When I come home from a long day at the office, the last thing I want to do is use more brain cells. My overpriced one-bedroom in Brooklyn (hahaha) that I share with a roommate—who is a girl, and a friend, okay she’s my girlfriend—is a requiem of chill, a place for us to recharge our tired bones. All I want is to be stupid and languid, like a starfish slumped in the corner of an aquarium. The last thing I want to watch on television is a cerebral TV show that has something to say about the The Way We Live Now.
Thankfully, we live in a golden age of dumb, mindless television. The Kardashians are goddesses. Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives is a symphony of heart congestion and Guy Fieri is the Dragon Ball-haired Beethoven orchestrating that shit. And Bar Rescue? Jon Taffer is THE DUDE! If I could hire Jon Taffer to surgically dismantle the confidence of my enemies with his beautiful, destructive words, believe me I would.
But when it comes to dumb, mindless television that’s perfect for letting your brain vegetate, the absolute best television show in syndication is on HGTV. This show is called House Hunters.
The premise of House Hunters is simple enough: Each episode follows the same formulaic routine in which a person or two people—usually a newly married couple, but once in a while you get an intentionally cloying college student with a trust fund—are in the market to buy or rent a new place to live. Then, the couple lists their demands, which are often unreasonable and in glorious conflict: Maybe they want a 1,400-foot studio apartment in the heart of Los Angeles with hardwood floors, marble countertops, a veranda, a patio, and a backyard big enough to accommodate their hipster chicken coop. And everything has to be under $1,000 a month.
Then a poor saint-like realtor gives them a tour of three different places for sale, each with their own pros and cons. House #1 could be slightly out of their price range but it provides 400 extra square feet and has a man cave in the basement. House #2 could be $50,000 under budget, but it’s an igloo. House #3 is perfect, but it's in Iowa and the couple live in Honolulu. (Not really.) At the end of the show, they pick one.
You’re probably thinking: That sounds simple enough! Well, you’re right. But you’re also wrong. Whatever the polar opposite of nuance is, House Hunters has that. There is no narrative rhyme or reason to any of the decisions the happy couple makes—and by happy, I mean in the habit of shooting each other murderous looks—end up making. House Hunters is nihilism dressed up in stainless steel appliances.
Now would be a good time to mention that the whole thing is obviously scripted and most definitely fake. But the fact that it is a semi-elaborate fiction does not matter.
Part of what makes House Hunters such a black hole for your attention span is that it’s escapist. Hmmm, maybe I could live in Des Moines, too! But most of the time you find yourself appalled and/or horrified by the decision-making and bickering taking place onscreen. For example, let’s look at an episode that’s on Netflix from season two called “Space for Chickens in Chicago.” The couple, Scribner and Amanda, are looking for a new home situated in the heart of hipster mecca Logan Square. They’re cool young Chicagoans! They own vintage bikes and drink coffee! His frames are from Warby Parker!
Where things get interesting is he wants a modern apartment with updated furnishings and backyard for his chicken coop, while she wants an older place that’s charming, like whatever this thing is:
You can't have both modern and charming, which is the central tension at the center of House Hunters. No one gets everything they want, but the stakes are so egregiously low that no one really ever loses. There is always another house; there is always a fallback.
Which isn't to say the convoluted decision-making tree the couples follow isn't fun. Seriously: If you want to get a bunch of GQ editors fired up on a Friday afternoon, simply put on House Hunters. Shit is like the Super Bowl.
“YOU GOTTA GIVE UP ON THE VINTAGE CHARM, GIRL!” said one editor who was most definitely not me. “GO FOR HOUSE #1.”
“They always hate the carpet,” muttered another House Hunters die-hard. “They always want an open floor plan. And they're always expecting a fucking en-suite every single time.”
But here’s the thing: You never know what house they're going to pick. It is scientifically impossible, sort of like how jet fuel can’t melt steel beams. And that’s part of the beauty of it—even if you’re willing to bet the warm blood of your first-born child that the couple is going to pick the below-market fixer-upper with modest potential, somehow, some way, they’ll always swerve and go for the four-bedroom/3.5 baths that’s $100,000 over their budget. It makes no sense. SORT OF LIKE LIFE. The arc of the House Hunters universe bends toward nonsense.
And the best part about the show, at least if you’re watching it on television? After every episode there's always House Hunters International.
