The bitches and the hos are back with a vengence in season eight of America’s Next Top Model. I keep saying this every season, but I don’t see how they can find any dumber girls. Really, this season’s crop is astonishingly stupid and vapid, and it’s going to be the best train wreck yet.

We start with casting, and are spared any of last year’s embarassing moments, like the pole dancer who insists to Tyra that being a stripper is the same thing as being a model, rilly. On second thought, I sort of missed that. We don’t have any tragedies like being in a plane wreck, kept alive by the diminishing heat of our dead mother’s body, or night blindness, or psoriasis or even being the blackest child in the family. I didn’t miss that. We don’t have anything terribly memorable except the girl with the sewn-in wig (which I think was also repossessed, but it might have been two different girls with weaves) and the other girl who just wouldn’t shut up. Or leave. Or say anything that was worth listening to the on and on and on and on and on and on to hear.

The first thirty odd (really odd) girls are picked and off we go to Model Boot Camp, where I have high hopes that these B&Hs will learn how to walk in high heels before they get to the first judging. Of course, I have high hopes about Mr Jay not being orange and Twiggy developing an attitude, too, so who am I to say.

Right away my hopes are dashed with the “name 5 American designers” question which results in chirping crickets. Personalities begin to display when Sara (the semi-pro) knows who Richard Avedon is, and Renee starts bitching about how Sara only won because she’s a photographer and so of course “knew who that dude was” and the whole thing isn’t fair. This, we will discover, is her mantra, along with the particularly overused “I’m only doing this for my baby.”

You know, I don’t have kids, so maybe it is a normal thing for a mother to do, leave an infant at home to go off and participate on a reality show for the fame whoriness of it. We see a lovely picture of Renee in her white wedding gown, holding her infant son. Really, it was almost touching. But, just to be terribly old-fashioned, since when did a white wedding dress get accessorized by a bouquet of baby? I thought the presumed accessory was an intact hymen, but then again, I am old-fashioned.

The first cut is the deepest, and we get reduced by a number of forgettable, semi-attractive girls, and one Betty Paige by way of the tattoo parlor wannabe who was shocked to think that having a life-size and somewhat realistic tattoo of the bleeding sacred heart of Jesus on her sternum might make for a minus when you want to be a couture model. Then it’s off to our first photo shoot and we have a political statement theme, in which the girls must front for whatever random “controversial” position the PTB have come up with. There is pro-choice, and anti-abortion; gay marriage and straight; pro-fur and anti-fur; anti-gun and NRA shill; vegan and carnivore; death penalty pro and con. Con, get it? Jeez I crack myself up. Unfortunately, these were concepts that went way beyond the limited wattage of our contestants. In particular, Sara couldn’t get with the life behind bars, Renee didn’t like having to not like guns (I’m guessing she’s a military wife, what with being 20, a mother and living in Hawaii.) Katherine could not figure out why anyone wouldn’t like to wear fur, Jael and Natasha needed to swap positions on the whole choice thing, and the girl who was pro-straight marriage looked as stiff and unbelievable as the giant Ken doll they had posing with her. Nigel was the photographer, and he and Mr. Jay looked pretty miserable at the raw materials they had to work with.

Then, it was off to Goodwill to make an outfit of personal expression in three minutes, plus a charity runway show, money raised to go to Goodwill. I will spare you the details, because they are painful. Jael wins, and Renee bitches that it wasn’t a fair challenge because Jael shops in second hand stores, anyway.  Jael wasn’t happy about winning, either, because she thinks that will make the other girls like her less. Here’s a clue for you, honey: none of them like you anyway, and they are all backstabbing bitches, or haven’t you watched this show before?

Speaking of Natasha, which I was a paragraph ago, she is 19, Russian and married to a 40-year old man about whom she can only say he changed her life and brought her to America. Uh-huh. I knew one of those guys. He did the Russian bride thing twice, and the first one left when she learned enough English to figure out he was sort of creepy and the second one left as soon as she could without anyone questioning the validity of her green card marriage. I’m sure that Natasha isn’t one of those, right? I’m also harboring this deep, deep desire to see Tyra give her this makeover. Ohpleaseohpleaseohplease.

Anyway, after the juding, wherein Tyra et al admit that this is the worst bunch of wannabes they’ve ever seen, and Katherine allows as how she didn’t get the whole concept of anti-fur, even though Mr. Jay and Nigel explained it to her…a lot, and how couldn’t you just get fur from already dead animals, because “animals die of natural causes sometimes, don’t they?” that is enough for even Tyra to send her away for being stupid beyond all comprehension.

Whee! I can’t wait for next week, can you?

OK. First of all, I am in considerable pain, and not at all comfortable, and in reality, the only numb parts are the fingertips of my right thumb and forefinger, with a minimal amount of numby-ness in my middle finger.

There is a searing, shooting, radiating pain coming from somewhere between my shoulder blade and my spine, and I can’t turn my head. I appear to have a pinched (very pinched) nerve located between C5-6 and another or a consequential, sympathy something or other at T5.

This is my schedule today: hot shower, bed, ice pack. Rinse. Repeat. I shouldn’t even be here on my computer, and I sure as hell haven’t been able to go to work.

The Percoset did nothing, the two Aleve barely made a hint of a dent in the pain. I have a newly acquired chiropractor, and I’m in love with him.

There are many stories to tell from the SoBe Wine & Food, and photos to upload, but I’m afraid they are going to have to wait until I can sit up without pain, or at least until I can stand up without the weight of my arm causing me to writhe in agony.

Until tonight, when I camp out in front of the TeeVee to watch the return of the Bitches and the Hos on ANTM, I am back to the shower/bed/ice pack regimen.

And so, as a very great journaler once said, to bed.

RJ, MJ, The RLA and I are off to the SoBe Wine & Food Festival. There will be no posts, no comments approved, no e-mail read until sometime Sunday night. I will be too full of yummy food to care. I promise to take pictures and tell tales.

An astute new (and presumably very young) reader accosted me in my comments this morning with the following question, which I quote in its entirety, and exactly as she typed it (in all caps, shouting at me first thing in the morning… sigh)

“WHAT GIVES YOU THE RIGHT TO JUDGE PEOPLE ...SO WHAT IF THEY WANT TO HANG THEIR BACKPACKS ON THEIR CHEST…ECT ECT.”

First of all, sweetiedarling, the correct abbreviation for which you are searching, is ETC, as in etcetera. Not ecksettra, or however you are pronouncing it in your head.

Secondly, what gives me the right to judge people is this: I am the self-appointed arbiter of taste for the universe and it would be a much more attractive place if people would just take my advice.

Thirdly, what gives me the right to be arbiter of taste for the universe is that I have exquisite taste, and if I ever did make a fashion mistake, there is no film hanging around to prove it.

Finally, regarding your final statement, the one in which you opine about the frequency of my sex life versus the number of pairs of shoes you own… what, exactly, was the point you were attempting to make? I came of age in the 70s, child, and I’ve been married to the Hottie Renowned Local Artist for 15 years, so I hope you have a spare room or two to house all those pairs of shoes you claim to own. And I hope you keep them all polished, stored neatly in boxes, with tissue stuffed in the toes to keep their shape. I also hope that you make sure the heels are always in good repair.

I don’t even know where to begin this essay. Anna Nicole Smith’s body is decaying and the vultures and parasites are fighting over the remains. There are three men (at least) who claim to be the father of her child. One was with her, one used to be her lover, and the third is a fame whore who may or may not have had a relationship with her at the time of the child’s conception.

The estranged mother is blaming drugs and the boyfriend for her daughter’s estrangement from her, the boyfriend for the drug abuse. The ex-lover is blaming the boyfriend and drugs for his loss of his ex-girlfriend. The boyfriend/lawyer is just lamenting his loss and trying to bury her next to her son, and keeping his(?) daughter safe. Which is not to say that I believe him, have sympathy for him or find him to be less of an opportunistic leech than the rest of the parties involved.

And then we have this article, which talks about how so many Playboy Playmates have died tragically young. From murder or drug overdose primarily, it seems. Toss in a few car wrecks and plane crashes and you have quite the list. But the people quoted are all like: Oh, the tragedy of being beautiful.

Oh, the tragedy of being objectified, I say. Would Dorothy Stratton have been murdered by her jealous ex if she weren’t the centerfold? Another questionable source claims that ANS wanted her tiny little baby to be slightly underfed so that she would be “sexy”. At three months old.

Which brings us back to her own mother, she who is blaming the world for the estrangement, drugs, etc. of her daughter’s short and overblown life. Well, sweetiedarlings, we can all ask nature or nurture and we can ask it all we like, but there has to be some sort of responsibility somewhere from the cradle to point at which she left home.

Honestly, I don’t know where to end this essay, either. It all seems to me to be a terrible indictment of American pop culture, American values, the ridiculous scramble after money and the obscene desire for fame above all.* Fame without merit. Paris Hilton kind of fame, not Chuck Yeager kind of fame.

Finally, though, in the middle of all this circus, there is one person with whom I am personally familiar. This morning’s Miami Herald announced that the court-appointed attorney for the infant Danielynn is Richard Millstein. Richard was the lawyer for the Antichrist when we got divorced. He flayed my lawyer. He left me with little, he managed for me (the poor artist) to split my art collection with the rich lawyer I was divorcing, and even give my old car to the same rich lawyer so he could give it to his new girlfriend’s kid. And even though I will never forgive the Antichrist, Richard was just doing his job.

Richard and I sat on the board of the local AIDS organization together a few years later, and I can, in all honesty, say that I have never met a more sincere and caring gentleman. He is, year after year, the top fund raiser for CareResource. He is courteous and mild mannered (outside of the courtroom). In all of this mess, I know in my heart that Richard will see past the bullshit and make sure that the best of all possible outcomes is secured for this little girl.

At least until she goes home to live with one or another of the people who made her mother what she was.

* My dear dead Grandma used to say that fool’s names and fool’s faces oft appear in public places. She also used to refer to persons who were “all dressed up like Astor’s pet horse.”  Which is amusing enough, but Grandma lived in Newport back in the day and so probably actually SAW Mrs. Astor’s pet horse decked out in its finery.

Marcia, over at The Pink Shoe wrote a little story about a cooking event that culminated in The Firemen coming over and evacuating her apartment building. It was funny, and rather than tell this story in her comments, I’m using her tale as a springboard to tell you all about The Night The Firemen Came To My Dinner Party.

It was long ago, and not so far away, and I was living in a wreck of an old house in Coconut Grove. It had peeling, cracking walls, and wooden floors and an old, beat up stove with a short and one melted burner (that is another story altogether) in a tiny galley kitchen.

I was separated from the Antichrist, and my girlfriend Rocky was living with me until she got the tickets to move to LA. It was late in December and I was hosting my annual goose dinner; the first without the Antichrist (and it was him and his raised-by-wolves family that prompted me to begin holding annual goose dinners, but that is yet another story for another time). In celebration of my liberation, the guest list had grown to where I needed to roast two geese. And there began my problems.

I didn’t have a roasting pan large enough to hold two geese, but I’m a resourceful girl, and made one out of two disposable foil pans, using tin snips, tin foil and some foil pan origami. Side by side, they filled my little oven completely.

Have you ever cooked a goose? They are Very Fatty, and need constant attention so that they don’t cook up greasy. This attention takes the form of repeated poking with a sharp object to drain the fat from the skin. This rendered fat, by the way, is a most excellent cooking fat, and adds a subtle flavor to things like soups, when you use it to saute the onions or vegetables before adding them to the stock. Using a tablespoon of goose fat also makes for the world’s best matzoh balls. But I digress.

So there is soup, there is home made bread, there are vegetables and desserts all cooked. The table is set, the ice bucket is full. Rocky is showered and dressed, and I’m about to go and do the same. I poke the geese a few more times for good luck. Which does not come. No. What comes is very bad luck, in the form of the sharp object going through the bottom of the thin foil roasting pan. Which then proceeds to drip goose fat onto the heating elements. Which then proceeds to burst into flames.

Well. I am on that issue like white on rice. I slam all the doors to the kitchen shut, open all the kitchen windows and the back screen door and start yelling at Rocky to bring me every fan in the house, and point them out the windows, blowing the smoke out of the house and away from the fire alarms.

She does that, but she also (and I’m sorry to say this Rocky) panics. I, on the other hand, am remembering everything I ever learned about cooking fires in home ec. Here is what is going though my mind:

Do not open the oven door. That will only cause the fire to flare up and burn off your eyebrows and eyelashes. (And the geese, which cost a fucking fortune.)

If you are foolish enough to open the oven door, you have to throw baking soda on the fire to put it out, because it is a grease fire. (And if you miss, you will throw baking soda all over the geese, which cost a fucking fortune, so you really don’t want to do that.)

Turn off the oven, and don’t open the door. The fire will (eventually) run out of oxygen (in theory, because I’m not sure how good the seals are on this old wreck) and the heating elements will cool enough that the grease will not continue to burn. This is my best option, because the geese are almost done, and they will continue to coast on the retained heat.

Ergo: do nothing except turn off the stove and wait. Except. Remember I said that Rocky had panicked? She’d called the fire department and was now trying to tell them where I lived. I grabbed the phone from her and started negotiations with the fire department.

“Yeah. A grease fire. No, it’s almost pretty much close to being out.”

“Yeah. Wooden floors.”

“No. I won’t give you my address. Not unless you promise that you won’t send a truck. I’m having a dinner party and the guests are due any minute and having a fire truck in the driveway just Will Not Do.”

“No. No truck. No lights. No sirens. No guys in raincoats.”

“Look, if you insist on coming over, just send a single guy on his way home. There’s room at the table.”

Well, I go off and shower and dress, and the guests, in fact, do start arriving, and every time there is a knock at the door, I say, “O, that must be the firemen.” and everybody chuckles. Until there is a knock on the door, and there in my driveway is an entirely too large red fire truck, with its lights flashing and about six guys in rubber coats in my front door. “YOU LIED!” I shriek.

In they come, I pretend to be Noel Coward, and sashay through the living room, trailing a string of firemen behind me like baby ducks in their yellow rubber coats. “Firemen,” I say, “these are my guests. Everybody? These are the firemen.”

They follow me into the kitchen where they allow as yes, I have had a grease fire which is now entirely out, and the geese are entirely gorgeous and maybe they need to take them (or at least one of them) back to the station for evidence of said fire. I tell them over my dead body, and at that moment, the last pair of guests arrive, pounding up the back steps and into the kitchen in a panic because the entire driveway is filled with a red fire truck flashing its lights. “See?” I say to the firemen, “this is EXACTLY what I did NOT want.”

Well, the firemen left (without the geese, but with a little something to tide them over), and more martinis were poured, and good times were had by all and my friend the Chuckster to this day says those were the Best Geese Ever, and could I figure out how to replicate that smoked flavor without burning up my kitchen?