yet to find the appropriate power balance. You know that old wives’ tale women often hear, “Marry someone who loves you a little bit more than you love them”? I’ve been with guys who I’ve felt were more into me than I was into them, and it’s always been a turn-off. Of course, I’ve been in the opposite position too, and that sure as hell doesn’t feel good. But being with a man who I love and who loves me just sliiiiightly more than I love him? I’ve never had that. Frankly, I kind of think that whole wives’ tale is bullshit, because power dynamics ebb and flow. And if I was on The Bachelor, the guy would have all the power in the relationship anyway. So this is probably gonna work out great!

  Now all I have to do is submit anywhere from five to fifteen pictures of myself, making sure to include “good close-up shots” and “full-body pics.” I feel like everyone must go with fifteen photos, right? Well, I’m going with zero, since I won’t even put a “full-body pic” on Bumble.

  Oh, and apparently I should make a video if I want to “ensure” I’m seen by the casting team and to show off my sparkling personality. The instructions say I should offer up “lots of energy and BIG SMILES!!!” I need to find a well-lit room and make sure I don’t stand in front of a window. Instead, I need to find a colorful background that won’t make me look “washed out.” I shouldn’t wear black, white, “intense prints,” hats, or sunglasses. I should wear an outfit I’d put on if I were going “to a nice restaurant for dinner.”

  As far as the content of the video goes, in between my BIG SMILES!!! I am supposed to show off my apartment and my pet. I should talk about my “love story,” my ultimate fantasy date, and my favorite actor, Ryan Gosling, whose face is on the tea towels hanging from my oven. I should showcase my freezer filled with Trader Joe’s macaroni and cheese, because you want to know “what’s for dinner!” I should highlight my couch, because the casting team wants to see my workout “routine.” I should end the video by giving both a close-up and a full-body shot of myself. “This is very important!”

  Guys. Can you imagine actually doing all of that? Sure, even the most jaded among us have probably fantasized about what it would be like to be on a reality show. But going through all the effort to actually get on one? That’s a level of commitment that, frankly, I found difficult to comprehend. I mean, I couldn’t even get through the damn application, let alone gin up a fun-and-flirty video and then subject myself to months of in-person interviews.

  But let’s say, miraculously, I’d sent in the application and video and the producers were so charmed by me that, after a few phone calls, they decided they wanted to meet me in person. And since we’re already going out on a limb here, let’s say I don’t live in L.A.—I’m from Boston. What would have happened next?

  Well, I’d be invited to come to L.A. for one of two final audition weekends—all expenses paid—to meet the production team in person. After I agreed to the trip, the show would book my travel, and a couple of weeks later, I’d head to the airport. When I was on the plane, I’d get a text message from my handler instructing me to text them when I landed.

  On the runway at Los Angeles International Airport, I’d send the text and hop on a shuttle to the nearby Sheraton Gateway, where the auditions were taking place. Once at the airport hotel, I’d call my handler, who would immediately meet me and rush me to a check-in room in a more discreet part of the building. There, I’d be given a 150-question personality test to bring back to my room and complete there. The test would be filled with multiple choice and true-or-false questions: Do you have out-of-body experiences? Do you think you can control things with your mind? Have you ever wanted to kill someone? Some of these questions would be asked several times, reworded differently.

  After I handed in the test, I would be told not to leave my room. If, by some chance, a guest spotted me and asked what was going on, I would be told to say I was part of a movie production. I would be given a $50 daily stipend. If I wanted alcohol, I would be instructed to call a specific number, and drinks would be sent to me. I would not interact with any other potential contestants.

  This would be the first day of the finals weekend.

  The next day, a Saturday, I would wake up around eight a.m. and be picked up by my handler. The handler would proceed to take me to a handful of different stations. First, I’d have a few pictures of myself taken. Then I’d be escorted to a room to have a one-on-one interview with a producer. If I later made it onto the show, I’d come to realize that this room resembled an ITM setup—the kind of space in which contestants give “in-the-moment” interviews, talking about their feelings and experiences. There would likely be candles and mood lighting behind me.

  After twenty minutes of speaking with the producer privately, I would be asked: “Hey, do you want to meet some of my friends?” I would be walked to an adjoining room, where I would be greeted by roughly two dozen producers sitting stadium-style. I would quickly become aware that they had watched my entire “private” ITM as it was unfolding on a television screen.

  The producers would have me sit down and would start asking me questions, rapid-fire. Had I watched the last season of The Bachelorette? Did any of the guys stand out to me? What was I looking for in a man? What was my dream job? If I could have that dream job if I cut off one of my limbs, would I do it? Would I rather have a DDD bra cup or write a cover story for Vogue?

  Just as the questions started to become more outlandish, the producers would wrap up the session and a handler would take me to meet with the show’s therapist. From 2002 through summer 2017, that was psychologist Dr. Catherine Selden.

  According to the California Board of Psychology, Selden is a state-licensed psychologist who graduated from Pepperdine University and has no disciplinary actions against her license. She was always made available to contestants throughout the season—she was not a presence on set but emerged any time she was requested—and cast members were supposed to meet with her after they were eliminated.

  “I actually really liked Dr. Selden,” said Sharleen Joynt, an opera singer who wrestled with leaving Bachelor Juan Pablo Galavis’s season but ultimately did so of her own accord. “I felt like she got me. She told me I was the most self-analytical or introspective female contestant they’d ever had on the show. . . . After I exited, they took me to a hotel suite and the doctor was there waiting for me with a room-service menu at, like, three a.m. She’s on call 24-7. I had never spoken to a shrink before, but I loved her.”

  But contestants were first acquainted with Dr. Selden during the casting process. So she would be in possession of the personality test I’d filled out and would spend roughly an hour asking me questions about it. At times, she would get personal: Had I ever cheated on anyone? Did I have a history of mental illness or depression? Did I ever drink too much? Did I ever get into fights when I was drunk?

  Next, my handler would bring me to a private investigator. This person would be trained to dig up any skeletons in my closet—partly to use for my storyline but also to get ahead of any tabloid stories that could come to the surface if I was on the show. Had I ever been arrested? Had I ever sent nude photos to anyone? Had I ever made a sex tape? Had I gotten a DUI?

  Finally, I would be taken for a medical examination. Samples of my blood and urine would be collected. These samples would be tested for drugs and sexually transmitted dise
ases. I would fill out my medical history and answer questions about my health. If I were on any medication, I would tell the medical professional, who would want to know whether I would need my pills during production.

  Then I would be escorted back to my room and given something called the “fun packet.” The questions inside would be light: What’s your favorite movie? Who do you look up to? If you could have dinner with anyone dead or alive, who would it be? What’s your ideal date? The answers I gave to the questions in the packet would be used in my bio on ABC.com, if I made it on the show.

  After I was done with the fun packet, a handler would check on me and walk me out of the hotel. I would be allowed to go out in L.A., as long as I texted the handler when I returned to the Sheraton. The following morning, a Sunday, I would fly back to Boston and wait to hear if I’d made it past the pool of fifty finalists and onto The Bachelor.

  In the following weeks, producers would discuss my performance and analyze the materials I’d submitted to determine whether I should be cast. If it turned out I had an STD, I’d be taken out of the running immediately. And apparently, that’s the top reason applicants don’t make it onto the show.

  “I learned a lot about life from those tests,” said Ben Hatta, Fleiss’s old assistant, who was privy to the casting process. “As soon as the medical tests came back, you’d see that herpes was the biggest thing. And sometimes you’d be the first person to tell a contestant that they had herpes. You’d be like, ‘Uh, you should call your doctor.’ Why? ‘We’re not going to be able to have you on our show, but you should call your doctor.’ Then they’d realize they’d been denied from The Bachelor and now a bunch of people knew they had herpes.”