Boy meets boy. Boy gets boy. The Bravo series ended with James, our hero, choosing Wes, a much shorter, much swishier gay man with a haircut that makes him look like Zippy the Pinhead. They cried. They hugged. They kissed. Woohoo. And now they get a trip to New Zealand, the happiest, gayest place on earth, one assumes. Left behind on the staircase of losers were the other short gay guy and the tall, good-looking straight man, Franklin. And how fast did I catch on that Franklin was hetero? Big tip-off was his date in the limo with James. They popped open the champagne, poured two glasses and then -- voila! -- Franklin grabbed his glass BY THE FLUTE NOT THE STEM. No self-respecting, Kim Cattrall-worshipping gay man would hold a champers glass by anything but the stem. That's how it's done. Keeps the Cristal colder that way. Franklin guzzled his bubbly like it was a can of Schlitz. So, no mo' 'mo-ing for him. But then again, was it just me, or as the show unfolded, didn't Franklin look like he was getting a straight eye for that queer guy? Either he's a terrific actor or he let a little lavender take hold as he got to know the hunkarific James. Look for Franklin in a cover story in Out about a year from now.

Watch a lot of reality TV and you're bound to come to one conclusion about the state of America's housekeeping: We're a nation of slobs. Whether it's those hairy guys and their rancid fridge contents that the Fab Five clear out on "Queer Eye" or the crap-strewn mansion of "Newlyweds" Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey on MTV, anytime a door opens on a real American household, the dirty laundry is piled knee-high and crusty dishes crowd the sink. "Do we have a mop?" Jessica squeaked to Nick last week after she poured festering flower water on the kitchen floor. "You don't know if we own a mop and you're asking if you're a good housecleaner?" Nick squawked. "There's your answer."

Then later, Jessica listlessly pushed an O'Cedar sponge mop around and said "I thought mops had strings on 'em." Yes, dear, and Nick thought his new bride had a brain above those big bazooms. Surprise. Give this marriage two years.

But back to slobdom. Every season the "Real World" kids move into their shiny new digs, all purple paint and puffy sofas, and within a week have it looking like a dorm room in April. When "Trading Spaces" shoots to the "before" on that suburban family room, it's always a post-apocalyptic pile of Playskool toys, ugly afghans and Wal-Mart photo studio portraits framed in fake pine. American families never throw away anything, have no idea how to hang pictures (eye level, people!) and have an absurdly high regard for Thomas Whatshisname's "Master of Light" paintings.

Why fear terrorists? It's clutter that will kill us in the end.