Sunday, March 30, 2008
so let's discuss: every wednesday at 8:00 pm, millions of americans--women, men, black, white, red, polka dot, gay, straight, confused--tune into the CW11 for a program which has garnered such a high accolade, i'll honestly never understand--america's next top model (affectionately known as 'antm' to those aforementioned aficionados). need i even abstract on the plot?
so i take major umbridge with this circus of a show for quite a few reasons, but my main is as prevalent as tyra's nosejob--false advertising, baby. the producers of the show quite loudly tout the program's ability to create, foster and present the next top supermodel to america. supermodel--a colloquial term attributed to those few ladies whose exceptional looks have warranted them exceptional careers, the first commercial round of whom appeared in the early 90's: naomi campbell, christy turlington, stephanie seymour, and linda evangelista. many would argue that janice dickinson, lauren hutton and lisa fonssagrives minted the term, but fashion in the 70's wasn't nearly as cutthroat as it is now.
anywho--i digress. these girls were known as supermodels because they had numerous campaigns under their belt, walked in the biggest shows, and toasted champers with the biggest names in the industry--NOT because some washed up, retired model, oprah wannabe said they were. and that's why these girls were...famous!
now ask yourself, whether or not you're a fan of antm: now in the tenth cycle of this show, how many of the winners have actually made something of themselves? adrienne curry, yoanna house, eva pigford, naima mora, nicole linkletter, danielle evans, caridee english, jaslene gonzalez, saleisha stowers. ever hear of any of these girls? well, if you watch the show, sure you have. but have you ever actually seen them in a legitimate campaign, requisite covergirl shots notwithstanding?
yeah, neither have i.
but perhaps the real opposition comes from the don of fashion himself, karl lagerfeld, who called the show, "trash that is funny for five minutes if you're with other people. if you're alone, it's not funny. those girls will never be the next gemma ward. there is no justice in the fashion business." i couldn't have said it any better.
there are plenty of similar competitive reality programs (and i won't even start on 'make me a supermodel') but at least other shows like 'project runway' are appropriately titled--it's a project that takes place on a runway. no promises, no lofty claims, no guarantees.
the sad irony is the fact that these girls go through such grueling criticism and 'coaching' by a legion of gender-confused and silver-haired mentors, yet a single issue of vogue contains multiple shots of coco rocha, sasha pivovarova, natalia vodianova, agyness deyn, daria werbowy, lily donaldson and jessica stam, aka the new regime of supermodels.
so you see--this show has a completely inaccurate title to represent its otherwise devoid premise. perhaps it should be titled, "america's next marginally-talented model." hmm.
Monday, March 24, 2008
omar sharif monday.
and every monday hereafter shall also be known as "omar sharif monday."
because if i had even the slightest interest in children, and could concoct my ideal child, he (of course it would be a boy) too would have an egyptian father and french mother. now, i know what you're thinking, "but bryanambition--what about the indians? i thought you were devoted to them?" to which i reply, while the indians are, indeed, my favorite people on the whole planet, they're too sacred to just have running around the house, breaking things and getting brush burns. indians should be appreciated and loved from afar, or, like i've said before, except when you're loving them up close.
so hats off to omar sharif.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
that i am.
above you'll find an open pastry box...not from some renowned astoria bakery, but instead from entenmann's. an entenmann's pastry box with barely an eighth of the contents left. a 'fudge iced golden cake,' to be exact. the skeletal remnants of my last impulse purchase (the one before that sits warmly on my feet at this very moment).
as i ventured out three nights ago to buy the week's staples, usually consisting of soy milk, high-fiber english muffins, and bananas, and usually conducted at the local organic/health food store, i was arrested by the flashy advertisement of the provincial associated food store, and almost involuntarily drawn in.
ok that was a bit extreme. it was cold and i was cranky and didn't feel much like walking the extra long block to the health food store.
anywho--red basket in hand, i sought out the soymilk, bananas and high-fiber english muffins and on my way to the registers the nostalgic, flirty blue "entenmann's" script caught my eye, and for a brief, wicked second, i considered purchasing this wonderfully sweet looking treat. i checked the nutrition facts on the side, as instinct required, and a look of horror crossed my face as i saw 13 grams of fat per 1/8 of the cake! 13 grams and neatly accessorized by 35mg of cholesterol AND a whopping 210mg of sodium. that means, had i purchased this overwhelmingly exorbitant indulgence, and, no doubt, eaten the entire thing myself as habit often was, i would've consumed 104 grams of fat, 280mg of cholesterol, and 1680mg of sodium!!
as the scene of the crime above clearly depicts, i gave into temptation and bought the cake...and ate 7/8 of it. and as i finish this very sentence, i'm stuffing the last bite into my mouth.
do i regret it? not a bit. am i going to run an extra 85 miles this week? more like 104 extra miles--one for each gram of fat.
so if tomorrow's half-naked thursday pic happens to fill the frame a little more than usual, you'll know where to attribute the extra baggage.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
an old roommate of mine in college commonly used the phrase, "gay as assfuck," and i think i've found an instance where the usage of this potentially-offensive (though completely factual) phrase would be most appropriate. it would be used to describe what i am about to present as "fun-size" candy.
that little shit size candy one receives at various holiday gatherings (or perhaps any old day at my grandmother's) is the latest bane of my existence. it's an eighth of a snicker's bar, or a credit card-sized pouch of m&m's, containing roughly 11 of the aforementioned candy-coated chocolate treats. it's one singular inch of a twix. it's a thumb-sized morsel of oh henry! or nestle crunch or 100 grand.
but one thing these miniaturized sweet things are NOT is fun.
what consumer panel on God's green earth decided that the diminutive size of these smaller versions of best-selling candy should be referred to as "fun?" smaller, perhaps. mini, even. tiny, maybe?
what's even FUN about them? when is the last time you ate a "fun size" snickers and really enjoyed yourself? regardless of what you were doing before or while you consumed it, the mere act of masticating, savoring and swallowing a piece of fun size candy does not, in fact, imbue fun on its own. furthermore, after eating just one piece of fun size candy, one is undoubtedly left with a craving for more, in many cases exponentially more intense than the initial craving that compelled them to eat the first piece. and that causes me unnecessary anxiety. and there's nothing fun about that.
so i hereby pronounce fun size candy to be 'as gay as assfuck.'
i'm out ;-)