Did you get sloppy drunk and have gross, festering sex with your roommate last night? If you did, you are not on the Real World: Brooklyn. 'Cause they don't do that anymore on that show.

Yeah this season is squeaky—mouse squeaky—clean. Well, in comparison to seasons past at least. No one's drunk and horrible and spreading love diseases everywhere. No one's drunk and getting into histrionic fights with roommates and hurling racial epithets. No one's drunk and... Uh. No one's drunk. Where is the limitless supply of alcohol that's plagued this reality experiment gone awry for the past ten years or so? I guess MTV decided enough was enough. It's time for a hiatus. The only trouble is that while it's all well and good and refreshing to see all these perky youngsters livin' life with un-booze-fuzzy clarity, it's also kinda boring.

I mean, what happened last night?

Devyn had boy issues. You know Devyn. She's the beauty queen with the enormous bookshelf protruding from her sternum who is the house's very own Mrs. Malaprop. I can't think of any specific examples right now because that strange first hint of spring in the air is sort of distracting me by making me want to get in a car and keep on driving forever, but she does misuse words all the time. Well, anyway, she has a "sort of fiance" named White Boy who is a club promoter in Kansas City. Being a club promoter in Kansas City means that you walk around dressed as a club sandwich, passing out fliers for the new Panera Bread at the Zona Rosa. It must pay a lot though, because he's always giving Devyn money. And she demands it, in that dumb collegiate insolently bucktoothed way of hers. But she's also kinda jeepin' on him with another guy, named Cracker Head. So all the roommates knew Devyn's wicked secret when White Boy came to visit and they mocked her, gently, about it (see clip above).

So a big confrontation was in order, right??? Well, no. White Boy left. Devyn wrote him an email/called him on the house phone and broke it off. That was it. Nothing. Then Devyn took a feather duster and cleaned off the shelf and went to go make herself a club sandwich. Sigh.

The other big thing that happened was that my pathetic crush on Ryan developed unabated. He had his cute girlfriend Bella come to visit and they went to Coney Island with the gay dude JD and everyone was kind and Baya gave her a big hug and it wasn't as awkward as it could have been. Did you expect some big drunken fight or fuzzy, nightvision fucking? Well too bad. The happy couple just talked and walked and she said he had a beautiful face (no argument there, honey chile'). That was it! I'd like to say that Chet climbed into the wall again, weeping and furtively masturbating while staring at them from the eyes of a portrait, but that didn't happen. I'd like to say that Katelynn farted so violently that all her boy parts came back. But that didn't happen. Nope. Everyone was just nice and calm.

There was a third jokey plot with the boys putting a little white rat named Stinkers Gyllenhaal (or something) in the girls' beds, but it didn't amount to much other than Chet being surprisingly likable. Yes even as he desperately tried for more and more precious boytime during so he could gaze upon Ryan's puckish countenance and quietly imagine the little cottage by the sea that they could share someday, Chet was tolerable. Kind of funny even. Meanwhile the girls launched a charming little detective initiative to discover the source of the rat. Katelynn was sort of annoying and credit-takey about the whole thing, but that was it. Little rats. Little jokes. No freakouts. Hardly any swearing, even.

It looks like the season will take a turn at some point, if preview clips are anything to go by. Which will be exciting but also kind of sad. Sedate as it might be, it's kind of pleasant just watching young people be nice to each other. Thrilled to be sharing this experience in their precarious mansion by the harbor, the cool blue Verrazano in the background, stretching across the ocean like a welcome arch. The narrows there, through which so many people over so many years arrived to find, one likes to believe, a welcoming America. One that wasn't drunk and yelling and screwing and fucking up. But instead laughing or hugging or lifting weights or dusting shelves or petting mice. Or maybe just staring out at the limitless horizon, waving hello to all the little boats bobbing merrily along. Out there on the friendly, sparkling sea.