The Bachelor is once more living up to its name as a glorified meat market. This time, the bachelor is an Italian Prince who has familial ties to Pope Paul V (Camillo Borghese) and Cardinal Scipione Borghese and a royal lineage that basically owns half of Rome. You know this because the guy’s last name is stamped all over architectural locales, coliseums, tourist sites and the occasional hole-in-the-wall cafe.
I can tell that 33 year old Lorenzo Borghese is enjoying himself immensely, as this experience is but another feather stroking his well-nurtured ego.
The girls are a motley bunch of professionals, give or take a farm ranch hand, socialite or native Italian female or two. There’s noone here connecting with the Prince just yet, so you know that their bottom wiggling will be escalating as the season wears on.
My own brush with a Bachelor boils down to my insurance agent actually being close friends with Andrew Firestone. I was only motivated to sign a contract with the agent if he got me an autograph of Andrew and his then chosen flame, Jennifer Schefft (who subsequently became the Bachelorette sometime ago). For all I know this agent was just pulling my leg by producing some signature on a rag he could’ve penned himself; but whatever. The insurance contract was a good deal anyway.
The ability of this show to spark a genuine love connection is in question given that its track record for initiating successful long-lasting relationships suck, but no matter, since dreamy (or is it deluded?) hopefuls continue to fight over and proclaim their right to the final rose — or in this case — the tiara. For their own sake, I sure hope these women are just feigning naivete about the whole love thing and are really all actresses just seeking media exposure.
For all that, I’d file this particular season under the category of crassy lifestyles of the rich and famous.