As a professional infiltrator, I was deep undercover on the granddaddy of all reality dating shows, Blind Date [read Part 1 and Part 2 here]. I was posing as a professional lunatic, frightening not only my date but the entire crew of Blind Date. But now it was time to get serious, for we were headed into the evening portion of the show, called "Dress to Impress."
Did you know that a men's bathroom stall is what's used as the changing room for Blind Date? In these confined quarters, it was very difficult to dress to impress, especially since I was putting on a pair of traditional German lederhosen and a mountaineering hat. (They said "dress to impress," but did they specify which country ... or era in history?!)
The hills are alive.
I pull up my knee-length socks and fasten the last few straps of my lederhosen while giving a hard look into the mirror. (I resemble one of the Von Trapp children from The Sound of Music.)
The field producer has a problem with my lederhosen.
"Are you putting me on? I think you're just playing for the cameras."
"No, this is how I 'dress to impress,'" I explain. "I used to work for a German fashion designer in Struddlesburg, Germany. In fact, I designed these!"
He goes off to make a call and get lederhosen approval.
Just then, an old man in a cowboy hat comes into the bathroom. We stare at each other. Explaining is in order.
"Don't worry, this is all a part of a TV show," I say, realizing the two of us (man in cowboy hat, guy in lederhosen, standing by urinal) looks like a Village People video from another dimension. The producer comes back. Lederhosen: approved!
With cameras in place, I jump the gate in front of the restaurant, springing in front of my date like Peter Pan. It is a grand lederhosen entrance.
"Mien Frau! Ich bin hungry. Let us dine!"
There's confusion.
"Why are you wearing lederhosen?"
"They're really comfortable!" I stress, showing my range of motion.
Bottoms up, Blind Date!
We're herded into a backroom of the restaurant (again, located in freakin' Burbank). As a stationary camera rolls, and I fully utilize the drink tab at Blind Date's expense (it's fun to get drunk on television!) and get down to some serious dinner conversation.
"I'm not wearing anything under my lederhosen, you know," I proclaim as date Emma bites into her vegetarian taco salad. "Would Josh wear lederhosen for you?"
Sadly, she said he would. (I hate Josh.)
Suddenly, the tables turn. The waiter snickers, bringing out a plate containing many sticks of butter.
"Well, you said you could eat eight sticks of butter," snaps my blind date. "So, let's see you do it!"
Emma prepares the butter.
I look down at the sticks of butter. She's called my bluff right here on national, syndicated late-night television! What can I do but jam an entire stick of butter into my mouth (then quickly spit it on the floor).
"I'm just warming up!"
I jam another whole stick of butter in my mouth and start talking politics.
"MMMmmmmmm!"
Rich, buttery goodness.
"Do you ever get out in public?" she sneers, as I spit that stick of butter on the carpet, as well.
"There's a serious side to me, too," I try explaining, my face caked in butter.
"Oh, yeah? Well, then let's see it!"
I clear my throat. I look into her eyes. My expression changes.
"I never struck before that hour,
With love, so sudden and sweet!
Her face, it bloomed like a sweet flower,
And stole my heart complete!"
Date Emma's complete demeanor changes. For the first time on the entire date, she sees a serious side to Hank Bartholomew III.
She's truly surprised. "That was really sweet. Really, really sweet."
She grabs my hand. We hold our gaze. Then I jam another whole stick of butter in my mouth.
Dinner was a success, but we still had one more stop on our blind date ... and that's where the Blind Date wackiness really begins.
Next: After-Dinner Drinks!
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