You know, I had a flu shot just a couple of weeks ago. So why did I wake up with a dripping and sore sinus this morning, which, by the time of this writing (4:30 EST) is now a raging head cold. I'm sneezing, dripping, mouth-breathing and cranky. I'm also out of sick leave and I'm not sure how many packages of Thera-Flu are in the kitchen pantry.

I just want to go home to the fuzzy bathrobe, flopsy puppy and bunny slippers and pass out on the sofa.

Groan, moan, bitch, whine and complain.

The bitches and the hos are in Barthelona (still no sign of Manuel, however) and Jaeda and her tedious hair hysteria are finally gone. Can I get an amen from someone?

It's week seven, and time for Nigel Barker to get to photograph the remaining contestants. The shoot will take place in an actual, still-in-use bullring. Take that, you bleeding heart PETA people. And because the idea of sticking these anorexic and none too graceful bimbos in front of a (possibly) charging bull isn't enough to frighten viewers, the PTB also put the Little Orange Man (aka Mr. Jay) in a full matador suit of lights. I had nightmares.
We see the girls in hair and make up, there is some interviewing about how scary it is to work with the fabulous NigelBarker, and then.....

Have I mentioned that this season's crop of hamsters is particularly clueless? Even more so than thinking all birds are blind clueless? They bitched about their makeovers from no less an eminence than Frederic Fekkai. They bitched about the shoots. They bitched about each other. They complained that Fabio was too old, that they didn't want to kiss people other than their significant others, that they didn't like their makeup, that they didn't like the photoshoots, that they didn't want to have to watch other girls win. Jeez, give it a rest, already.

Well, CariDee steps up her game after last week's gawdawful commercial, alrighty. She steps it right up into NigelBarker's face and suggests that he remove the stick he had up his ass at the last juding.
Yes, she did. And while Nigel managed not to slap her, he did turn around and march off the set, leaving poor Mr. Jay to explain, yet again, why being an asshole to the judges or the guest stars is probably a really bad idea and not likely to help them win the fabulous prizes (contract, cover and spread, money, etc) that they are all clawing each other's eyes out to win.

As you might expect, there is much eye-rolling over the lecture and not a whole lot of grasping of the concepts.

CariDee offers up a half-assed apology to Nigel, and he (way too gently, in my opinion) explains that she really doesn't know him from Adam's housecat, although she might think she does, and that it really isn't proper, polite or professional to speak to him (or anyone) like that.

With that excitement out of the way, the handlers release the bull and the shoot begins. There is jumping, and posing, and an occasional dive behind the safety barrier as the bull has enough of these twits and tries to run them down. (Unfortunately, the bull misses every time. Dammit.)

Eugena doesn't suck for two weeks in a row. In fact, Eugena manages to somehow show something approximating emotion. Or, the judges have just given up and now accept her version of stink eye as emotion.

Amanda blows big chunks, and Michelle tries to pry out of her what she did that was so wrong or so bad so that she can do something different. Amanda sulks and won't say. Michelle goes out and once more rocks the house, even with lace glued over half her face. Don't ask.

CariDee works too hard, and keeps looking a little too Debbie Does Dallas Barcelona for anyone's comfort.

Melrose is perfect, of course and as usual, except that even the judges hate her, so it doesn't count because it wasn't naturally perfect, it was calculatedly perfect. Or something like that.

There is a Tyrant group talk about criticism that amounts to so much filler and she manages to make it about her. Imagine that. I'm only bitching at you 'cause I L-U-V y'all. This comes from the Momma place. Eeeewww. Don't make me think about that, Tyra, 'cause it scares up visions of Mommie Dearest.

At judging, the girls have to opine as to who has the most talent and who has the least. Each of them picks themselves as being the best, except for Michelle, who thinks she isn't the best because she doen't want it the most. Way to buy into the bullshit the judges are feeding you, honey. But aside from themselves, they each name another girl who's maybe as good. Nobody picks Melrose as being the best, because they all hate her, and the same goes for Eugena, too. That leaves Amanda and CariDee as potential contenders and since Amanda is sort of a joke and a cypher, CariDee gets the nod as girl most likely.

Then the judges weigh in on it, and CariDee gets herself reminded about what a tool she was to Nigel, and how in the real world, not a reality world, she would have found herself on the sidewalk without a paycheck or much of a chance to ever work for one again. CariDee cries, and reads a letter she wrote to the judges apologizing for being an idiot and saying how she'll really, really, really, really not be an asshole to people if she gets to be the Covergirl Spokesgirl. It's no Jade "Leftover Lady" but then, what ever could be?

During the judging, Tyra has a brain fart and somehow produces a viable theory about the twins: Michelle only SAYS she doesn't know how much she wants to win, because she knows that this is her sister's dream, and she doesn't want to take it away from Amanda. Huh. Beauty and brains.

So, with that set-up in place, we go to the handing out of the four final photos. And they are: CariDee, getting yet another chance (I think just so they can crush her in the final three), Melrose (because the bitch takes great pix, how can they not?) Eugena (whom Tyrant now sees as a contender) and BIG FINISH: Amanda.

I'm guessing that the part of Tyra's logic that we didn't see went like this: If Michelle could win if her sister wasn't here, keeping her from trying all the way to win, maybe the same holds true for Amanda. Maybe Amanda isn't trying as hard as she can because she sees that Michelle is a natural and she (Amanda) wants to let her sister win.

Whatever. Next week it's Flamenco lessons. God, I just knew they were going to do that to the noble dance. This is going to be ugly.

In the brown bathroom, the one in the hall outside my apricot bedroom, there is a closet. Today is the day that I've decided to clean that closet. In it is the detritus of my parent's failing health. It contains strata of activity and obsessioin. There are two wrist braces, still in their original boxes. One is from the 1960s and shows (in a pen and ink illustration, on a lime green ground) a man, bowling. The other is from the 90s. Its box has a golden yellow band above a generic photo of a generic male wrist wearing the brace. It must have come from a big box store.

There is a black and clear acrylic tissue box holder. It has ended up in this closet after my mother redecorated her black, white and marble master bath. There are many, many, many, many boxes -- some are empty and some are filled -- but they are all Waterpik boxes. There is even a shoebox full of Waterpik replacement heads and brushes. Some, judging by the color of the bands used to differentiate them when more than one person uses the same device, are also relics from the 1960s. Others are pastels from the 1980s.

And then there are two bars of soap, shaped like and painted like ladybugs. Someone gave me them (along with a missing third) the summer I went to Europe. I was 11. It was the summer of 1966. The person who gave them to me was my cousin. She seemed much older than me, and much younger than my mother... could she have been about halfway between us?

But which cousin was it? That is the mystery and memory these two bars of soap have awoken.

I remember that we visited her when we were in New York City, before we sailed. Was it Aunt Ann's daughter? We stayed in Brooklyn with Aunt Ann. But where we went to visit, the house had a real yard. Did she live out on the Island?

She gave me an ice-cream cone, served upside down on a plate, with the ice-cream and cone decorated to look like a clown. Would that have been Aunt Marilyn's daughter?

When we left, she gave me the soap for my trip. Each bar was wrapped in tissue. I loved them too much to ever use them.

Now here I am, 41 years later, emptying them out of my childhood bathroom. One has lost its tissue. The other is still perfect. I wash the cracked paint off the open one and put the soap on the rim of the sink. There is a Waterpik already there.

Aww, man. I hate when I see these headlines. Robert Altman, one of my favorite directors of modern cinema, has died. He was a fucking genius, people. If you don't believe me, watch one of his movies. Any one of his movies, those which the critics loved (Nashville, M*A*S*H, The Player) or those which the critics did not (When You Comin' Back to the 5 & Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean; Popeye or Pret a Porter).

Tonight at the Casita de Zapatos, we will be having an Altman retrospective, including M*A*S*H, The Player (at least the 5-minute opening pan...what a shot) and Prairie Home Companion.

To continue this emphemeral pop-culture entry, what the fuck happened to Michael Richards? I never found him particularly funny, except intermitantly as Kramer, but still, I never suspected him of racism, either.

I'm not buying his explanation for one minute. I mean, there have been times when I've had blood in my eye, and a burning rage exploding in my brain, and it never once led me to use the "N" word, or to make approving remarks about lynchings. No, I think and hope that the industry analysis of this being a career-ending move are correct.

Many years ago, when the RLA and I lived in Clovis, New Mexico (Don't ask. Scorched earth epicenter of racism, hatred and all that is wrong with America) I was actually dragged down to the dean's office at the little community college where we were teaching, because I shoved a middle-aged student assistant up against a wall, and explained to her very firmly and with very naughty language why the use of the "N" word was not acceptable in my class room. I was told that what she did was protected by free speech, what I did was considered assault. I told the dean that I considered what she did racism, and what I did education. We agreed to disagree. I didn't teach there again.

And then we have O.J. and his now-cancelled book and tv special. Despite the publisher claiming that old chestnut free speech, and that as a victim herself of domestic violence she considered this his confession, and wait. I have to stop myself right there.

Yes, he had the right to write his book. That is free speech. I have the right not to buy it, or not to watch his television interview. That is free will. But somewhere between the two is the right of the publisher not to buy the manuscript and the right of the television network to turn down the proposal. Like so many other things in this life, just because you can doesn't mean that you should.

And it isn't a confession, at all, is it? It was explicitly NOT a confession. It was a nyah, nyah, nyah. It was a big old fuck you at the American system of jurisprudence and OJ's protection under double indemnity. What happens next, anybody can guess: some lunatic vigillante will probably gun OJ down on the streets of Miami. And unfortunately, Florida, unlike New Mexico, does not accept the defense of "he needed killin'".

Have I missed any of the week's highlights? Oh, yeah. TomKat. He's gay. She's brainwashed. The baby was by way of a turkey baster and/or test tube. Who are they kidding... And the quote by Georgio Armani, that the wedding was sealed by an "everlasting kiss"? Even that was a manufactured thing. A quote from one of The Boss's oldest, bestest songs: Born to Run.

Yeah! It's acting lessons this week on America's Next Top Model. Nobody in the house seems to give a rat's ass that Anchal, poor poor Anchal has been sent back to Homestead, Florida. I care. Nobody should have to go to Homestead, unless you are looking for a U-Pick tomato field, and those are all being turned into condominiums and housing developments with ridiculous names evocotive of things --like ocean views or mediterranean villages-- that are nowhere near Homestead. Of course, if you did name those places after things you can see in Homestead, you'd have developments with names like "Mount Trashmore Vistas", "Las Casitas des Trabodores Migrantes" and "Hurricane Andrew Decimated Us Farms" and I don't think people would buy them. But I digress.
Yes, acting lessons. Still in the running for becoming America's Next Top Model are Melrose the megalomaniac, CariDee of the loose screws, Eugena the official Black contestant still in game and with none of the dermatological services given to Yaya but no less deserving of same, Jaeda who Will NOT shut up about the hair already, and the twins: Blah and Bland. Who will have a breakdown on the stage? Who will rock the acting class and get a walk on part in another forgettable WC/WB/UPN show? Do any of us really care?

In what has to be one of the most shocking revelations to date, Jaeda cries and sobs and beats her breast over the agony of having had her hair cut. No. Really. CariDee cries and cries and cries that nobody in the house likes her (stole that one from her old friend Anchal) and that she knows what it's like to be sad. She tried to kill herself once. (Not hard enough, obviously. It must have been the heartbreak of psoriasis that led her to it.) Melrose gives it her all and screeches that nobody in the house has any right to say that their photos are better than hers and who the fuck do they think they are to judge her and so on. I have to say, that of all the hamsters, Melrose is the only one who understands that this is a competition, not just a Real Life reality show.

The challenge is to "act" while Tasha (Tyra's friendgirl and acting coach) shouts meaningless direction at them. This will be filmed and pieced together into a silent movie. They will be judged on their movies, and the winner will get the walk on, etc. etc. The silent movie consists of looking out of windows, opening doors, sobbing, answering a phone, eating a lemon and drinking prune juice. Where's Anchal now? She wouldn't have turned her little nose up a lemon and prune juice. Why lemons and prune juice? Why not. You can't actually make the girls eat poison, can you? And if it were something like a lettuce leaf or dry toast, they might actually like it.

CariDee wins. Whee for CariDee. Then there is the big reveal that they are, in fact, going to go to Barcelona*. That's in Spain. In Europe. Just in case you weren't sure. Tyra manages to come out in full flamenco drag.

In Barcelona, the girls are told they will be working with Spanish models, and are much relieved to discover that these are male models. They go to dinner together, where they are instructed to pair off and rehearse a commercial script (that they will be doing the next day... in Castelan, as opposed to High School Spanish, I suppose). None of the male models speak much English, and in what may be bad editing, bad communications, a terrible misunderstanding, or just some guy being an asshole, Jaeda's male model refuses to make out with her saying that he doesn't like it or want to or something. Jaeda takes this to mean, and tells everyone within earshot over the next day and a half that it means, he told her he doesn't like Black girls. That's not what I heard. It's not what the subtitles said, but this is a "reality" show, so your guess is as good as mine regarding the truth of the matter.**

Melrose stays up late, studying her lines. The other girls do or do not, but we don't see them. We do see them all whining (have I mentioned what a fucking WHINY bunch of hamsters they are this season) about how they can't speak Spanish. They can't roll their "r"s. They can't memorize the lines. Jaeda doesn't want to kiss anyone but her boyfriend and anyway this guy is a pig who doesn't like Black women. They are a pathetic bunch this season, really.

The next day, they go for their shoot, and CariDee sucks beyond all suckiness. She is trying to remember her lines by rolling her eyes far back enough in her head to read the script she tucked up under her skull, apparently. It's scary. The twins are ho-hum and hum-ho. Jaeda has a melt down about the kissing and the racism and the fact that she has short hair and the Castelan and the sun and the moon and the stars and everything in the world. She sucks at melting down, too. Eugena doesn't suck as much as she usually does at everything and Melrose rocks the shoot. Are we surprised?

Judging. Tyra says Eugena is now someone to watch. Why? Is she going to suddenly develop talent and good looks? The twins get to stay, because between them there is enough going on to make one good model. CariDee is once more noted as being a bi-polar freakazoid. Melrose is already boring us with how good she is, albeit older than dirt. And that leaves Jaeda. Where does it leave her? On the fucking plane back to the states where she can grow her hair and kiss her boyfriend all she wants and remember the halcyon days when she was the prettiest girl in school. What ever.

Next week: Bull fights?! Better than flamenco, for sure. Will they have to eat squid and eel tapas, too?

* We do not, unfortunately, get a visit from (or to) Manuel.

** This may also be the first week without the writers, but honestly, I saw no difference between the quality of the story arc in this episode and any of the first half of the season. Maybe with the writers we would have a definitive version of what Nacho (no, really, that was the goober's name) said to Jaeda.

Once in a while, the universe does its thing, justice is dispensed, and you get the satisfaction of hearing about it without having had to lift so much as an eyebrow in bringing it about. To quote one of my favorite lines, ever, from one of my favorite movies, ever:

Conan, what is good? TO CRUSH YOUR ENEMIES, TO DRIVE THEM BEFORE YOU, AND TO HEAR THE LAMENTATIONS OF THEIR WOMEN.
You may ask, so Miz Shoes, who was crushed? And I will answer, the old Pointy Haired Boss.

This guy here. The one sleeping at his desk.

And what was the straw that finally broke the camel's hump? The Pointy Haired Boss, the master of the Jackson Memorial Hospital web site, the manager who took my job, o he of little brain, he called the IT help desk and asked what, exactly is an ISS?

You know, if the fucking moron had just paid attention when I tried to teach him how to write a search string in Google, instead of relying on Ask Jeeves, maybe he'd still be there, fucking up.

Conan, what is good?