ANTM: I See Scary Girls

So far this season, American Idol and America's Next Top Model have taught us one thing: Puerto Ricans are cool, but not cool enough.

Both series have had spirited P.R.'s as top thirteen finalists, and both were the second contestant eliminated. Maybe it's because none of us are sure exactly how Puerto Rico fits into the American political landscape. Is it a state? A dominion? It's own independent country? We know it's hot and sunny and we'd all like to be there right now, but would we pay for our tropical drinks with American dollars?

In a refreshing twist of sincerity, this season of ANTM has decided to forgo any pretense of looking for genuine model material (was this ever the objective?) and just cast a bunch of weirdos. How else to explain Allison, the bug-eyed blood lover who was named winner of the first photo shoot? I keep waiting for a giant lizard tongue to snap out of her mouth to snag a fly.

Also, has anyone caught the ANTM casting call for next season? Tyra is looking for models...under 5"7. Because there is such huge demand in Milan for designer dwarfs??

You know Tyra is just looking for a way to combine midgets, high heels and a slippery cat walk. I called it here first!

The Angel Riots Sings

I've finally managed to read my first novel since the baby was born and it was a quick and dirty read.

The Angel Riots, by Ibi Kaslik, enters the touring mayhem of fictional bands The Divine Light Orchestra and The Angel Riots. Through the eyes of Jim, a teen aged violin prodigy, and Rize, a mentally unstable trombone player, we are introduced to a cast of rising Canadian indie pop hipsters.

The brush Kaslik uses to paint some of her characters is not always a kind one. Margo, the only female singer, is described as a chubby, manipulative lush. Kellogg, the mastermind behind the many-membered Montreal pop orchestra, is an egotistical, coke-sniffing self-promoter.

With more tender considerations, Rize and Jim emerge as complicated, poetic voices nearly consumed by the monster of pop success.

For this seriously sleep-deprived mom, The Angel Riots comes alive when Kaslik delves into the gritty lifestyle of touring. I flipped through the pages, hungry to read more about the drugs, the booze, the destructive force of such a transient lifestyle. The book is juicy but it was hard for me to discern how much of the thrill I experienced was informed by my sense that, ahem, some of the characters seemed awfully familiar.

Penguin made no bones when it was promoting The Angel Riots to suggest it was inspired by Kaslik's relationship to certain popular Toronto indie bands. And anyone who is familiar with the personalities in these bands may recognize certain physical and emotional characteristics in some of these characters.

At times I caught myself losing sight of the fiction of Kaslik's work and focusing mainly on the scandalous non-fiction possibilities. Oh my god, has he really done heroin? Wow, was her ex really that crazy?

These sorts of questions are not the kind that normally arise when I'm reading a novel, and Kaslik herself has mentioned to me that she is sick of folks forgetting that she is a fiction writer, not a tabloid editor.

Based solely on the strength of Kaslik's writing, the novel could maintain its page-turning pace for a reader less familiar with the indie scene in Toronto. And its poetic moments are strong. I'm just not currently in a head space to appreciate fine writing. Which is maybe why the dirty angels in Kaslik's novel entertained me the most.

Holy Frak! What's Going on With Battlestar?

I am not a geek but I did marry a man who likes shows that take place in outer space.

This union means that for months I was stuck watching recorded episodes of Voyager, a show rivaled only by Three's Company for bad acting.

In a desperate move to save myself from yet another episode where Captain Janeway goes Renaissance, I bought the first season of Battlestar Gallactica,a show most nerds I know claim is the greatest series ever made.

We've now watched all 4 seasons on dvd, the webisodes where Gaeta turns out to be...gay, and we're now watching Season 4.5.

There have been some ups and downs to the show's arc (the downs being the webisodes and Season 2, Episode 14) but so far this season has been pretty...ney.

As the final season, expectations are high. I wanted Adama growling hard decisions at his crew, the President disregarding ethics, Starbuck having sex. Instead we get Colonel Saulty Dog doing his best Captain Highliner impression at an ultrasound image of his baby with Number Six? Ahoy matey--when the hell did that copulation take place?

And my eyes are still burning from the image of the President naked in bed with Adama. Between her smooth bald scalp and his crater face, there was just way too much scary skin being exposed. It was like a ProActive ad, with old people.

As James Parker points out in this month's The Atlantic, Battlestar is "presenting all the symptoms of an extended-run high-concept TV series in its decadent phase." This doesn't bode well for viewers like myself, who appreciated the earlier fusing of good special effects, scary alien robots and relevant philosophical discourse (the parallels to 9/11 have been noted duly by all for years).

The most pressing question entering the final season of Battlestar was set up to be: who is the twelfth Cylon? But so many strings have been unravelled and left unaddressed that the plot is becoming tangled in the small annoyances. Like, what does Gaeta's sexuality have to do with anything? Why make Cally an unfaithful wife? And who the frak makes all the plastic replicas the Captain uses to plot out attack strategies?

Ultimately, Battlestar may turn out to be as whimsical and flip-floppy as Gaius Baltar's morals. Let's hope the end of Earth's promise doesn't signal the end of good television.

Colic is Hell

When I was pregnant and reading baby books, there was one word that lurked in the literature like an evil menace: colic.

The definitions of colic were varied, vague and sometimes conflicting, but I always skipped over the sections on it because, well, there was no way I was going to be cursed with a colicky baby.

Let it be said that I am now a self-defined scholar on the matter. So, what is colic?

Colic is hell.

Colic is what takes over your baby so that you and your husband stop referring to your son by name. Instead you says things like: "How was colic today?" and "We can't go out because we'd have to take colic with us."

Colic dehumanizes your baby, thieves your nights, and makes you feel like a really, really bad mom.

While other new mothers are joining yoga classes and going out for lunches, you are googling "gastro-intestinal" for the thousandth time and wondering why a baby sedative hasn't been invented.

Colic leaves you so delirious with exhaustion that you start scratching itches that aren't there.

After three months, you and your colicky baby are still only wearing sleepers for days on end and you constantly feel guilty because you spend what little energy you have willing away the days until your baby is eight years old and able to make you pancakes while you sleep in.

Colic convinces you that your baby's insides are shredding apart, that his farts are sharp as knives and that when he grows up he will have a weak disposition and complain frequently.

If your baby has colic your pediatrician will tell you "it will pass" and you will fantasize driving a pen into her eyeball.

Colic is being able to rock 16 pounds of distressed flesh in your arms for hours on end. Colic is denying your own physical agony, dislocating your thumb from so many hours of back patting, staying up for hours, days, on end.

Colic is nearly giving up a hundred times but always finding that little extra bit of resolve you need to keep on going.

For coping with colic, see www.fussybaby.ca, askdrsears.com, or visit a naturopath who treats infants.

If you are reading this because you googled "colic," my heart goes out to you.

Biggest Loser Returns With Profanities of All Kinds

A new season of Biggest Loser and new dramas.

Last season went the way of bad reality television, with undeserving alliances and immature rivalries. However, this season has all the makings of awesome reality entertainment.

We have Bob screaming at Joelle to "shut the f** up!"

We have partners being split up with one half of the team checking in from home (does someone want to tell orange team David that fried chicken and fries do not a healthy meal make?).

And best of all, we have the weekly weigh-in spectacle of tit-tych brown team daddy Ron. I have never seen a man with six breasts before. Dude's got a man udder. He's a human titadactyl. I don't know whether to scream when he takes his shirt off or start throwing dollar bills at his chests.

Speaking of cash, my money is on the black team. With both big boys still on the ranch, they're going to be posting numbers that the ladies won't be able to catch up on.