"So you're a celebrity too?" asked a sweaty man with a serious mullet problem, as the woman next to her was plastering my face with what felt like spackling paste disguised as foundation. In the same room sat another young man admiring his own reflection in the mirror and fixing his spiky-gelled hair which, let me tell you, was stiffer then astro turf and would not have moved even if he swimming up Niagara falls.

Let me tell you a story of an absurd day in my life where me of all people was (almost) mixed up in a sick media plot known as a reality TV show. Well actually, absurd is an understatement, but let's just go back to the beginning of the story. One day I got a phone call from a strange lady claiming to be a producer of a show called "Mystery Guest", where so-called celebrities get visits from old friends, enemies, teachers, ex girlfriends, etc. Well you know the drill. For this particular one, the show's guest was my childhood best friend who is now a singer in a pop band that is all the rage. While little me, I was asked to be his mystery guest, given that we played hide-and-seek and even showered together as little kids. He is one of those friends that I will always consider a good friend even though we have drifted apart for nearly two decades. Thinking it would surely make him happy to reminisce on our wonderful childhood, I accepted the offer.

Come the day of the shoot. I suspected nothing until I entered the dodgy makeup room where the talent coordinator shoved me right into hair and makeup. "Are you gonna wear that?" asked one of them referring to my white shirt dress, tiny neck tie, and knee-high turquoise lace up boots, which I had carefully assembled before leaving home. Of course everybody else, was wearing the typical morning-television ensemble ala "Dahsyat". I answered her with a simple yes. She turned and yelled at another person across the room. "How do you want me to fix her? Make her look like a rocker?" The person replied. "Yeah, make her a lady rocker." That left me speechless for a few seconds. Lady rocker. Are you kidding me? The term Lady Rocker died along with Nike Ardilla in the mid nineties. But then again, our television industry is still stuck in the mid 90s.

While I half-heartedly allowed my face to get raped by harsh chemicals, the aforementioned super-mullet man, introducing himself as the floor director, sat down to brief me.

"So your name is Tika and you are his childhood friend, correct?" he said looking at his sheet. "What do you do?" "I'm a singer," I answered. "I'm preparing to get my second album out this week."

"So you're a celebrity too?" he asked with a how-come-I've-never-heard-of-you, I-know-everybody-who's-anybody look. "No I'm not." I answered sharply. My mortal status allowed him to spare me the royal treatments, which I never needed in the first place, and he got right to the point.

"Okay, let me explain. Our show is divided into three segments. The funny segment, the angry segment, and the drama segment. You're going to be in the drama segment . This is the touchy part, you know what I mean? Now, tell me about your childhood with him." I told him about the time when I got his tooth chipped hitting the end of a table when we were 6 and about falling asleep under the desk in our classroom. But he wasn't interested in sweet childhood memories. He wanted tearjerkers. "Is there any memories that could make him cry?" he asked. I was already uncomfortable enough and thought this guy couldn't be more of a jerk. That is until he asked his next questions, which still gets me fuming to this day every time I remember it. "Are his parents still alive?" he asked callously. "Where is this going?" I asked. With no remorse or any human feelings whatsoever, the man grinned and said, "No offense, this is for ratings sake only. I must find something, anything that could make our guest star cry. Reality show viewers want to see tears," he said with a hint of pride in his voice. "So, help me out. Can you bring up a death of his loved ones? Divorce maybe? Family scandals?"

I can't even begin to describe the disgust that I felt. I looked him straight in the eye, told him I didn't want to be a part of this sick rating madness, and walked right out. Leaving them mystery-guest-less twenty minutes before rolling.

I don't care. I did the right thing.

So, ladies and gentlemen. There is the truth behind your reality shows. There is the truth about your magic box. Where your demise is danced upon, and tragedy is a blessing. And the rating minions like our Mr. Mullet Man here, who would sell their soul to the rating Gods. The same goes for gullible folks who dream to get their fifteen minutes of fame, and would do and say anything to be on TV.

Pretending to be tone deaf and annoying the judges at talent show auditions? It made William Hung an international celebrity, why can't you? Revealing your own husband's adultery on national television? Why not? Add a little scripted catfight between his mistress and yourself? Even better.

As for the viewers, does it make you feel good about yourself watching other people's so-called real life that seems worse than your own boring existence? I have a suggestion for you, why don't you turn off your TV, and turn on your life.

- Kartika Jahja

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