Thesaurus: liberation: noun

The state of not being in confinement or servitude: emancipation, freedom, liberty, freeing

Friday night, I’m going to another Springsteen show. I have tried to figure out how many times I’ve seen him live, and I can’t. 1975 at the Jai Alai fronton in Miami, broadcast live from the Bottom Line in 76?, 1977 or 78 at the Paladium in New York City, then again in Miami at the Orange Bowl on the Born in the USA tour, and the River Tour… usually going to both nights of a two-night stand. At the Meadowlands and at the Garden. At the Miami Arena, the American Airlines arena and at the BankAtlantic Center. I’ve seen the original E-Street Band, I’ve seen the band with Nils, without Little Steven. I’ve seen the other band, and Bruce alone with an acoustic guitar, and I’ve seen the band back together, as it should be: with both Nils and Little Steven. I’ve rushed the stage during encores, been seated in the front row from the beginning, been up in the nosebleed seats, been behind the stage and backstage. I’ve received a pick from the hand of Little Steven (but he’ll always be Miami Steve to me), and a harmonica from a member of the sound crew. I’ve clutched the sweaty knee of my rock and roll god during 10th Avenue Freezeout. I’ve shot pictures from the balcony (back in the day, when you could bring a camera into a show) and danced on the arms of my seat without taking a single frame.

I have been in the presence of something and even when the show was as lackluster as a Springsteen show can be, which is not very, it is always very good. I have seen the giant show lights, swinging from the rafters at Madison Square Garden, when the whole building shook during “Rosalita” as the capacity crowd clapped and stomped their feet and danced in the aisles.

But always, I leave the show with my soul elevated and pure…liberated, if you will.

A couple of dozen years ago, a friend of mine from college owned a bookstore. He always had a knack for leading me to some really great books and underappreciated authors, so when he handed me a copy of Flashman and told me to have a go at it, I took it home and dove right in. And Oh. My. God. There was nothing like it for excellent reading and rollicking fun. The Flashman Chronicles purported to be the story of one Harry Flashman, who was tossed out of Rugby School for drinking in the great Victorian novel/memoir Tom Brown’s School Days. Meticulously researched and brilliantly written, the Flashman books told the saga of the Victorian era of colonialism. Unapologetically non-PC, they are profane and funny. Bodices are ripped, bosoms heave, men are men and villains are real people whose tales can be confirmed on Wikipedia or other, more old-fashioned sources.

I have read and reread every one of the Flashman novels; there are twelve, and alas, there will be no more. The author, George MacDonald Faser, passed away of cancer in January. I just heard about it yesterday, when I had the great good pleasure of meeting Ms. Otter for a late lunch of Cuban food, as she passed from Key West to Palm Beach. Ms. Otter and I may have been separated at birth, since our tastes in film and books are pretty much identical.

Here’s to Sir Faser, and Sir Flashman. May they meet in the afterlife and continue to swap tales of derring-do.

Ciao, bellas. We are in Rome. And before we go any further, let me give you, directly lifted from Wikipedia, the etymology of the word “ciao”, which, you will see, is more closely related to the hamsters’ relationship to Tyra than we suspected:

The word derives from the Venetian phrase s-ciào vostro or s-ciào su literally meaning “I am your slave”. This greeting is analogous to the Latin Servus which is still used in a large section of Central/Eastern Europe. The expression was not a literal statement of fact, of course, but rather a perfunctory promise of good will among friends (along the lines “if you ever need my help, count on me”). Indeed, to this day the greeting ciao is used in Italy only among peers, family members, and close friends, being considered too informal to use with superiors or strangers.

You see? They are her servants, non? Well, I digress. We are in Roma, which we know because we keep seeing the Coliseum and the Spanish Steps. Sooner or later Miz Shoes will be reduced to singing “When I Paint My Masterpiece” or at least those lyrics dealing with the Spanish Steps. In fact, I’m singing it in my head even now.

So. We are in Rome, in a bus or something, and the girls are all excited to be abroad. Whitney has never been to Rome. Anya has never been abroad. So much for teh intarweb theories about her being from Eastern Europe. Lauren doesn’t fit in. They reach some destination or another on one of the hills overlooking the city, and Anya promptly face-plants upon exiting the bus. The other girls don’t help her up, and she doesn’t seem to break anything and even exhibits good humor over the incident. Where’s the drama in that? Whitney then yammers on about how no plus-size girl has gotten this far in the competition before. While I like her, for the most part, and feel she takes some fine pictures, the girl needs to tone down the ego. Although, in all fairness, there have been some very plus-sized egos taking home the prize (ahem, JASLENE). Fatima interviews how, after being in the bottom two and almost not getting her letters of transit, she is tewtally ready to kick out the jams, muthafuckers.

Katarzyna interviews about the new digs. Huh. She speaks. She gets airtime. What are the editors trying to do to me? She says, in her completely non-accented and all-Amurikin way, that the new home is “off the chain”. And in all fairness, while that may not have been the phrase I would have chosen, it is. There is sculpture. There is a swimming pool in the living room. There are bunk beds. There is a garden. It is fabu.

The next day, Fatima wakes up sick. Dominique-inique-inique takes this as a classic opening to kick the competition when down and proceeds to opine how Fatima doesn’t have what it takes and she sucks and like that. Anya listens for a second or two, then hates on the haters and takes Fatima some chicken. Aww. Sweet. I’d ask for a food taster, first, though. You know, just in case Dominique-inique-inique had a hand in the preparation. In any event, Fatima doesn’t want the chicken, she wants sympathy because she’s come so far, against such odds, and it isn’t fair that she’s sick now and she doesn’t want to go home. Wahwahwah. Eat the chicken, bitch.

The next morning, Lauren is clomping around in her size 10 Chuck Taylors and making an early morning racket. The other girls (and Dominique-inique-inique) don’t like this at all. Whitney confessionalizes that she thinks that Lauren is over the competition. The Tyra mail (which is, thankfully, back in print) features a picture of Tyra’s face superimposed onto the Mona Lisa (Oh, no, she din’t) and says something about rolling. The girls and Dominique-inique-inique head off to meet someone or another who is the head of Gai Matiollo’s design team. They all get a Segway for a rolling tour of Roma. There is some minor hilarity as they fail to master the Segway. Katarzyna, in particular has a hard time and keeps rolling backwards. Lauren keeps falling off. Good times. They finally manage to all stay on, and head off around the city, as our Random Designer Guy points out random, yet utterly magnifico Roman women, trying to impart some style sense to our poor hamsters. At the Spanish Steps (great. now I’ve got that damn song running in my head again) they hop off their Segways (why not Vespas? Aren’t Vespas like, the official vehicle of Rome? Even though Random Designer Guy’s Segway had shiny red rims, it’s no Roman Holiday. STYLE, people!) hop off their Segways and head off to meet Gai. Their challenge today will be to emulate the effortless chic of the average Roman woman. Good luck with that. Fortunately, the girls and Dominique-inique-inique are helped by Gai’s people and not left to flounder around helpless and clueless.

Gai comes out to do the judging and the hamsters do a short up and back on an imaginary cat walk. Fatima, he says is elegant. She is also coughing, just so everyone knows she sick. A-hem, a-hem. Good lord that woman has a collar bone looks like somebody stuck a couple of wooden hangers under her skin. Eat the chicken, Fatima. Dominique-inique-inique is natural, but not fresh. No. You think? Honey, the expiration date on that thing was last century. Katarzyna is beautiful. Anya is blonde, skinny, young and fresh. (He likes her, non?) Whitney is so American. She can go far with her beautiful face. Lauren, says Gai, with delicacy, is very tall and has some great legs. (Too bad she’s still working out how to use them for walking.) Gai says that the winner of the challenge will get one of his red-carpet gowns for her next red-carpet event. As much as he would like to give one to each, there can be only one winner, and that winner is Anya. Whitney’s head explodes.

Back in ça Tyra, there is Tyra Lisa mail announcing something in Italian. Katarzyna is able to translate this into “easy, breezy, Cover Girl” and from there, extrapolate that the next challenge will be the Cover Girl commercial, in Italian. She’s the brains of this operation, Katarzyna is. Lauren melts down in a series of crap, crap, craps and says that this is the moment she’s been dreading. The moment when they try to make her beautiful and white bread, because that just isn’t her. Which of course, begs the question what the fuck are you doing here then, competing for a Cover Girl contract if you don’t like it and don’t want it? Miz Shoes rolls her eyes at this so hard that her left may now be her right. In any event, after a good night’s sleep, we see Lauren snoring like pig, getting woken up for the day’s events. I love Lauren. I do. And the fact that she snores has made it true love. She confessionalizes that she would very much like to run away now, but seeing as how she’s sort of stuck in the middle of Rome, can’t. Dammit, Beavis, she’ll just do her best and hope.

At the shoot, Brent Poer is telling the girls to memorize their lines, and Mr. Jay is giving Lauren shit because he sees how this is going to go down for her. Piersandro Buzzanca is their director for the shoot. He walks them through, showing them where to hit their marks and when to deliver their lines. He advises them to play with attitude. Anya tells us that this is going to be vewy hawd, because they have to walk AND apply lipstick! Oh NOES! Scary! Hard! They will each get thirty minutes to try to do this. And we’re off.

Anya is up first, looking like a cheap Gwen Steffani knock-off. Mr. Jay says she looks lost. She gives it her all, then says to the crew: “Grat-zee-yah!” She is then advised that would be Spanish, not Italian, and not particularly good Spanish, either. NEXT! Katarzyna speaks many languages and is able to fake the Italian pretty well. Her delivery, though, is flat at best.

Dominique-inique-inique tells us that

s

he is gonna be the Cover Girl, so

s

he is just gonna have FUN! with this shoot. If

s

he doesn’t know it,

s

he’ll just make it up. And so

s

he does. It is frightening.

S

he is all over the place, and all over awful. Lauren is petrified. She can’t move. She’s so awkward and uncomfortable that Mr. Jay says she’s hard to watch. Fatima is losing her voice, she says, A-hem A-hem, little cough, but she’ll soldier on. Her face is purple compared to the rest of her. I can’t believe how bad the make up is on this shoot. Sutan needs to get her eyes checked for color matching. Our director thinks that Fatima is “a goddess. Her Italian is the best.” Meh. Since they all sucked, this is faint praise, as far as I’m concerned. Big Whitney comes out and just goes so over the top that even Miz Shoes, who is a fan of Big Whitney, wants to slap the smug and the smirk and the fake right off her face. Mr. Jay HATES her and tells her that she’s so fake it’s coming off as bitchy. This makes Miz Shoes very sad.

Back to ça Tyra, where the girls are reliving the day. Lauren says that she sucked so hard she could be going home. Big Whitney says that she gave energy, but in a bad way. And she looks so cute and acts so sweet right there. Why can’t you bring that to the judging panel, huh? Speaking of which, there we are. In the judging room. Tyra explains to the girls and Dominique-inique-inique that in Italian, high fashion is translated to alta moda, and that the biggest fashion show in all of Italy is held on the Spanish Steps. (Fine. But you made me do this. “Oh, the streets of Rome are filled with rubble, Ancient footprints are everywhere. You can almost think that you’re seein’ double On a cold, dark night on the Spanish Stairs. Got to hurry on back to my hotel room, Where I’ve got me a date with Botticelli’s niece. She promised that she’d be right there with me When I paint my masterpiece..” There. Are you happy now?) Tyra informs us that she has walked in that show FOUR times. PHHHHBBBT.

Our guest judge today is Piersandro Buzzanca, the commercial director. Let’s see the best takes, shall we? Fatima and her purple face are icky, and she’s kinda sleazy/sexy. Not to mention those collar bones. Put a flag on the end of those things, before you take someone’s eye out. Whitney is just ghastly. Paulina says that she was fake from beginning to end and that she (Paulina) particularly hates the finger to the cheek and the breathy laugh. Tyra says that she was over the top, but that she (Tyra) liked it.  Anya, according to Miss Jay, is horrible, too. Tyra says that her commercial is just pure D-dookie. The director says, well, yeah, but she LOOKS like a model. Dominique-inique-inique is so unbelievably horrendous that Miss Jay is practically pissing herself from laughing. Trya is horrified by it, and Paulina scared. Piersandro tries to be nice by saying, well, she brought energy to the set?

Lauren is pathetic, and prompts a Hell to the No from Miss Jay. Nigel is disgusted and tells Lauren that she just threw it away and didn’t even try. Paulina is completely disappointed and says that she was afraid that this is what Lauren would do, and she did. Piersandro says that Lauren was terrified on the set. Katarzya starts by instructing Tyra on how to correctly (after 10 weeks) pronounce her name. The judges note that she’s actually talking. Katarzyna says that yes, after last week when they told her that her personality was disappearing, she thought “Oh, no you din’t” and Tyra promptly teaches her how to say that correctly. She is critiqued with a bringing the boring back to sexy and Tyra thanks her, mispronouncing her name again. Katarzyna tries again to get Trya to say her name correctly and Tyra just gives her a finger wiggle and says “you’re dismissed.” Yah. Don’t push it Kat.

The judges deliberate. None of the girls or Dominique-inique-inique could do a commercial to save their life, so starting with low expectations, Fatima looked beautiful (but purple). Whitney is a big old Fakey McFakersons. Anya looks like a model, but, as Nigel astutely points out, you can’t understand a word she says in English or faux-Italian. Lauren produces the best still photos but completely melted down on set. Katarzya did well on set. Dominique-inique-inique is so not a Cover Girl. Miss Jay says that she thinks Dominique-inique-inique is a brother, and Paulina agrees whole heartedly. All the judges agree that he makes them howl with laughter, and not for the right reasons. SO. Tyra hands out the photos in this order:

Fatima, Katarzyna, Anya, Dominique-inique-inique (you were a mess, but you had fun and didn’t give up). Whitney and Lauren stand side by side, and Miz Shoes calls bullshit. Dominique-inique-inique clearly should have gone home, but is too much fun for the judges to toy with and the audience to hate, so he got to stay. That means that Lauren or Whitney has to be sacrificed tonight. Whitney takes gorgeous pix, but everyone thinks she’s phoney. Even Miss America doesn’t want Miss America anymore, says Tyra. Lauren on the other hand, couldn’t hide her real self if they handed her a tarpaulin and told her to stand under it. She takes amazing pictures, too, but gave up at the commercial shoot. Who should stay, and who should go? (Miz Shoes already answered that, Tyra. Dominique-inique-inique should be given the ticket back to palookaville, thanks and both these beauties should stay). So home goes Lauren, much to Miz Shoes sorrow, and Big Whitney gets to stick around for the redemption arc (a la Eva the Diva) and probably the win.

Next week? Martial arts and a fight in the Colliseum. Will Dominique-inique-inique be fed to the lions? One can only hope.

I used to have veins that made junkies weep in jealousy. Big old things, they stuck up and were fat and healthy. I donated blood regularly, and the hematologists were always happy to have me and my veins on their tables. I could fill a bag and be gone before the person on the next table had even pumped a quarter of a bag. But those were the happy days before Hurricane Andrew. After the storm, there were calls for blood, so I drove through the wreckage up to Mercy Hospital in Coconut Grove and offered up my type B.

Unfortunately, either the hematologists were traumatized, or they weren’t really hematologists because despite the garden hoses in my arms, they couldn’t get a vein. At least two people took the needles to me, and at least two people drove spikes through my veins and left me with hematomas and bruises. And veins that are collapsed. I haven’t been able to donate blood since. In fact, I can barely squeeze enough out to fill a vial for blood work during my physicals.

And I made that clear today to the girl who was about to draw blood. Don’t waste your time going in the elbow, I told her. You need to use a baby needle and do an old-fashioned draw, manually. You can’t use the kind of draw that fills automatically, because they won’t. She smiled at me, and tied me off. She tapped the bulges in my elbow joint. Oh, nice veins, she said and drove in the hollow railroad spike that they call a needle. And dug it around. And around. And around. And finally looked at me and said, huh. I’m in your vein, and nothing is coming out. I guess you were right.

I guess I was. So she found a baby needle, and drove it into my wrist. I promptly filled up two vials for the blood sucking fiend. Why do I even waste my breath?

We open in the kitchen, with Whitney, who is opining as to how happy she is to be there. Lauren exhibits some serious Dittoheadness and allows as how she is very happy to be there, too. Stacey Ann is happy and doesn’t want to leave. O, editors, have you gotten as jaded as the rest of us? We haven’t even gotten to the first commercial and there is already foreshadowing of doom? Happy to be here, happy to be here, doesn’t want to go home. Which of these three girls will be packing their bags by the end of the episode do you think?

But wait! Here is Fatima, reminding us that she is not a US citizen, and thankfully, not reminding us of her special condition i.e.: her female circumcision. But really, and come on, who, having heard about it once, can ever forget it? In any event, her lack of citizenship is noted because she is also, somehow, without her travel papers, and she’s thinking that it’s about time to leave the country or get thrown off the show. One or the other. And I think that I speak for a lot of us when I say that getting thrown off the show is sounding pretty good to us right now.

Finally, Anya says something about something. There is a lot of debate on the intarwebs about Anya. Is she foreign-born, but not allowed to be Slavic/Eastern European because we already have one of those in Katarzya? (Sort of like Nic wasn’t allowed to be gay because they already had Kim cast as the lesbian in that season) Or does she speak pidgin as a first language? Or is she deaf or born of non-hearing persons? Does she just have a weird-ass speech impediment or a really weird-ass accent? We’ll never know, I suppose. But she needs sub-titles.

Finally, we are gifted with some action. Paulina comes to the loft and this elicits much high-pitched squealing from the hamsters. She is here to do the interview and mingle lesson that all top models need. She will practice with them as they pretend to be at a fabulous party. She will be Miss Dubois, the owner of a cosmetic company. They must impress her. Anya goes first and except for the fact that nothing she says is in the least bit understandable, she does well. Stacey Ann comes up next and grovels over Miss Dubois’ line of moisturizer. Dominique-inique-inique blahblahblahs on and on for about thirty minutes, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Paulina’s eyes glaze. Keep it short, she says. Whitney had blank eyes.

Next we play pretend red carpet and the hamsters must think on their feet. This will be hard. It’s bad. It’s so bad, that we cut to the kitchen, where Lauren and Whitney are going to make potato pancakes, or latkes, as my people say. We get a close up of Lauren being as graceful with a kitchen knife as she is with her big ole size 10s as she Frankenlopes down a runway. This is not boding well. And, sure enough, she slices through her thumbnail and thumb. She’s pretty stoic about it, and the producers haul her off for this season’s emergency room visit. Me? Every time I do that shit, I’m cursing like a longshoreman. But Lauren just sucks it up and goes.

Back to Fatima and her consulate telling her that she waited until the last minute to get/replace/deal with the missing papers. Insert Casablanca joke here. I am impressed anew with how truly terrible Fatima’s skin is. Where’s the dermatologist they had for Yaya? Respeto! Well, whatever. Back in the living room is a huge gold box, containing… lemons, limes and an invitation to a 7-Up green carpet event. Whitney blahblahblahs about being plus sized. Yeah. We get it. You’re a big girl. Bitch, you are still younger, prettier and thinner than me, so stick a sock in it already, OK? Well, her problems are solved, because the doorbell rings and in comes a big old rack of party dresses and a stylist, all courtesy of one Jay Godfrey, who is the subject of this green carpet event. Or is it diet 7-Up? The product placement is making me dizzy. Unless it’s the carbonation.

Fatima is too stressed about her

bad skin

missing visas to unclench long enough to look pretty. It doesn’t matter, because they have to go and work the carpet and the party. Don’t forget to mention who designed your dress! Rock on, little hamsters.

Anya tells the interviewer that she (Anya) is an inspiration. To what? To whom? Why? Who says? Dominique-inique-inique says that she’s wearing Jay Georgio. Which she isn’t. Oopsies. Lauren is looking hot with an enormous thumb bandage and probably a fair amount of pain killers on board and answers the question of why she should be AMTN by saying that she could just kick the shit out of the other girls in the house. Works for me. Whitney, on the other hand, says that as a Normal Sized woman, who eats like a Normal American, she should be the winner. And off they go to the par-tay, where Nigel disses Whitney with a “wots all this then?” Lauren shmoozes Nigel and Ric Ocasek (with whose work Lauren is actually familiar, and thereby earns even more of Miz Shoes’ love). Nigel is impressed. Ric is too, but that’s the last we’ll see of him.

Stacey Ann interviews that she has this one in the little beaded handbag because she is aces at selling herself. Indeed. She’s up on some platform, announcing who designed her dress and shaking hands all around and telling everyone that she’s from Miami and geez, I’m exhausted just watching snippets of her. The editors are over her too, so off we go to the judges telling us what they thought.

Anya was charming. Eh? Dominique-inique-inique didn’t know her designer. Lauren needs to lose the potty mouth. Why? Works for Kate Moss. Stacey Ann charmed no-one and over thought everything. So Anya wins, and Whitney’s face falls because she clearly thought that she won just for keeping the girls covered in that horrible metallic blue, cut to her pipik, trash bag Jay Godfrey stuck her in. What does Anya win? A photo shoot for Diet 7-up that involves being “natural” (aka nekkid) in a bunch of leaves and lemons and limes. She gets a check for ten thousand dollars and a basket of lemons and limes for her troubles.

Salacious-D has Cover Girl ad. And she tells us that now that she’s a role model and everything, Cover Girl has dragged her ass down to the courthouse and made her register to vote, something she hadn’t bothered with before now. Miz Shoes doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry, thank or curse Cover Girl for this. But they’re pushing the vote, so I have to fall on the side of thankfulness, I guess. Unless there was some subliminal message to vote Republican that years of jaundice over the state of the union caused me not to see.

Well. Anyway, Fatima gets a meeting at the consulate through the auspices of the show’s producers. Which is a good thing, because the next scene is the hamsters squealing (again) over some Scrolling Tyra Message that leads them to believe that they’ll be heading abroad in the next 24 hours. Squealing. Packing. Fatima wandering around like a zombie. At 5:30 in the morning the girls and Dominique-inique-inique are hauled off to an airport with their carry-on luggage. At 7 a.m. they find themselves on a tarmac with a mini-jet. Squealing. Excitement at flying away in a tiny little jet plane. Somewhere close, I should hope. You couldn’t shove Miz Shoes on a plane that size and expect her to fly to Europe. Nuh-uh. No sireee. No freaking way. Bermuda. Maybe. If we had enough fuel to by-pass the triangle. But it doesn’t matter, because the only place the hamsters are going is hair and make up because it was a FAKE OUT!!!! Except for Fatima, for whom it is a freak out, because she has to take her spotty face back into the city and try to convince the consulate to issue her travel papers. Unless she can find Ugarte and his letters of transit. Unless he’s already given them to Rick. In which case she’ll have to try and get them before Victor Lazlo.

I digress. It’s a group shot, and each girl and Dominique-inique-inique will get a chance to be the star. There is a vintage theme to the shoot, and our photographer is Bill Heuberger. They must be finished and off the tarmac by 3 p.m. Tick tock tick tock. Will Fatima make it back in time to participate? Will Fatima get her travel papers? Will the audience give a rat’s ass? Lauren struggles to look excited while the pain killers are wearing off. Stacey Ann is from Miami and has never experienced the cold, bitter wind that blows across a NYC tarmac, or maybe it’s Newark. In any event, her eyes water to the point where they have her posing with tissues. Whitney was too dramatic and pageanty. Mr Jay says that Whitney is backsliding. Anya is thinking outside the box, whatever that means. Dominique-inique-inique is giving us “remedial posing 101”. Remedial. Not even just Posing 101. She sucks, in other words. And we are done. It is three and we see Fatima in a cab, trying to get back to the shoot.

The girls and Dominique-inique-inique finish up and go into the hangar, where they find the judges! OOOOOh. Drama llama. There will be an elimination. Right. Now. But where is Fatima? says Miss Tyra, ever astute and alert. We are one girl short. And in straggles a ratty-looking Fatima, who must take her place in her puffy anorak next to the models with hair and make up and wardrobe. Sigh. It is not good for Fatima. Fatima, she is worried. The audience is cued to worry by showing other seasons where, for one reason or another, a girl skipped a shoot and was sent. home. This is the season of surprises, so our surprise judge is Mr. Jay, and the surprise foreign destination is… a surprise! We aren’t going to tell you. Neener-neener.

Katarzya had a great 1960s shot. Lauren did something that resulted in Miss Jay or Tyra (I get them confused) saying that she was “living for the tippy toe on the extended leg.” She was also great at the party and she nailed a 1940s look in her shoot. Nigel says something vaguely pervy about bringing the party girl to the judging. Dominique-inique-inique nailed it for the first time. (Oh, shut UP. That dog nailed it for the first time before he was 15.) Stacey Ann was too fake at the party and oversold herself and she had a lousy shot at the plane, too. Whitney gets praise for her “natural” pose and then ragged on for the next five minutes for being too pageant and too fake at the party and just a big old fakey faker. Stop smiling, beeyotch. Anya is praised, on the other hand, for being herself and letting her weird speech thing hang out at the party and being so lovely that nobody cared that she can’t really speak English. Or anything else. She also stole the whole photo shoot today.

So. The judges deliberate thusly: Katarzya has legs for day, but they can’t remember her. Dominique-inique-inique is given high praise for NOT looking like a man in this shot. Lauren is loved by Mr. Jay and Paulina. Whitney gets the “stinky personality and too pageant” edit. Is she a Big Girl pageant girl? Wouldn’t that have been mentioned by someone by now if it were so? Stacey Ann is getting weaker. Fatima missed the shoot, so the judges will look at her portfolio to date. And Anya gets the Big Love of the week. Photos go to: Anya, Lauren, Dominique-inique-inique, Katarzyna and Whitney. Fatima and Stacey Ann stand side by side, waiting for the ax to fall on one of their dreams. Fatima disappointed everyone by not being prepared to go overseas. She didn’t participate in the shoot. Stacey Ann, on the other hand, had her papers and a lousy shot. She’s not getting any better, and she’s not getting on the plane. Buh-bye Stacey Ann. Maybe that WAS you I saw crossing Biscayne Boulevard the other day.

So everyone get on the plane! We’re going abroad! Oh, not you girls. You ride coach. The judges will take the private jet to ROME! And the helacious squealing commences once more. Next week? Fatima gets sick and Dominique-inique-inique proves that languages are not his strongest suite.

I was waiting for this. From the official site, the official endorsement.

Dear Friends and Fans:

LIke most of you, I’ve been following the campaign and I have now seen and heard enough to know where I stand. Senator Obama, in my view, is head and shoulders above the rest.

He has the depth, the reflectiveness, and the resilience to be our next President. He speaks to the America I’ve envisioned in my music for the past 35 years, a generous nation with a citizenry willing to tackle nuanced and complex problems, a country that’s interested in its collective destiny and in the potential of its gathered spirit. A place where “...nobody crowds you, and nobody goes it alone.”

At the moment, critics have tried to diminish Senator Obama through the exaggeration of certain of his comments and relationships. While these matters are worthy of some discussion, they have been ripped out of the context and fabric of the man’s life and vision, so well described in his excellent book, Dreams of My Father, often in order to distract us from discussing the real issues: war and peace, the fight for economic and racial justice, reaffirming our Constitution, and the protection and enhancement of our environment.

After the terrible damage done over the past eight years, a great American reclamation project needs to be undertaken. I believe that Senator Obama is the best candidate to lead that project and to lead us into the 21st Century with a renewed sense of moral purpose and of ourselves as Americans.

Over here on E Street, we’re proud to support Obama for President.

Bruce Springsteen

Let’s see if he preaches the word on Friday night.

Yesterday, on the ride home, a well-dressed young woman sat on the opposite bench on the train. She put her large, fashionable bag and her trendy trench coat on the seat beside her. Then she spread a couple of paper napkins on her lap and opened the little cardboard box which contained her dinner, a slice of pizza. She ate it delicately, wiped her lips and tucked the box under her seat. She made a few calls on her cell phone. At South Miami, she collected her bag and coat and prepared to exit the train.

“Don’t forget your garbage,” I chirped, loudly. “There’s a can right on the platform.” She smiled at me with just a touch of condescension and shame, and picked up her trash. Whether she actually put it in the can or just tossed it on the platform seating, I couldn’t see.

AND ANOTHER THING

Look, if you want to call me names, and tell me my blog is stupid, you have every right. I, of course, as proprietor of the site, have the right to delete any such crap. If you want me, in all fairness, to leave your comments up, then try using a real e-mail address and a real or even imaginary name, but not a jumble of letters. Another tip? Use correct spelling and grammar, and try to be a little bit brighter than a refrigerator bulb in your insults.

Miz Shoes is off for the next couple of days, swanning around, drinking by the hotel pool, arranging for a massage and generally acting the princess. BRB.

Arrowmont was fabulous. The women in my class were (are) fabulous. My instructor rawked. The food at art camp was spotty, but the morning oatmeal was fabulous. After the snow on Monday, the daffodils and jonquils and narcissus and wood violets and forsythia and wisteria bloomed. I saw a single tufted titmouse. I love them, and they don’t venture south to Miami. However. Gatlinburg itself is scary. If Niagara Falls had butt sex with the cheap end of International Drive in Orlando, and the resulting love child was birthed by Las Vegas, that love child would be Gatlinburg proper.

It is a single long road, bordered on two sides by Elvis impersonator shows, haunted houses, museums dedicated to the automobiles of dead celebrities, chain restaurants, themed miniature golf courses, taffy and fudge shoppes, multiple offerings of “vintage” photography studios (the kind where you dress up like old west hookers or gun slingers and get a sepia toned 5x7 for $45), multiple iterations of Ripley’s Believe it or Not “museums”, a Hard Rock Cafe, an aquarium of some repute (“Hah. Fish in tanks.” says my friend Diana) a scattering of nutjobs preaching the Word from atop bus benches, tacky tee shirt and tchatcke shops,  windows with ticket hawkers reminiscent of hookers in Amsterdam, and the random banjo player looking for hat change. And then there are the tourists who find all that a desirable destination. Good lord. If I hadn’t already had a drink, I would have needed one.

And yet, turn left at the Hard Rock, go up a shallow hill, and you are in an art school. A fine craft wonderland. I’ll go back, and I might even wander down to the joint where we had some great micro-brews and amazingly good pizza. Just, please, don’t make me go back down the gantlet to get there. I don’t know if I’ll be able to say no to the vintage photography set ups.

Oh, nertz. I left my notes at home. And I can’t remember anything except Claire finally got the axe. Lauren flailed around and managed to stay, but not before Paulina called her Frankenstein. The judges are getting particularly nasty about Dominique-inique-inique and Fatima. Whitney is a size 10, which in the model universe is fattyboombafatty.

So I give you this, instead of a recap:

I had been sure that Lauren reminded me of some vintage blonde starlet, but I just couldn’t remember which one. And then, in a moment of serendipty, she appeared in some random story or another on TMZ… a where are they now thing. AHA! Lauren was separated at birth from Martha Plimpton!

Look, I tried. Really I did. I joined Blogging 365, and I wrote entries and I tried to keep up. But then.

I went to Arrowmont*, and despite the promises of wifi, the only place I could get a signal was outside the dining hall or in my studio. The entries slacked off. They were all there in my head, just waiting to be set to pixels and the publish button pushed. Really. Then the long ride home from Tennessee to Miami. Sixteen hours, more or less, during which time, I felt the first tickle. Sure enough, by the time we got home, I had a nascent bronchial infection. A-fucking-gain. Enough. I’m not even a smoker.

Last week saw me back on antibiotics, and nasal sprays and reflux inhibitors and steroid inhalators and who knows what else. Since I’d been out of the office for a week, there was crap piled up to the ceiling waiting for me to sort and answer and deal. The weekend was spent trying to find a cocktail dress for a woman of a certain age (me) who has not had plastic surgery or spent every waking hour in a gym for the past few years. I was offered tacky, mother of the bride wear, or ho-wear or totally, ridiculously over-priced baby doll micro minis. I explained, sometimes patiently, and sometimes not, that I am just a poor but honest working girl who had the good fortune to be named employee of the year, and therefor had to spend money I do not have (and which, unfortunately) is not part of the award, to buy a dress to wear to the event. I foolishly believed that I had shoes in my closet that could work with any dress I was able to buy. Needless to say, despite being Miz Shoes, and despite the better part of my closet being devoted to shoes, there wasn’t a pair in there that worked.

I was subjected to endless advice on the glory that is Spanx. Here’s an idea, people: instead of trying to cram my Rubenesque curves into a skin-tight sheath, why don’t you show me something with a full skirt? Non? OK, fine. I’ll just slip on that spandex sausage casing that goes from knee to under my bra (by design, I may add) and try on the shiny, stretchy things you throw in the dressing room. Here’s another tip: I AM beige. Do not give me a beige dress and tell me it’ll be fabulous. It will not. Nor will the newly popular yellow do my skin any favors. It will, in fact, make me look recently disinterred. Not a good look for anyone, and certainly not for someone being feted by hospice.

Finally, after throwing myself on the mercy of the snappiest dressed gay clerk I could find, I had my dress. Chiffon, print, floaty, snug in the bust, covers the shoulder tat and a multitude of other sins, and does not require Spanx. I then went downstairs to the shoe department. A young man with attitude showed me the shoes he thought would look good with my dress. What was apparent, but unstated, was that he also thought I was older than dirt and unable to hold my brittle bones upright in a pair of stilletos. He showed me a low, chunky heel with narrow little straps in pastel patent leather. I looked at him. He smiled sweetly at me and then at the shoes. They’d be perfect, he said. You’re right. They would be perfect, I said, IF I were playing bingo with Blanche Devereaux and the rest of the Golden Girls at the fellowship hall.

Very clever, he sneered and left me to wait on someone more fabulous and less clever. I found another salesman, one who rolled his eyes at the granny flats and sighed, Oh, puh-leeze gurl. Then he led me over to a pair of purple satin pumps with a pink/multi lizard trim around the instep. Fabu! I exclaimed. And bought them and a pair of magenta ombre patent leather spiked heel fuck me pumps. Just because I can.

Anyway, I’m sorry that I’m not keeping you amused in my usual style. Deal with it.

Day two at Arrowmont. It snowed off and on all day yesterday. Big fat, feathery flakes that didn’t stick. Except for about half an hour. Yesterday I made balls and disks and beads and tablet shapes and a cube. Today we learn how to merge elements and incorporate found (or otherwise acquired) objects in our felt objects. Here’s my work station, and a shot of the snow.

I’m waiting for the cafeteria to open here at Arrowmont. It’s the first day of my fiber/felting/ornament class. Whee. This is the strangest place. The school is across the street from the carnival of the vanities known as Gatlinburg. There’s a Hard Rock Cafe and Dollywood and Elvis impersonators. This whole place is like cheezy Amurikana Vegas on some pretty bad acid. Then, on this side of the street is an Arts & Crafts movement colony. I’m never crossing the street.

Ah, I smell coffee and bacon. Life has just gotten better.

This week we open with confessionals. Fatima is shocked, SHOCKED to have found herself in the bottom two when she knows that she’s so good. Dominique-inique-inique proceeds to eat up two minutes of my life spouting off about himself in the third person: Dominique is this and Dominique is that and Dominique has visualized himself winning and becoming America’s Next Top Tranny. Whitney tells us that Dominique-inique-inique is mind-boggling delusional, and a stank ho who never shuts up. And your point?

Whitney wanders off to the kitchen and offers some banana bread to Stacy-Ann, who squeaks that she isn’t interested in becoming “fat” like Whitney. Whitney doesn’t slap the squeak out of her, despite Miz Shoes best hopes. That brings us to the first Tyra Scrolling Excuse for Mass Squealing of the evening. You know your ABCs, but what about the three Cs? Carbohydrates, class and comprehension? Nope. It’s Benny Ninja and Vendela (supermodel star of Scandinavian Next Top Model) in a big old warehouse to teach the girls (and Dominique-inique-inique) how to pose in the big three Cs: catalog, commercial and couture. Benny Ninja asks for someone to bring it to the center and Fatima leaps forth to be first. Whitney denies that she looks like Anna Nicole Smith when Benny and Vendela try to peg her thusly. Lauren gives nothing, Marvita is all over the place with nothing. Then the drag queen and the ice queen announce that Dominique-inique-inique is the shit. Oh, great. Like he needs to hear that to pump up his head any fatter. Dominique-inique-inique says that vogueing? Posing? Something or other is what Dominique-inique-inique is all about. Enough with the third person, Mr. Bignose.

We head back to the loft for this season’s telephone drama. Big Whitney has drawn up a little roster so that everyone can get a guaranteed shot at the phone booth. We see the list, and that each person has gone in at their designated time, for their designated 15 minutes and scratched off their names. Except for Dominique-inique-inique. He’s hanging in bed waiting to be called. Only nobody’s calling anyone, it’s each model for her or himself. Consequently Dominique-inique-inique misses his time to call his child. This becomes Whitney’s fault. Of course. Which leads to much screaming and name calling. Whitney moves her neck at Dominique-inique-inique which sends Dominique-inique-inique right off the end of the plank. He says that Whitney shows him no respect, and Whitney says that’s because you have given me no reason to respect you. He calls Whitney a racist, and then confessionalizes a definition of racism that you will never find in OED. Or even the Webster’s College Dictionary, condensed and abridged.

Either way, this makes Whitney’s head explode with rage. I am from the South, she says, and calling someone from the South racist is fighting words. Also? Her BFF is Black, so back the fuck off. She’s ready to tear Dominique-inique-inique’s fat head off his pencil neck, but alas, this does not come to pass. Instead, we have this stinging putdown from Dominique-inique-inique to Whitney: You look all of 30 and you act like you’re 12. Well, snap. And also, Mr. Pot? There is a Mrs. Kettle here to see you.

Another Tyra Scrolling Excuse for Mass Squealing tells the girls to bring it to the center, and the LimoCab takes them all to the 5 Points section of Brooklyn, where they meet Benny Ninja, Vendela and the House of Ninja Vogue troupe. Work it, sisters. Like Jaslene before him, Dominique-inique-inique is delighted to be home among his own. The girls (and Dominique-inique-inique) are split into two houses and forced to have a Vogue-off, with BennyNinja calling one of the Cs and the drag queens picking the winners. The winning team will be taken to the swag tent, and the best girl on the winning team will get an extra prize.

Dominique-inique-inique squares off against Claire, and the queens declare a tie. Marvita says that Dominique-inique-inique was good, but well, also a drag queen, so you’d expect that. Lauren beats Marvita, Stacy-Ann beats Anya, Whitney drops a full split and beats Fatima (unfortunately, not about the head and shoulders) and Fatima gets all up in Whitney’s personal space with her own personal space, if you know what I mean and I think you do. Of course, the ever-elegant Fatima has this to say about Whitney: “She’s the girl in high school you hate because she’s the cheerleader and she sleeps with everyone.” Nice. Finally Katarzyna beats Aimee. And the winning team is Claire (who gets the personal best and a trip to Bora Bora), Marvita, Stacy Ann, Whitney and Katarzyna. Marvita is seriously stoked by the swag tent. Whitney is petty about Claire getting the trip to Tahiti.

Back to the house for an evening of practicing (Fatima) and drinking malt liquor (Marvita and Lauren) in memory of Amess. Fatima gets her prissy holier than thou face on again and calls Marvita six kinds of ghetto. Well, Miss Thing, it isn’t like she’s pretending to be anything else, you know. She is honest about it. Over in Baltimore, Salacious D is all stoked to be watching the make up get produced in the Cover Girl factory. She even gets excited to see a bar code. I wish I was making that shit up, but alas, I am not. Marvita wanders through the loft, being happy with the nicest surroundings she’s ever lived in and doubting her ability to stay. In a moment of self-awareness, she ponders if she is perhaps, too ghetto.

Tyra Scrolling Excuse for Mass Squealing brings us to the week’s photo shoot. Portrait. Tight close up of face, covered in garish make up, pieces of theatrical gels and dripping paint. What? It’s totally plausible.  Marvita has shown up for the shoot in a pulled down wool hat, enormous sunglasses and a turtle neck sweater. The only thing visible is the tip of her nose. This bodes badly. Fatima disses Marvita within Marvita’s hearing, because what’s the fun of trashing someone’s self assurance if they can’t hear you?

Photographer for the day is Peter Buckingham. Lauren rocks the shot and bites on her peals. Stacy Ann is reminded to bring the neck. Whitney is encouraged to be herself and to quit trying to suck in her cheeks for a shot. Dominique-inique-inique was depressingly not sucky. Fatima struggled and over-analysed everything. Marvita, despite a serious, Gurl, you gotta suck it up and compete pep talk from Mr. Jay, fades off our screen. Still another in a long string of strong Black bitches who were reduced to ashes by the steam roller of high fashion and Mistress TyTy. Remember Tiffany? Ebony?

Finally and at last, we end up at Panel, where the guest judge is the sort of rude and icey Vendela. The first picture is of Dominique-inique-inique, and Nigel calls her intellectual, which puts him on Miz Shoes shit list for a week. Everyone is surprised to see her look so soft. Hey, Photoshop and Vaseline. Works like a charm. Anya gets the squint with your eyes open lesson. See? I’m doing it now. Katrazyna is praised for being able to squint with her eyes open. Fatima is shown with one arm up and over her head, and we are treated to a furry little arm pit. I guess with her background, tender places and razors are never seen together. Well, the furry pit just sends Miss Jay, and Paulina and Nigel and Tyra into major fits. Their mood of disbelief in Fatima’s stupidity is not helped by Fatima’s explanation that she thought it could be airbrushed out. Paulina tells her that a razor costs a dollar and retouching costs a thousand.

Lauren steps forward and apologizes for being in high-tops, but her size ten pumps seem to have gone missing. Miss Jay suspects the drag queens from the House of Ninja. Tyra claims to have stolen them herself. Whitney is bashed for not being serious enough, and Claire needs more neck. Marvita’s shot is heartbreakingly sad, and Vendela loathes it, but Paulina loves it. Aimee is complimented on her photos, but told to shape up and start looking like a model at panel.

As the judges deliberate, Anya can’t carry a shot with only her face and Katarzyna is fading away. Fatima is old enough to know to shave. Whitney is boring Paulina, but Nigel is still loving her. Vendela just sniffs and says that Whitney just doesn’t have it. Period. Marvita has given up on ANTM before ANTM gave up on her. Aimee is a chameleon, but not in a good way. Stacy Ann is continuing to grow and Paulina loves Lauren.

Photos are handed out to Stacy Ann, Dominique-inique-inique (NOES! Stop encouraging him!), Claire, Anya, Lauren, Aimee, Katarzyna, Fatima. Marvita and Whitney are both lectured for a lack of seriousness, and Marvita is sent home for giving up early.

Next week? Mistress TyTy teaches a class, and the house comes down on Dominique-inique-inique, with Claire flat out calling him shady. Or is that he’s sporting a five o’clock shadow?

Good lord, how do people live? How does the average asshole I have to interact with day by day remember to breathe in and breathe out? To stand erect and not scratch themselves? I honestly don’t know. If I could, I would just go on a rampage today. I hate Verizon, and I’m not too happy with ATT. My beloved husband, the Renowned Local Artist, is a hair away from becoming my beloved husband of blessed memory. The computer guy at work set up the creative director’s computer, and checked a few things, but not the important ones, and consequently, she can’t work. Did I mention there’s a deadline and that she and I are going off to art camp next week, so if this job isn’t done by close of business tomorrow, it won’t be done at all? And she can’t work on her computer? I can’t find the internal IT guy, and my emergency call to my outside techies isn’t getting me help either. I have even called my old co-workers from Apple and not a damn one of them is answering their phones. I am ready to throw myself (and several other people) out of a window. And this is me on Prozac. Can you imagine what state I’d be in without it? Did I mention that it may snow up at art camp? And that we’re driving a vehicle that gets about 12 miles to the gallon. And gas is nudging $4 a gallon? And it’s (to the best of my computations) about 10 tankfuls, there and back? And that I HAVE NO FUCKING MONEY????

Yeah. Good times, people, good fucking times.