Miz Shoes is sorry to report that last night’s date with the couch, the martinis and the Bitches and Hos was pre-empted by an altercation in the front yard involving the Noble Dog Nails, JoJo of Very Little Brain, a feral black momma cat and her kittens. Before you perish from the thought, no kittens were harmed in this tale.

There is a wonderful expanse of ferns in the southeast corner of my yard. Giant ferns with tunnels and caves of green. A perfect hiding place for fairies, I think, and so I encouraged the ferns to grow around a tree, over a giant slab of coral rock and the mounds of sand and rock that were the result of quarrying my koi pond. It is a perfect hiding place, as proved by the feral (and here’s an interesting thing: nobody at the emergency room understood the word “feral” even though they were possessed of advanced degrees. At least one would like to believe that nurses have advanced degrees.) cat who had her litter in those very nice green caves.

Another reason to believe that this is a most excellent hiding place is the fact that Nails and JoJo hadn’t found the kittens until last night. It was dusk, and the RLA was taking the recyclables out. The dogs went out with him. And then, the noise! The howls! The hisses! I leapt up and ran out of the house to the front yard where Nails and a black cat were going at it (excuse me) tooth and nail. And JoJo was diving into the ferns. And the RLA was yelling at them all to break it up. We got JoJo out of the way, the black cat beat a hasty retreat over the fence, and I pried a small Jellical kitten off of Nails’ face. I couldn’t quite tell if it was clinging to Nails or Nails had hold of it, but I dropped the little thing over the fence and we all adjourned to the kitchen to assay the damages. JoJo was fine. Nails had a lot of blood on his face and a pair of fang holes in his ear. We washed him off and I couldn’t find the source of the blood (could have been his nose) so I went back out to check for damaged kittens.

I found the nest under the coral rock, and heard rustling in the ferns. So someone was still there and doing fine. The kitteh I’d dropped over the fence was now back inside and trying to get to her nest. She was terrified, tiny and adorable. Well, I’m the cat whisperer, so I figured I’d calm her down and check if that clumpy wet spot on her side was dog spit or worse. I had a towel and some kitty kibbles and I was able to touch her little head, ever so gently, so I reached in for the grab.

She appeared to be fine and unharmed, because she immediately sunk her tiny, needle-sharp milk teeth into my thumb, all the way to the bone. When a tiny kitteh is attached like that, you want to not shake it off, because chunks of thumb flesh will go with it. You sort of have to let it unlatch on its own time schedule. Which I did, and then hightailed it back to the kitchen to scrub out the wound, and, this being the 21st century, Google “feral cat bite”. I there discovered what I already knew, but did not want to consider or admit: cats, especially feral cats, have the dirtiest mouths in the animal kingdom, second pretty much only to alligators. Swell.

I also remembered the story of an ex-friend of mine who had been bitten by her own, indoor cat. She’s a nurse, mind you, and she washed her thumb well and went to bed. She woke up the next morning with a thumb the size of a tennis ball, red streaks running up her arm and a fever. She spent the next three days hooked up to an IV of antibiotics in the hospital. So.

I went to the ER, where, when anyone hears the two words cat and bite in the same sentence, they start to shake their head and tell you that infection is inevitable. And bad. And that probably rabies shots are in order. And possibly tetanus. And I sat and sat and sat and sat. I made the security guard change the channel on the waiting room tv. He had to poll the entire room. One old gomer wanted CNN, but after I explained what I wanted to watch (young girls who want to be models) he started chanting “Mo-dels! Mo-dels!” and so I got to see (but not hear) part of ANTM, and then I got called away to fill out paper work, and missed most of the show.

Now I have four tiny little puncture wounds on my right thumb, a scrip for serious antibiotics and another for the certain side effect yeast infection, and a decision to make about calling animal control to remove the cat and her babies. My tetanus shot was up to date… thanks to Frankenpinkie two years ago, and it turns out rabies is only likely if bitten by a possum, a raccoon or a bat(!).

And that is the story of why Miz Shoes can’t tell you anything more about ANTM than the girl from Ocala (Seminole for pissant town on the edge of the swamp) got sent home for being neither pretty nor good teevee.

There has been a flurry of e-mail the past couple of weeks as a certain “this is not a fake, click on this button and donate to charity” chain letter makes the rounds. The thing is, it isn’t fake, and even though I think I’ll remember to click and donate dog food to shelters, I don’t remember. So.

Over there on the right, in the endless blog roll, just above the Daily Puppy (aww) and the Daily Kitten (double aww) I have added, for your and my convenience, a Daily Click. Click and choose which or all of the charities on that page you wish to support. There’s animals, children, breast cancer, literacy. You name it, there’s a tab for it. And there is shopping for charity, about which one can feel so morally smug.

It’s a win-win all the way around.

Downloaded MAGIC this morning, and haven’t made it all the way through the first full listen, but I can say this: when Bruce sings “It’s a long walk home”, he is not talking about from his ex-girlfriend’s place to his. Unless, you know, his ex-girlfriend is Lady Liberty and his apartment is a metaphor for American civil liberties. Another cut that is not about cars and girls is “Last to Die” and unless you were sleeping through all the attempts to dishonor John Kerry during the last presidential campaign, you’ll recognize the line “last to die for a mistake”, as the pull quote from his appearance before congress as a Viet Nam vet against the war. As much as this has been promoted as a back-to-roots rock and roll cd, this is a very political cd. Not that there is anything wrong with that. And it is a very danceable, hummable cd.

There are echoes of sounds from the San Francisco Summer of Love, and from late-period Beatles, and even a track where you can actually appreciate that after 30 years and endless stages, Bruce has learned to sing. That may be the result of touring with the angel-voiced Nils Lofgren, too. I’m leaning towards loving this album. The first dozen times I heard the pre-release cut “Radio Nowhere” I wasn’t sure, to tell you the truth. I thought the production was a little dodgy. I thought it was a little, uh, light weight. Then I watched the video, and the penny dropped for me.

It’s only rock and roll, but I love it.

I went to visit my mother yesterday. She’d fallen on Friday, reaching out for something that wasn’t there, that only she could see. Face plant by an 89 year old lady onto a tile floor does not a pretty picture make. Mummy’s got two shiners, and the whole side of her face is black and blue, and yet, there is only the smallest skin tear on her forehead.

The last three weeks, she’s not opened her eyes when I visit. She’ll hold my hand, or maybe, more accurately, let me hold hers. Yesterday I took her a Starbuck’s Caramel Frappuccino, which she seemed to enjoy.

I called my GirlCousin to tell her about Mummy’s fall, and she told me that my nephew had been spotted at the Gator game over the weekend. Nephew lives in North Carolina, so coming down to Gainesville for a game is a bit of a trek. Still, being only 6 hours from his Grandma, one could hope that he’d call to see how she’s doing. But he’s his father’s child as I am mine, and so he did not. In fact, in the two-going-on-three years (a full three in December) that my mother has been here in this Alzheimer’s home, neither my brother nor my nephew has come to see her once. Nor has either of them called me to ask about her. They don’t send her flowers for her birthday or Mother’s day. They act as though she is already dead.

But she isn’t. Somewhere inside that fragile little eggshell is a wisp of the soul that used to be my mother. It’s hard to see. It’s even harder to look for. I’ve often said that my art education can be summed up in one phrase: I was taught the difference between looking and seeing. I guess that applies to my mother, too. I still see her, but it requires a good deal of looking to do so.

I wish I knew where she is inside her head. I like to believe she’s somewhere where she is happy. The other old ladies, they cry out “Help me, momma” or they sit in their chairs and cry and can’t tell you why they are crying. Some of them squirm and twist in their chairs, or suck on their blankets. Not my mother. She doesn’t cry. Sometimes, even, she’ll laugh or smile.

I ask her if she’s seen my father, or her father. I tell her gossip. I pretend that I believe she can hear me and understand me. I hold her hand. I kiss her forehead. I tell her I’ll be back next Sunday. I bring her presents, which I also unwrap for her, and put them in her hands. And then, I go outside, and I smoke a cigarette before I even get in my car. Then I go home and have a drink. Today, though, it’s Monday morning, and it would be wrong to pound down a shot of whiskey before I get to work. By tonight, I will have gotten myself together, and I won’t go home and drink. I’ll go home and cook dinner. Laugh a little with the

From the AP: the Democratic candidates for President were asked who they liked in the American League East run for the pennant. The two teams in the playoff are the NY Yankees and the Boston Red Sox. These douche bags can’t even answer that question. They name their home teams. Who cares, assholes? It’s BASEBALL: pick a team in the running.

By The Associated Press

How the Democratic presidential candidates responded when asked during Wednesday night’s debate whether they support the Boston Red Sox or the New York Yankees baseball teams:

- New Mexico Gov. Bill Richardson: Red Sox.

- Ohio Rep. Dennis Kucinich: Cleveland Indians.

- New York Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton: Yankees.

- Former Alaska Sen. Mike Gravel: Red Sox.

- Former North Carolina Sen. John Edwards: Red Sox.

- Illinois Sen. Barack Obama: White Sox.

- Connecticut Sen. Chris Dodd: Red Sox.

- Delaware Sen. Joe Biden: Yankees.

Last night was quality tee-vee night at the Casita des Zapatas, and I watched the bitches and the hos, and also Gordon Ramsey in what had to be the worst kitchen in Manhattan. But I don’t recap Chef Gordon, so don’t expect details about the roaches here. In here, all is bee-yoo-ti-ful. The girls are beautiful. The boys are beautiful (and maybe just a little bit orange). The house is beautiful. In fact, let’s go there now.

DISCLAIMER: as an experiment, I took notes last night. This will enable me to recap in actual chronological order, but I found that I was funnier by just letting memory bubble up and sorting things out later. Or never.

Back in L.A., the girls are taken out to their pimped out wheels. If any of you ever had any doubts that Miss Tyra or her minions read Television Without Pity or any of the other blogs (like, ahem, Girlyshoes) and take note of what’s being dished on the interwebs, this year’s wheels should put an end to them. Because this year, instead of the stretch Hummer, or any of the other gas-guzzling behemoths that have taken the girls (and Jaslene) from pillar to post to photo shoot, we have a garishly painted BIO-DIESEL van. It is appallingly fitted out with fake grass and what one hamster refers to as recycled tires for upholstery, but she’s just miffed that she missed the season of the zebra skinned brothel on wheels. We haven’t even made it to the first commercial break, and we’ve already had a powerful political statement from Miss Tyra, i.e.: dependency on foreign gas is bad.

Off they go in their green machine to their new, green house. And is it just me, or does this house look a lot like last year’s house? That funny-shaped pool, the huge balcony overlooking the Hollywood hills? The giant floating heads of Tyra on every wall? I thought so. But, you know, fabulous houses don’t grow on trees, even in El Lay. The cat walk is illuminated and decorated with plants. It’s very nice. What isn’t very nice are the bitches and the hos, who start the girl bonding by a) jumping in the pool fully clothed, b) gang piling into the bathtub in bathing suits(?), c) doing a faux-Tyra elimination ceremony and d) immediately sensing that Heather is not like all the rest (she’s drawing by herself instead of joining in all the homo-erotic shenanigans) and, thinking that different means weak, dumb and or deaf, all start trashing her.  I mean, we haven’t even reached the first commercial break and there is already a Hate Heather Club.

Next morning, the girls go to their first photo shoot, in the LA Merchandise Mart. Why? It’s the center of fashion in LA. Uh, it’s the center of ready to wear in LA if the LAMM is anything like the Miami Merchandise Mart, or the Chicago Merchandise Mart or the Atlanta… well, you get the drift. Not precisely high fashion, but not Wal-Mart, either. No, that will come later.

In the second Important Stance on Important Topics, the shoot today will show the dark side of smoking. It will be a composite shot: first the girls will do a glamorous pose in front of a make up/dressing table, and in the second they will be made up to show the horrible effects of smoking (a tracheotomy, skin cancer, premature aging, hair loss from chemo, bad teeth) and the two will be Photochopped to have the gore reflected in the mirror of the glam. Very High Concept.

Mila, the bubble headed blonde who “celebrates a new nail polish color” celebrates being bald. She just can’t get over how funny she looks and just can’t manage to wrap so much as a pinkie around the concept. Chantal, the I-was-made-to-win-this-inside-and-out blonde (and I find that phrase so unsettling, I can’t even begin to tell you… Does that mean she wants to model her internal organs for anatomy texts?) Eww. And ick. Heather and Salacious D have to pose together, which makes Heather a little uncomfortable. She has Asperger’s, remember? So Salacious D takes the opportunity to reach out to another girl and promptly says to hell with you then, beeyotch, I’ll just rock my own shot without your autistic ass.

Back in the make up chairs, Binaca and Lisa are starting to hate on each other. Binaca offers to toss a cell phone at Lisa. Lisa offers to stuff it up Binaca’s ass. I love it when the girls show that they know all about supermodels like Naomi Campbell. In the actual shoot, both Lisa and Binaca do well. This only fuels the fire of love between them, and Binaca gets all classy and just throws it out at Lisa that America’s Next Top Model is probably not going to be a lap dancing stripper, bitch. ooooo, she totally went there. She’s just sayin’, y’all. Also just sayin’ is Chantal, that Heather just doesn’t have what it takes, what with being all weird-ass and a loner and shit. This is a refrain almost all of the girls will sing at one point or another tonight. All except Victoria, the Yalie. Maybe it’s that snooty, Ivy-league education or something, but she sort of likes Heather and thinks that Heather will surprise everyone. From her mouth to Miss Tyra’s ear.

Back at the Casa De Bitches and Hos, everyone is soaking in the hot tub and Lisa and Binaca sort of make up. And there, on the rim of the tub is a pack of cigarettes. Important Issue Statement acknowledged, Tyra. By sort of, I mean that Lisa sort of says she’s sorry they fought, and Binaca makes the sort of apology that my ex-husband, the anti-christ used to make: I’m sorry you got upset at what I said. Not, you’ll notice, that I’m sorry I was a tactless ho and called you names. Then Binaca confessionalizes that she only said that so she wouldn’t get a Tyra smack-down at judging. Class. All class.

Commercials, and it’s Jaslene’s Life as a Cover Girl. I have absolutely no idea what she said.

In the morning, Miss Jay comes by the house to give the girls an idea about style and taste. Amazingly, he is actually displaying both, and no ginormous corsages or clown ruffles. In order to get themselves some model basics, the girls are going to go to Old Navy and stock up on one outfit, which they will then wear to judging and be judged on it and their photos.

The third indication that Miss Tyra or her minions read TWOP and the blogosphere is that Benny Ninja of the fabulous House of Ninja is on hand to help the girls shop. He does this by telling them to accessorize, not to look like everyone else, and be flamboyant and colorful. This is, of course, a trick, because Miss Jay told them to be vanilla and invisible. In ten minutes, the 13 girls manage to completely destroy the store, and at least one third of them all get the same tacky necklace and another third opine that Heather is stylistically dyslexic in addition to being autistic and weird. (And drop-dead gorgeous, but they forget to mention that).

That night, as the girls relax at the house, drinking hot water and pretending it’s soup, they all relive the day and continue bashing Heather about everything except her shoe size. Kimberly-from-Ocala (Seminole Indian for “one horse town in the middle of nowhere”) reveals that she’s been purposely rude to Heather, pushing her away because she just knows that as the competition gets tougher, that weird, autistic girl would no doubt cling to her like a leech, and she is all about no leeches.

Finally and at long last we make it to the judging room, and there we find Miss Tyra looking fly, Miss Twiggy looking like the British matron she is (but still fabulous), Smarmy Nigel looking all hott and Miss Jay looking freakishly nappy. I’m just sayin’. I’ll do this quickly: Chantal was over-accessorized, Jenah can’t dress herself, Ambreal is wearing some giant chonga earrings (so is Lisa), Victoria dressed well, Lisa not so much, but her photos were good, Mila is a terrible dresser and her photos were awful. Miss Jay says that she looks like she’s farting. And he has a point. Also? Her legs look immense. Sarah’s clothes are OK,  Binaca is well dressed, but she’s too posed in the pics, Janet looks just like young (and was she ever?) Angie Dickenson but needs to lose the noose she’s wrapped around her neck, Ebony has chosen a color that looks good on her (butter yellow), but is too stiff in her pix, Kimberly works the hootchie, Heather layered two wife beaters and was told she only needed one, but her pictures were great (so much for Salacious D’s devious plan to make Heather look like poop), and finally Salacious D wins the clothes challenge in a short, simple dress and good shoes. Whew. For this she wins a one thousand dollar shopping spree at Old Navy, and say what you will about their clothes, that 1K will go a loooooong way. And she gets to be in an Old Navy ad. Good prize.

Miss Tyra reiterates the Important Message that Smoking Is Bad, and to emphasize the point, bans smoking from the house for the rest of the season. That ought to bring some drama out fairly quickly. All too soon we have the judging where the big reveal to Nigel and Twiggy is that Heather has Asperger’s and the photos are passed out. Remember way back in the beginning of this recap when I said from Victoria’s mouth to Miss Tyra’s ear? Well, hos, read ‘em and weep: Heather gets the first photo. And that is why I love this show. That and the fact that the two bottom girls are Ebony (she who was declared in need of a good Top Model Ass Whoopin’ by Tyra & Co. during auditions) and Mila. One of you can’t take criticism, EBONY, and the other is incapable of understanding it, MILA. So who goes home? Not the designated torturee, so buh-bye to the airhead. Now, I missed this, maybe because I was taking notes, but the close up of Ebony weeping, included a close up of her glistening, glamorous mucus mustache. MJ opined as how that was just her excess humility, leaking out.

Next week? Lisa and Binaca slap some sense into each other. Or, maybe, they just get into a slap fight. I’ll be on the couch with the martinis, bitches, join me?

There he is, the newly liberated dog BOB!, sweetly sleeping in his fuzzy blue blankie, on a couch. In a home. We did it. Thanks to everyone who contributed to his liberation fund. Jules and BOB! are very happy.

We’re in day two of a soaking, steady rain here in South Florida. This is rain of biblical proportions. This is rain measured in inches to feet. This is rain that isn’t going away. This is monsoon season rain. It’s beautiful, actually.

The problem with it, though, is that it makes South Florida drivers forget what precious little they know about driving. This means that you find folks driving with their flashers on, driving in the middle of two lanes to take advantage of the dry spot, speeding on bald tires and then hydroplaning into the nearest tree or car or house, or simply driving at about 10 miles an hour, just in case. I had my teeth cleaned this morning, and my appointment was at nine. It took me more than 15 minutes to cross Dixie Highway and drive two blocks. Part of that was because I couldn’t turn left out of my street: the cars were backed up beyond my horizon. So I turned right, then went south to the next cross street, then couldn’t turn north on Dixie Highway because it was a parking lot, so crossed to the first northbound back road, and from there arrived (finally) at my destination. I was 20 minutes late, but it didn’t matter because the dental hygienist was even later.

Now my teeth are all shiny and clean and I’m torn. On the one hand, I want lunch. Since it’s raining and cool and damp, I want the universal comfort food for rainy, damp weather: a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of tomato soup. On the other hand, my teeth are all shiny and clean and I don’t want to eat at all, because I want them to stay feeling this slick.

Having masterfully steered this entry to lunch, allow me to remind you readers that today is “Take Bob to Lunch Day” or, as I like to call it, “FREE THE BOB DAY.” Let me refresh your memories about Bob.

Bob is a small Italian greyhound currently housed in a strip mall “pet store” in California. Bob lives in the window, sharing the hot, tiny space with a chihuahua with gummy eyes. Bob has developed callouses from the sawdust that lines his window, and a sore on his neck from the plastic price tag/collar he wears. Bob is so pathetic at this point that he’s been marked down—twice. Often, Bob is seen to have no food or water. But that is going to change, with our help.

Jules (of Dirty Feet and Lily White Intentions) has negotiated Bob’s release price, but she’s still a little short of the ante. That’s where we come in. Take a look at Bob here. Or here. And read about him

here. And here. And here. And donate your lunch money (just for today, whether you put 2 bucks in the vending machine outside the ladies’ room, or do two glasses of chardonnay with a Cobb salad and your lady friends, or (in my case, I brown-bagged it today, but a normal lunch in the Miami Downtown area runs $7.87 and I rounded up).

Help Jules liberate Bob. (Not his real name, at least not until Jules gets him home, bathed, petted, fed, loved, petted, a nice collar, a soft doggie bed and a chew toy or two.) I tried to link to Bob’s donation page, but couldn’t. So follow one of the links above, and give generously to someone who is opening her heart and home to a doggie in need.

Bob is a small Italian greyhound currently housed in a strip mall “pet store” in California. Bob lives in the window, sharing the hot, tiny space with a chihuahua with gummy eyes. Bob has developed callouses from the sawdust that lines his window, and a sore on his neck from the plastic price tag/collar he wears. Bob is so pathetic at this point that he’s been marked down—twice. Often, Bob is seen to have no food or water. But that is going to change, with our help.

Jules (of Dirty Feet and Lily White Intentions) has negotiated Bob’s release price, but she’s still a little short of the ante. That’s where we come in. Take a look at Bob here. Or here. And read about him

here. And here. And here. And donate your lunch money (just for today, whether you put 2 bucks in the vending machine outside the ladies’ room, or do two glasses of chardonnay with a Cobb salad and your lady friends, or (in my case, I brown-bagged it today, but a normal lunch in the Miami Downtown area runs $7.87 and I rounded up).

Help Jules liberate Bob. (Not his real name, at least not until Jules gets him home, bathed, petted, fed, loved, petted, a nice collar, a soft doggie bed and a chew toy or two.) I tried to link to Bob’s donation page, but couldn’t. So follow one of the links above, and give generously to someone who is opening her heart and home to a doggie in need.

That noise that sounds like the whispering wind? That’s me, sighing in contentment that all is right with the world. The Number 1 Surrogate Daughter came by last night with a pizza (banana peppers and spinach—new to me, but totally d’lish) and I poured the ‘tinis and we sat on the couch to ridicule the clueless. Girl bonding at its best. The RLA didn’t even last until the first commercial break.

For Cycle 9 (like, menstrual cycle, do you suppose? It is a little forced and artificial to call a season a cycle, but it is the house of women… and Jaslene...at least last year. This year we don’t seem to have a tranny in the house. But, never fear, we do have the requisite tragedies and horrible back stories. Nobody survived a plane crash from the diminishing heat of their mother’s dead body (my god, those were good times) but we DO have the daughter of a crack ho, the girl with Asperger’s (again, I have to hand it to Tyra, girlfriend has her finger on the pulse of trend: Autism is HOTT!), the Yalie, the dim blonde who was “born to win this thing”, the stripper (finally one made it into the house, but she don’t take her clothes off, she dances in a bikini, y’all… and she’s the designated weeper this season. She started crying after the third name out of thirteen was announced. Lisa. Lisa the Weeper), the “aesthetician” (read: bikini waxer, and she gave Tyra a faux waxing while we all watched. The look of abject horror on Miss Jay’s face was tooo much… and someone got called MRS. Jay last night which made me think that maybe The Little Orange Man got married), and a girl by the name of (and I am not kidding, although it fits perfectly into a long-running joke) Saleisha, or as I will be referring to her from here on out: Miss Salacious D. She currently has magenta bangs and a $25 dollar weave, but that will be going away very soon, or so Tyra and the Jays assure us.

The personalities started to come out as the 30? 32? 33? semi-finalists got put on a Caribbean cruise to somewhere or other. We see them in the dining hall, picking on each other’s food choices. We see The Girl With the Fauxhawk get up in The Bitch’s grill when The Bitch asks something like, which of you all have eating disorders. Bwhahahahahah. That’s a trick question, of course, because the answer is, if we all eat and purge like this then it’s normal, right? (oh, by the way, one of my Cafe Press shirts bears the immortal question from last year’s sent-home-too-soon girl Kathleen: “I know, right?”)

The Plus-Size Girl is shocked! Shocked!! to see how much skinnier the skinny girls are. But she’s rocking that full-figured size 6, so fuck ‘em. In fact, The Plus-Sized Girl is the subject of much discussion between Tyra and the Jays. Is she really a plus size girl? She’s on the small side of plus. Maybe, just maybe, they allow, she is merely The Real-Size Girl. Whoo-hoo for her, whoo-hoo for Sara.

The girls have to do an impromptu cat walk wearing life preservers and it is as ugly as it sounds. Miss Jay ridicules them and the tears start to flow. We see the duck walk, the pigeon toes, the knock knees, the stoop shoulders, and my personal favorite, the girl who walks like she’s smuggling the family jewels out of Westbumfukstan in her cootch.

We see the girls in their one-on-threes with Tyra and the Jays. There is weeping, there is a gift, there is the faux waxing (really. I may have to rinse my eyes with acid if I think of it too much). There is one girl who comes out stomping like the legendary Camille of season 2? I am Camille and this is my signature horse stomp… One of the girls allows as how she looks like one Adrianne Lima (pronouncing it LYE-ma and prompting catcalls from Tyra). Another has a walk evocative of Naomi (or so says Tyra, proving once more that she is so over that girl, and can too say her name without shattering). And yet another walks on her hands.

We see all the tragic back stories and the ones too tragic for the house are the girl with the fauxhawk who was sexually abused by her foster families and/or raped, the girl who was born with a hemmoraged right eye, but won’t let that stop her, and the bartender from Bahhstin who is even more unintelligible than Noxema or Jaslene. And that, my friends, is saying a good deal. The boat is rocking, and dinner comes a’knocking for one or another of the girls. This means that one or two try to look concerned and a couple others say yahoo, better chances for me.

There is a photo shoot on a beach, where they do varying levels of not-too-bad, with the occasional day-um, she looks good thrown in to confuse us. Jaslene appears here to tell the wannabees how fabulous it is to have won, and prove that speaking like you have a mouth full of gummy bears does not prevent you from winning a contract to be a

spokesperson. She still looks like a tranny, but she seems to have gotten more work than any of the other winners, so what do I know.

The Jays and Tyra look at film and decide who stays and who goes. The best is when they discuss the designated House Bitch (Ebony, the crack-ho’s daughter). The girls have all ratted her out by now, and the thought of beating her into humility causes Tyra and the Jays to cackle like the three witches in

Macbeth. All of us in television land are cackling too, because we know how much fun it will be to watch. Ebony has been gloating over her fabulous $500 weave (and it is pretty fly, I have to admit. How much do you want to bet that she’s the one with the shaved head or Dianna Ross afro make-over?

And then it’s the end, all too soon. Next week there will be DRAMA! FIGHTING! A new, faboo house decorated with lots of pictures of Tyra.

I know, right?

YARRRRR!!!!

Not only is today Talk like a pirate day, it is the start of Season 9 of America’s Next Top

Model! I could not be happier. I am wearing a horizontally striped shirt, a denim skirt and boots. I have on a funky vest and a lovely rhinestone skull and crossbones pin. I have told my boss that in deference to the media crisis going on in the field, which will result in any number of calls coming in to this office today, I will NOT be answering the phones “YARRR!”

Aye, he has no idea how lucky he is. I, on the other hand, have a ‘ery clear idea o’ how lucky I am, because before I left for work, the RLA composed a two-hour Pyrates playlist and uploaded it ont’ the ole i-pod, ya savvy? Aye, me parrot concurs.

Tonight will be t’ traditional popcorn and cosmopolitans, fuzzy bathrobe and bunny slippers, run t’ husband out o’ t’ livin’ room and settle in t’ watch t’ best train wreck on television. I love, love, love Tyra Banks and her haphazard crew o’ wannabes who can’t walk in heels. Sigh.

While my passion for baseball has been well documented in this space, perhaps I have not been quite as forthcoming about my dalliances with football. (American football, for you readers from Down Under and abroad) It’s true that I went to games in high school and junior high, but only because in a tiny Southern town, that’s all there is to do on a Saturday night… except watch the sidewalks roll up. In college, I went to the first home game of my freshman semester, and no others. Now, again, there is this to factor in: the University of Miami Hurricanes lost almost every game during all four of my years there, and it wasn’t until Jim Kelly came along that UM became the quarterback and running back factory it is today. During the glory days of Bernie Kosar and Vinnie Testeverde, et.al. I went to every home game and some away games, most notably the Fiesta Bowl against Penn State in which Vinnie so spectacularly needed a Heimlich maneuver on the field.

But I haven’t been totally up front about the fact that I used to call my father to discuss the Dolphins, the Hurricanes and/or the (shudder) Florida Gators. Or that I found out John Lennon had been shot from Howard Cosell because I was in a hotel room 40 miles from home so that I could catch a Dolphin game that wasn’t broadcast in my area. Or that I bought a hi-def, giant screen tv so that I could watch the Superbowl commercials in HD and letterboxed.

All that being admitted, last night I was watching Sunday Night Football (San Diego going down in feeble sparks, not even flames, to the awesomeness of the New England Patriots—with their star, Randy Moss coming out of UM many years ago). There were the usual commercials for trucks, trucks and more trucks, and for various erectile dysfunction treatments (do not use if you have high blood pressure, low blood pressure, normal erectile functioning, liver disease, heart disease, stroke, vision problems, are breathing, are left handed but bat right, get erections lasting more than 4 hours!! etc…) and I was pretty much ignoring them all. But. Then a terrible thing happened. Viagra has co-opted my very favorite song not originally recorded by Bruce Springsteen or Bob Dylan. And when I say favorite, I mean it. I have an instrumental version featuring Johnny Ramone and Lemmy, a soulful rendition by Shawn Colvin, a couple of live takes by Bruce, the original by Elvis, the Tort Elvis/Dread Zeppelin reggae version, a punk version by the Dead Kennedys, and a few others. Have you guessed the song yet?

Viva Las Vegas has become Viva Viagra and I’ll be having nightmares about this for a month.