Just imagine how it sounded to the Muncie police force. According to Chief Joe Winkle, several of his officers told him early on that agreeing to do the show was “a really poor decision on my part.” But Winkle claims he brought them around with assurances that the celebs would be fully trained and, if they failed to take the job seriously enough, sent home without hesitation. As a result, “Armed & Famous” is both a relief and a disappointment. As cops, the D-listers aren’t half bad. They’re not bumbling or mystified. They’re actually quite dedicated–Estrada told NEWSWEEK that he loves the job so much, he’ll fly back every month after the cameras leave to pull a reserve shift–so what fun is that? OK, some of it is kinda fun. Watching La Toya try to make chitchat with her mortified veteran MPD partner is fun. Watching a toothless, 75-year-old, crack-dealing grandma purr at Estrada from the back of a squad car is fun.
Of course, a show like this raises serious questions about safety and civic responsibility, but assuming Jack Osbourne doesn’t shoot anyone–in fact, Winkle says he’s the best cop in the bunch–who is “Armed & Famous” really hurting? Well, the 70,000 residents of Muncie, perhaps. Asked what’s in it for them, Forman admits, “The truth is, not a lot.” Neither the police nor the town was paid to participate. But Forman believes the show paints Muncie as “a great place to put down roots and raise a family,” though after all the petty felons and drug busts, viewers are more likely to come away thinking of Muncie as a struggling rust-belt city with a nasty little crack problem. Like so many other dying industrial towns across America, Muncie is a nice place in dire need of a life preserver. Instead, it got La Toya Jackson.
