ANTM Recap: Our Girl Gets Shanghaied

This week begins with Heather reflecting on being in the bottom two last week and Chantal reflecting on how she is sick and tired of Heather getting special treatment because of her disability.

It's like those wheelchair ramps in shopping malls. Or how the streetcar announces stops for blind people now. Ugh. Infuriating.

Jenah is sour because she feels like the show has become a contest of personalities rather than modelling abilities and glowers menacingly at Saleisha's increasingly ridiculous cutesy antics (in this case she is jumping up and down on a bed squealing like a four-year old with a bag of Skittles).

Despite all the bad attitude, the challenge--GO-SEES--inspires all-round excitement. The girls are shipped over to PT Modelling, where they are greeted by managing director Susan Yang and "successful Chinese model" Shan Jin Ya. She is gorgeous and that has me now wondering--has there ever been an Asian model who has made it to the ANTM finals?

Susan lets the girls know they have 6 hours to see Shanghai's 5 top designers and each girl is provided a translator who can direct the driver. Once she leaves the car, each girl must find the designer's office herself.

Once again, the theme of the challenge is Yikes, Heather as in Yikes, Heather can't even find her first designer.

The 5 designers are a healthy mix of fashion archetypes, from the bitchy gay guy, Lu Kun, to the skinny, bejewelled sharp-tongued Flora Zeta. Hm, I think that pretty much covers the range of personalities in fashion, with the exception of smiling Buddha, which may only exist in China and in fact, may only describe designer Helen Lee, a quiet round matriarch who smiles patiently at all the girls.

Unfortunately for Chantal, she forgets to wear her model panties, so she traipses around for Lu Kun in a sheer skirt that reveals her bright pink and black lace bottoms. He admonishes her for her inappropriate underthings proving that it has been, uh, never since he has actually seen what bad underwear looks like (hint, it starts at the knees, ends at your underwire, and has lost all elasticity).

We cut back to Yikes, Heather, who offers us, as usual, the best quote of the episode: "The map's all in Chinese. It's all Greek to me."

This reminded me of a reading I went to last month where one author had actually written, "The coat fit like a glove." Except Heather's comment was charming and the author just, well, sucked.

As the girls hit their third and fourth appointments, Heather continues to wander in the rain, although with Heather's posture and gait, it looks more like stomping. Bianca is loving the challenge, going all, Bam, bitch to Saleisha, who is once again giggling and touching her neck to flirt her way into bookings.

Heather finally finds one designer before she loses her driver and translator and continues lurching around Shangai, knocking over bicycles like Godzilla in Tokyo. Meanwhile, the other girls are heading to the modelling agency to make it back before their time runs out. But Shanghai traffic proves worse than LA and Saleisha and Bianca are the only two to make it back in time. Jenah, Chantal and Heather (who arrives 45 minutes late) are all disqualified.

That night it's time for the girls to hit the town, or at least the roof top bar. Here, Susan Yang (looking like a Chinese Mrs. Garrett) surprises the girls but it's good news for Bianca.

When the girls stand up and look into the harbour, a billboat [This is my new made-up word for floating billboard. You are free to use it.] reveals Bianca is the new face of the 2008 Beijing Olympics. Because who wouldn't want to be associated with an event that held its countdown event at the popular Tienanmen Square and has wisely chosen children to produce its commemorative stationery?

The next day is shoot day, and Nigel is the photographer. And everyone involved in the shoot, from hair and make-up to art direction is an American. Okay, not everyone. There are a number of uncertain looking men holding parade dragons, hanging around the set attempting to make it difficult for the models to stand out. Because you know how hard it is for a 6 foot tall underfed American girl to stand out when surrounded by 5"3 Chinese men.

Jenah, for reasons unclear, suddenly gets cocky and sarcastic with Nigel, which ANTM fans will remember did NOT bode well for our girl Caridee on cycle 7 during the Spanish bull fight shoot. I was actually shouting at my TV, No Jenah, Nigel likes CUTE girls, not TALKING girls! but Jenah continues down her path to self-destruction.

None of the girls appear to be that comfortable with Nigel as the photographer, with the exception of Saleisha whose completely transparent and embarrassing cutesy routine is still being eaten up by Nigel (gag). Chantal poses like a drag queen version of Diana Ross (which is basically the same as the real Diana Ross) and Heather, according to Jay, "stuck her hip out like she was going to the bathroom." I guess Jay thinks girls just sort of aim their asses at the bowl and shoot deuces.

At the judging panel, Miss J. tells Chantal she needs to learn to dry her drawers with a hair dryer. Jenah is reminded how much her personality sucks and is told the designers thought she looked messy. Heather finds out from Miss J. that she needs "a top model ass whipping." I don't know what that involves, but I am pretty sure it is only legal in China.

The bottom two are Jenah and Heather, which compels shouts of protest from my couch. These two take the best photos! Is it just me or is anyone else shocked Bianca has made it this far? Or what about Chantal? WTF?

Oh, the humanity. Good-bye Asperger's. We'll miss you and your stooped shoulders, twisted mouth, and furrowed brow. But we're glad you made it to China and got to do kung fu moves in the air. You kicked ass, girl.

Next Week: Great Wall of Tyra.

Even Dead Men are Winners

The recently deceased Norman Mailer has been given the dubious distinction of being the 2007 Bad Sex in Fiction Award winner for his book The Castle in the Forest.

The winning passage describes fictionalized sex between Klara Hitler and her husband Alois at the time Adolph is conceived. 'Nuff said.

And the Winner Is...Sigh. Come On Up, Ondaatje

Yaaaaawwwwwwn.
Michael Ondaatje's Divisadero has earned him his fifth Governor General's Literary Award.

For those of you who have not read the book, it is named after a street in San Francisco that has nothing to do with any of the three plotlines that are very loosely strung together in what may be Ondaatje's least accomplished novel.

Of course Ondaatje has more talent than most writers in this country but did he really need another dust collector?

The jurors Austin Clarke, Eden Robinson and Rudy Wiebe had this to say about the book:

Lyricism and whimsy are necessary ingredients of brilliant narrative language, and Michael Ondaatje achieves this magnificently in Divisadero. He establishes, in excellent measure, his mastery of poetic seduction, while mindful to include tenderness, compassion and grace. Grace, after all, is the ultimate gift which Ondaatje offers us in Divisadero.

Is lyricism and whimsy really necessary for brilliant narrative language? Really?

Golden Compass Points Straight to Hell

Two more Catholic School Boards in Ontario have pulled Philip Pullman's The Golden Compass from their school libraries' shelves.

What this means is that every child in Peterborough will be lining up to see the film (which premieres tonight).

Congratulations, Catholic censors. Just what kids needed: another excuse not to read.

Throw Another Twig on the Fire

Seems our sweet old Twiggy is being booted from the ANTM judging panel.

Her replacement for cycle 10 is Paulina Porizkova, who was big in the 80s and who, as far as I know, has never whipped a diamond-crusted cellphone at her assistant or been filmed doing blow.

Sounds like Tyra has found herself another slice of white bread to stick on the panel's stack of crazy meat.

Books You Can Look Smart Giving

The New York Times 100 Notable Books of the Year is out.
I have read 2.5 of them.

The Bachelor Admits "I'm Just Not That Into You" and Studio Audience Proves Women Prefer Liars

I will admit, I did not watch a single episode of The Bachelor this season. Or any other season, for that matter.

But knowing how this season's finale ended fills me with regret. See, if I had watched 10 weeks of grown women swallowing their self-respect to cattily compete for a chance at love, only for the bachelor to turn around and say, "Nya. Not interested," I think I would have wet my pants.

Historically my biggest complaint with weasels is that they pretend to have feelings for you, even when it is very obvious that the dick-hickey came from someone else. I mean, how many times has a guy told you, "No, it's cool. Of course, I'm into you," as he is texting/calling/boinking another girl.

Not so much? Okay, maybe it's just me.

But that still does not explain the indignant outrage this female studio audience expresses when confronted by the honest revelations of a still-bachelor bachelor.

What Sailor Would Wear These Pants?

Think I clipped this from a old Sears Catalogue I found at a church sale?

Wrong.

This is one of Oprah's 2007 Favourite Things.

Here is how these stunning (in an open jaw, aghast sort of way) outfits are described:

After a long day of taping The Oprah Show, the first thing Oprah says she does backstage is change into something comfortable. Now, she's sharing her new favorite thing to lounge around in!

This outfit by L.A. designer Rachel Pally is made from stretchy fabric that's both lightweight and super soft. "It barely feels like you're wearing anything!" Oprah says. The turtleneck and pants are available in sizes 2 to 24 and come in four colors—purple, navy, teal and brown.

Approximate value: Swing Turtleneck $141; Sailor Pants $194

Yes, you too can own a two-piece moomoo for 350 bucks.

I think there is a very obvious reason why Oprah only wears this outfit backstage.

[Thanks to Rosy for giving me the gift of this photo! She deserves a pair of sailor pants!]

Crouching Tyra, Hidden Drag Queen

I forgot that this week the ANTM girls head off to China. As Saleisha says, "We're going to China. Let's get this party on the road!"

The girls' enthusiasm for heading across the globe is so intense, when they arrive at Shanghai Airport, both Lisa and Heather are compelled to wear sunglasses, even though it is night. Or perhaps the daunting glare of possible elimination is too great for them to take? Lisa does start the episode by noting, "The harder I try, the harder I fall." Hmmm.

Driving into Shanghai in what is likely not an eco-friendly bus, Heather takes off the shades and puts on a neck pillow--you know the kind that weird annoying people bring onto planes and you're all like, what a loser, while secretly wishing that you had one yourself?

As they drive into the city, Chantal admits she feels like they're on The Jetsons. Heather muses, "Shanghai is like no other city I've been to. Except Vegas."

When the girls arrive at a promenade they are greeted by the Js: Miss and Mr. But Miss J is looking seriously butch in a commie sort of way, while Mr. Jay looks like Ken and Barbie's genital-free plastic love-child left in an Easy Bake Oven for too long.

The girls' new home is a suite at the Royal Meridien. It looks amazing, but it turns out there are not enough beds (although there is a dining table big enough to serve 16?!). Saleisha hogs the biggest bed and refuses to share with Heather, which inspires some intense (and understandable) frustration from Heather who in turn begins crying as Bianca laughs in her face. Ouch.

Tears are eventually dried, bedmates allocated, and the girls are whisked off to the largest film studio in China. It is here that Lewis, tour guide/martial arts expert goes kung fu on their asses, teaching them a series of 9 poses. Not surprisingly, the girls stumble through their lesson, looking like skinny giants fumbling through tea service in Lilliput.

After the girls change into cool silk robes they are told they are going to be lifted into the air on cables and asked to hold specific poses. It is so awesomely Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon that for the first time in ANTM history, I actually wish I could do the challenge.

That said, Bianca, who admits "I don't even trust my family" refuses to let the four Chinese men holding the ropes lift her 30 feet in the air and is thereby disqualified. Heather, who is doing hachiji-dachi with as much focus as an eight-year old boy playing Wii wins the competition and 4,000 rmb which totals around $532 bucks.

Now Bianca, who from the get-go was like, "Everything is made in China, I want to go shopping," is hoping the woman she frequently traumatizes will invite her along. But Heather, who thinks tough love will be a good thing, invites Chantal.

The shopping montage looks like outtakes from a bad Jackie Chan comedy where tall hot American girls bend over to negotiate 'good price' with various tiny Chinese vendors. There is a shot of the girls trying on robes, which kind of blows my mind since, at 4 inches shorter, I could not find a single piece of clothing that fit me when I was in Asia. In fact, in one clothing store in Viet Nam, the proprietor laughed when I walked in, shook her finger and said, "You too big! We have nothing for you!" Needless to say, them there were fighting words and I pretended a 6x t-shirt that was labeled L fit me just to prove her wrong.

The shoot this week is a Cover Girl commercial/print ad for the new Queen Collection of make-up. The girls must memorize lines, wear their own clothes and make note of what makes them a queen. Mr. Jay and Cover Girl rep Brent Poer are there to critique, along with Jeffrey Chu, the art director.

Bianca looks like a drag queen with her wig off. Chantal giggles flirtatiously while wearing a five year-old's jumper. Saleisha is adorable and Heather and Lisa are awkward. In fact, Lisa has a meltdown during the commercial shoot and her eyes well up with tears as she explains miserably, "I am a queen." Heather, who Jay feeds lines to, can still not feign normalcy.

At the judging panel, Tyra greets the girls by yelling, "Ni Hao" and when the girls don't appear suitably amazed that Tyra can say hello in Mandarin, yells it again. The girls, looking sort of embarrased, are all like, "Yeah, ni hao, Tyra."

Jenah is picked on by Nigel this panel for coming across as too daft or vacant during judging panel. Whatever. Saleisha and Chantal impress with their age-inappropriate cuteness. Lisa is instructed by Tyra to cry when she needs to, although you know if Lisa had cried during her shoot, Tyra would have been telling her how important it is to tuck her feelings inside and forget about them (like she said about three episodes ago). Heather is told that while accommodations have been willingly made for her disability (and here Bianca rolls her eyes like, duh, cut the retard) she should have been able to perform better in front of the camera. Heather's photo, however, makes her look like a happy Brooke Shields.

When the girls are called back in the room, Tyra scolds them, noting "collectively you all did bad." But Chantal is less bad, and she is called first. Lisa and Heather are at the bottom and for a minute I panicked that we were going to lose our girl. But alas it is Lisa who is booted back to her life of stripper poles and low self-esteem.

Next Week: AHHHHHHH! Designer Go-sees!

Oprah Induces Mass Hysteria

Every year, Oprah's Favourite Things episode induces grown women to weep openly in gratitude for free stuff.

Mind you, I weep at the sight of an open bar, so it is not hard to imagine how the crazies could be induced by Oprah announcing, Surprise! It's my Favourite Things episode! Enjoy the madness.

The reaction of this year's audience is so awesome I actually starting weeping.

Britney Spears: Lolita of the Mickey Mouse Club?

Okay, so I am supposed to be writing about books and television, but with my sleeping pills and the writers' strike, my subject matter has become seriously limited.

So much so that it allows me to justify including a Britney post.

Don't be haters, y'all.

While I resent getting minute-by-minute updates from the media on whether or not Britney wore shoes at Starbucks, I am inherently a gossip and there is nothing more fun to dish on than booty.

Hitting newstands tomorrow: the riveting revelation that Britney was sliding into home plate at 14.

I know kids these days are all 'sex is nothing, I have it just to kill time between skipping classes,' I still think 14 is young. I mean, I went to Girl Guide summer camp at 14 (and it was totally the best summer ever!).

Okay, so maybe Britney and I both have issues. But only one of us presently wears underwear on an ongoing basis so if panty regularity signals healthy self-esteem: 1 point for Amber, 0 for Brits.

Ban White Turtlenecks Now!

In an earlier posting, I noted how white turtlenecks make guys look gay (and not in the runway model sort of way).

Well, here is a runway model, Mr. Halle Berry, totally proving my point.

For god's sake, if this hottie can't pull it off, no mortal can.

R. Kelly Makes Your Weekend Better

There are few raperas (that would be rap-operas) that come to mind.

Okay, there is only one and that's R. Kelly's Trapped in the Closet, the 22 chapter saga about infidelity, guns, beds, midgets, police men and a whole bunch of other profoundly random concerns.

It turns out that all 22 chapters are posted on IFC for your viewing pleasure.

If you only have time for a recap, no worries. Chapter 12.5 is the recap sequence. Yes, R. Kelly sings a song about the songs he's sang (how meta is that) including the fantastic line:

He came home to his kitchen/ to find that his wife Bridget/ was pregnant by this midget.

Happy Friday, folks.

A Cyclical Consideration of ANTM's BMI

I find this hard to believe, but apparently the girls are bigger this season than in season's past.

Apparently Writers Work Too!

The Q & Q folks are informally surveying to see what is the best day job for writers.

One commenter said law, which confirms this person is not, or soon will not be, a lawyer.

Most of the other submissions are predictable (bookseller, night work, no work at all).

For some reason, the whole thing depresses me. And when I say "whole thing," I mean work.

Lyrical Genius

I cannot. Catch. My. Breath.

This is the greatest song ever written.

The song, "Smell Yo Dick" is an earnest soon-to-be R & B classic by MySpace songstress Riskay.

Someone needs to get this girl hooked up with R. Kelly.

Oh, and if the title doesn't make it clear, the lyrics are NSFW, so you might want to plug in your earphones.

ANTM Recap: To Clarify, Heather is NOT the Ocean

Before we get into last night's episode, I want to talk for a minute about Heather's Asperger's pout. You know, when her jaw sticks out, her shoulders slump and her eyebrows meet each other halfway down her nose? I have previously referred to it as classic little brother exasperation and this morning I decided to give it a try. I thought of what is presently annoying me (gas, if you were wondering) and did the Heather pout. And you know what? It felt awesome. It felt like a posse of 8-year olds with arms crossed were with me in a union of total annoyance at my gas. Bahhhh, grrrrr.

Seriously. Think about what's bugging you right now and do the Heather pout. Ah. Relief.

Okay, so last night starts out with Lisa looking all up and down at herself in the mirror (trouble!) thinking maybe she is (almost) all that and a pack of snacks. Meanwhile, Heather is glooooomy because Sarah is gone and naturally opportunistic Bianca follows street rules which dictate that you are obliged to kick every fallen woman you pass by. It is sort of totally horrible and totally mesmerizing to watch Bianca try to induce a breakdown in Heather.

Bells ring and it's back to school for the girls. Well, not really, since the bio-bus drops them off at the Fashion Institute. Benny Ninja, who has apparently killed Tyra and taken over her role on the show, is waiting for the girls, looking like a gay Scottish Klingon. Whatever fashion student dressed him mainlined meth before taping.

Also waiting with fly '70s porn director eye glasses is Neal Haria, director of Elite Models. Yay, someone important! He instructs the girls to pair with a student designer and inspire him or her with their personalities to create a dress out of a baby blue moomoo.

Since a bitch sheath has not been invented yet, Bianca and her designer are at odds. The designer suggests Bianca is Cleopatra and Bianca is all like, Girl, whatch you talkin' about? Heather stands awkwardly beside her designer, repeatedly twisting a lock of hair, which is apparently an early indication of insanity.

Ann Shoket, the editor of Seventeen returns for judging in her favourite Rainbow Brite get-up. The girls take to the student runway, all looking like they are wearing really ugly fabric cut and sewn by students. Jenah is the only remotely fashionable model of the bunch, although Saleisha wins for her butterfly costume.

Heather is hit hard by the pressure to speak in public and is momentarily paralyzed, as is Lisa, who does not have Asperger's, just a really low IQ with a stripper heart of gold. After the competition, Heather (who was wearing a dress that embodied the fluidity of the sea) fumes, "I'm not the ocean. I'm not even a water sign, I'm a fire sign." Ah, Heather. You are so great. And sort of scary.

Since Saleisha wins, she gets to take Lisa and Bianca to a Seventeen photo shoot. When all the girls get back to the house, Heather calls the shower, but Lisa and Saleisha race in before her, unleashing: The Fury of Heather.

Looking like a cross between Damien, a dragon and one of those homeless crazy women who don't brush their hair and pick butts off the sidewalk, Heather storms into the shower. Did I mention all the girls are naked? And showering together? And yet the scene is more reminiscent of Carrie than Debbie Does Dallas.

Naturally Bianca runs in to further taunt the beast and it is not clear if the steam is from the shower or Heather's nostrils. Oh six-feet tall women, you are so cruel.

Fake Commercial Time: This week's "My Life as a Cover Girl" commercial with Jaslene has her sitting at a table in Walmart signing autographs. I felt like her eyes were pleading "Help. Me." as she feigned a smile and told a pimply disinterested Walmart shopper that her eyeshadow was really pretty.

The next morning the bio-bus drops the girls off in the 'middle' of the dessert, which is really about 20 feet away from a convey of make-up trailers and camera crew but the girls are obliged to act all, omigod, we're gonna die in the dessert!

The photo shoot is great--sequined, shiny minis and a burning smashed up car. Jenah, who will obviously win this competition, rocks the shoot. Lisa looks like she was in the car when it got into an accident, moving stiffly around to Mr. Jay's direction.

At the panel, Tyra introduces the judges as a Chinese dragon puppet pokes its head behind the curtain. The girl's eyes light up--yes, that's right, Tyra announces. They are going to China! Woohoo! Amaaaaazing! Oh, but not all you girls. Hehe. See, unlike previous episodes where the remaining girls are told to pack their bags, this time Tyra decides to further destroy the spirit of the model kicked off by letting her know how close she came to a free trip. Bwa-wa.

The photos are actually not as crisp and great as I expected, but the panel is easy on Heather, loves Jenah, and is hard on Chantal, who I think looks like Charlize Theron in her photo.

Bianca is complimented on her shorts, which she explains she got "from a little store called Jenah's closet." Bianca is one of those girls you know would be your most aggravating and awesome girlfriend (we all have one).

In the end, not surprisingly, it is Ambreal and Lisa at the bottom and Ambreal of the slick comb-over is outsky. Which means this is the first episode this season where the first or second girl on camera is not the one kicked off.
Oh, what will we do without the code?

Next Week: China!

Tina Fey is my Girl Hero

You know how sometimes things seem so obvious to you, you just never mention them out loud? Like, uh...white turtlenecks make all men look gay. Or...pewter is ugly...

Well, it just occurred to me I have never publicly announced the greatness of NBC's 30 Rock. This show, along with the American version of The Office (I know, I know, I was a late convert, I held onto the idea that nothing American could ever be as good as something British) provide me with the weekly laughs required to make me a tolerable person.

Last week's episode had the single greatest sequence of post-partying shame shots I have ever seen. Ah, the morning-after shame. When you aren't really sure what you said to your best friend about her boyfriend but have vague and unsteady memories of her crying at a bathroom sink. Or the sense that maybe your husband is sleeping on the couch because maybe you said something about something and why is there dried barf on your eyelash?

Rock on, Tina Fey. Boo, writers' strike (but good luck!).

New York Writers Drink for Free!

God, why are book events so much more fun in New York than in Toronto? (that's a rhetorical question--don't email me your answers, I will only want to kill myself sooner.)

Of all the gossip and slights made in this piece about the American National Book Foundation party celebrating writers under 35, what struck me most were the words: Open. Bar.

Last week I was at the awards ceremony for the Random House Short Story Contest which is held at the University of Toronto's School for Continuing Studies. There was one man walking around the foyer clutching drink tickets like they were a royal flush. He walked by me four times before I started openly mocking his suede vest.

The event had good intentions (celebrating burgeoning writers of all ages) and Elyse Friedman revealed herself to be utterly charming, but the reception sort of stank.

Literally. There was some aging salmon laid out on the food table along with U of T freebie classics like browning-on-the-edges hummus and white bread and mystery stuffing rolls.

Maybe I am an ungrateful jerk for harping on the food and booze at a book event, but I thought this was the reward for showing up at these events (at least for those of us who don't actually win top prize).

No Patience for All Men

I went to see the new Coen brothers' film No Country for Old Men on its opening weekend and like every dark indie darling released in cold weather, it attracted a sold-out crowd of middle-aged folks who pride themselves on their cinephilic taste but then spoil my viewing experience by having no sense of when it is appropriate to laugh.

If the studios want to know why fewer people are going to the movies, here's my reason: People are creepy.

I mean, we all pile in, sit, then readjust as the 10 percent of patrons who don't give a shit about inconveniencing people arrive during the previews and ask you if the seat four rows over from you is taken.

Then, during the most disturbing scene of the movie when your spirit can hardly bear the anguish and yet its pain lifts you out of your mundane despair, some guy or girl laughs hysterically. Like it's a joke. Like torture/anguish/cancer is a punchline.

This is when I think: Civilization is doomed. People are inherently evil and stupid. Or at least people who watch the same movies as me.

As for the film, it was great. Intensely suspenseful. The performances are perfectly balanced. The Coen flavour is sprinkled on like salt rather than hot sauce, enhancing rather than altering the Cormac McCarthy base.

And yet, two days later, the only detail that remains pressed in my mind is Javier Bardhem's Eight is Enough bangs.

How Many Nose Jobs Has Tyra Had?

Mistah Dicey

At the end of Pride & Prejudice did you pine for Mr. Darcy or swear off men all together?

According to Emma Campbell Webster, Austen's romantic tales underscore an anti-matrimony narrative. Webster notes:

Over the past decades, as women have won increasing economic and personal freedom, marriage has fallen sharply. According to the Office for National Statistics, by 2031 the proportion of women aged 45-54 who have never married is predicted to rise from 9% to 35%.

There are a number of different reasons for the declining marriage rates, but the messages that are constantly sent to women in the guise of so called "romantic fiction" surely aren't helping. When you consider the ubiquity of these messages it is not surprising that many of us have started seeing a wedding as something disturbing, terrifying, as the end of a lifelong quest for adventure, rather than any kind of start.

Who finds weddings disturbing? Weddings are the only times I get to wear a pretty dress and get totally loaded while dancing barefoot with old people.
Okay, so mildly disturbing.

Ebony's Post-ANTM Interview

Ebony has done an interview which is not nearly as scandalous as Victoria's, but a decent time-waster. I love that the one word she uses to describe Ambreal is "afro-centric."

Wall Slides and Face Plants: Iglesias Meets ANTM

The wheels on the ANTM green bus are rolling as the girls gossip about the scandalous departure of Ebony. While Ambreal happily admits she's "not supposed to be here," Sarah, the only model ever to appear on the show within a healthy BMI range, is falling apart.

I don't blame her. If I have to go into a locker room full of droopy naked old German women I feel inadequate. I cannot imagine hanging in a house with scale-obsessed women where a girl like Bianca laments she's the fattest.

Right away the girls are given white-girl nude leotards and Tyra sweeps into the dance studio like a drag Debbie Allen with a giant staff. The girls are going to learn from the best-- Tyra-- about how to perform in a music video.

According to Tyra, she has been in a lot of videos (George Michael, Lionel Richie) but strangely, does not mention her OWN music video.

As the girls squirm like little polyps and skin tags, they learn the crucial difference between the hootchie wall-slide and the model wall-slide, the sexy floor crawl, and the sexy stage stomp.

In case there has not yet been enough humiliating attention placed on the girls' bodies, Lisa is singled out for being skinny but out of shape when she finds herself stuck at the bottom of a wall-slide without enough thigh strength to lift herself.

At first I was shocked since Lisa is an exotic dancer whom I imagine does pole slides on a nightly basis. She also weighs like 70 pounds so it's not like she needs Schwarzenegger's adductors. But if by the end this episode confirms anything, it's that models (even wannabe models) don't eat and when a girl is starved, it's an accomplishment is she can breath unassisted (spoiler).

Back at the house, Heather calls out to the girls with the same posture and expression as Statler, the grumpy old man muppet in the peanut gallery. Her dorky calls are ignored until she mentions "Tyra Mail" and then the troops storm the kitchen.

The challenge this week for the girls is not to look hootchie while wearing samosa-sized swaths of PVC over their nipples. That's right--they're acting in an Enriques Iglesias music video, putting them into the same esteemed league as Alyssa Milano and Anna Kournikova. Rock on.

The director, Jessy Terrerro, chooses Lisa to be the featured model, which means she gets a full body 3-second shot whereas the other girls only appear from the waist up. Heather is also highlighted, since she has a gothic look. 'Cause goths totally dig Enrique.

The shoot is a mix between a J Lo dance video and the movie Blade and the girls all appear surprisingly awkward on camera, especially Ambreal and Chantal. But I was distracted by my attempt to determine whether or not Enrique's facial mole had disappeared, and apparently it has, which makes me sad because the mole was ugly in that belle-laid way [this is my favourite French expression after esprit d'escalier both of which I give to you as your show-off sayings of the day].

By the end of the shoot, Heather passes out from malnourishment, dehydration, over-heating and exhaustion (in case one of those symptoms was not enough). In her after-interview, Heather mentions she hadn't eaten in 12 hours which again underscores how deprived these girls seem to be. There really needs to be a union for reality television folks. At the same time, I am wondering why the hell these girls aren't packing granola bars and Gatorade in their purses? If I have to leave the house to pick up drycleaning I take a snack with me.

I feel really sorry for Heather because she passes out in what has to be the most uncomfortable and uncomforting outfit ever. Bianca, who continues to perceive Heather as her biggest competition, rolls her eyes at the incident, and scoffs that Heather just doesn't have what it takes to be a model.

At the judging panel, Miss J. is all Black Power and Tyra looks like she has lost a bit of weight. However, it's not her weight the panel is judging this week, but Sarah's. Their plus-sized model is down in the pounds (and down in the dumps) and the judges have set their phasers to kill.

Jennah proves to be the worst in the video, but she is saved from being in the bottom two. So is Ambreal, whose 'do looks like a human hair yamulke. It is baaaad; the girl should have never made it to the top ten but whatever.

The bottom two are Chantal (who is looking hot and confident) and Sarah, who appears frumpy, tired and defeated. She is also wearing the most unflattering shorts imaginable.

Sarah is told bye-bye and she proceeds to engage in one of those ugly bawling sessions where your boogers connect to your sleeve, your eyes swell into purple testicles and you can't catch your breath. In other words, the break-up bawl.

I feel for Sarah since I am sure she will go home and obsess about her weight and stop eating and constantly ask her friends if she looks fat in her jeans now that her body image has been thoroughly perverted.

Next Week: The girls remake Istanbul.

And for those of you interested, here is the Iglesias video "Tired of Being Sorry" featuring our girls.

Giller Update

Elizabeth Hay won the 2007 Scotiabank Giller Prize last night for Late Nights on Air.

That means a $40,000 cheque and prime placing in bookstores.

Oh, and apparently Margaret Atwood and her husband Graeme Gibson protested the Giller dinner. Not by, you know, not showing up. But by bringing bagged meals and sake (because nothing says F-you to corporations like getting buzzed on booze you paid for).

The protest was against the Four Seasons for building a complex in Granada that will threaten local birds (in case anyone was wondering).

From Recaps to Paps: The Tyra Journey

Since ANTM popped the recap on our asses last week, I set my PVR to record The Tyra Banks Show on Monday, which was her much anticipated "Vagina Dialogues."

I expected an hour of me gasping and giggling at how ridicchio our girl Tyra is, but there were a number of moments when I sat up (on my new low-GI diet sitting up is actually a much bigger deal than it sounds) and yelled, Noooooo!

Progressive wisdom on the ve-jay-jay included:

Don't take time off between birth control pill cycles so you can skip your period and still have that hot date with your boyfriend; and

Your vagina (according to Tyra's mom) is a "self-cleaning oven" (uh, Tyra's mom better get her hot box to the gyno stat).

Tyra was grateful one of the lady-gynos brought a plush stuffed vagina (which looked like a velvet eggplant panini) because it didn't look "icky." Because nothing encourages young women to inspect their genitals like having a supermodel wrinkle her nose at the thought of how disgusting they are.

In fact, Tyra kept making her ferengi face throughout the show, especially when she sat beside a 28-year old virgin getting her first pap (and that would be first pap ever, not simply first pap on national television).

By the end of the "What's Up Down There" episode, I had learned that Tyra lost her sex drive on birth control pills and that she suffers bad menstrual cramps.

Oh, and that Tyra and R. Kelly were probaby in the same sex-ed class.

CBC Radio Interview Induces Two-Day Headache

So my girl Ibi Kaslik (author of Skinny and the forthcoming The Angel Riots) was a guest yesterday on CBC's The Current. She was invited to talk about the importance of book reviews, alongside Toronto Star book editor Philip Marchand, and Louise Dennys, Knopf executive publisher and review-retorting ad buyer.

So, what did I learn from the 15-minute radio segment?

Louise Dennys and Philip Marchand are deluded.

When asked by the host if there are any "sacred writers" in Canada, Ibi reflexively chortled into her telephone, while Dennys and Marchand were all "noooo, of course not, there aren't any sacred writers in Canada..."

Because apparently a black hole ripped a time/space vacuum into the universe yesterday, momentarily erasing the existence of Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, Mordecai Richler, Leonard Cohen, Carol Shields and Alice Munro.

I am not sure what pissed me more: the audacity of a major publisher to feign ignorance when it comes to this country's canon, or the way she pronounced "conTROversy" as "contreverSEE."

Bourgeois accents are so daytime television.

So You Think You Can Dance Nostalgic Moment

In case there was any doubt about my attendance at the So You Think You Can Dance Live Tour.

Recapping the Recap of ANTM

I can't believe I was worried about missing my recap of this week's ANTM, when this week's episode WAS a recap.

There is nothing like an hour of nostalgic reflection on all those good times we've shared over the past five weeks. Sigh. Member the cruise ship? The chemo wig? What about "I am not prickly" Victoria or the wacky rock-climbing wall? Oh, the times we've shared.

And the times we've been left out of. For instance, Jenah chipping her tooth off and being totally flummoxed because she "can open beer bottles with these teeth." Or Chantal getting all whirly finger-in-the-face-uh-uh-no-you-din'nt to Bianca.

I giggled again with the girls when Tyson dropped by and shuddered again at the pure rage in Tyra's eyes when Ebony quit (oh, and this entire episode seems designed to make Ebony want to kill herself when she watches it).

Eight girls remain. Who will be eliminated next?

Book Reviewer Gets $75,000 Dress Down

Like debates on the Middle East and herpes on campus, in book reviewing, the same crap tends to get perpetuated by the same people, and we all limp away feeling itchy and unresolved.

Over the last couple of days, I've been chatting with a non-literary friend about the nature of book reviews and become increasingly more depressed. "What, you mean an author like Atwood would get more reviews than a new writer?" she asked, in all her reasonable and blissful unknowing.

It is not breaking news that established writers are often treated with kid gloves (see any review of Philip Roth's last few books which generally emphasize how amazing it is that such an old guy can still hold a pen) and critics wait with bated breath to massacre the sophomoric efforts of successful first-novelists.

In Canada, I can often count on Globe & Mail book reviews to read like fan mail written by a starstruck 16-year-old. This past Saturday, Alison Pick's review of Jane Urquhart's edited collection of Canadian short stories should have had its i's dotted with hearts and come lightly scented with Love's Babysoft. This is the opening paragraph:

Reading The Penguin Book of Canadian Short Stories reminded me of several facts. For one, Alistair MacLeod is a god. For two, Margaret Atwood is entirely deserving of her position as the Head Camp Counsellor of Canadian Fiction. The book also served a corrective function: Mavis Gallant - whom I confess to having thought of as boring - is a literary angel of the very highest order.

(Alison is presently standing outside the side doors, binders clutched to chest, waiting to 'accidentally' bump into Ondaatje, Principal of Prosaic.)

However, the love-fest was interrupted the week earlier when an angry suitor jumped into the pile of bodies. Louise Dennys, executive publisher at Knopf, took out a full-page ad attacking Peter C. Newman's review of Jean Chretien's memoir, My Years as Prime Minister.

This ad would have cost the house $75,000 and like all attempts to shoot a mosquito with a shotgun, drew way more negative attention to the situation than the original nuisance.

Instead of approaching the bad review as a point of entry into a critical dialogue on the nature of the book review (and/or what constitutes a well-written one), Dennys whined about Newman's comments, stating in the ad, “Mr. Newman’s review was a lazy piece of work."

Actually, spending $75,000 (that could have been used as advances for at least, uh, 75 new writers) on a public pout-fest is lazy.

And while Newman responded, "I am always proud of publishers who defend their authors," I think the whole thing is embarrassing. It also sets a nasty precedent since reviewers are typically fiction and non-fiction writers who must remain in publishers' good books.

Looks like Newman may be left toeing the playground on his own while Alison Pick and the other followers get to chill with the big kids.

So You Think You Can Dance Tour Kicks It

Nanana-nana. Nananana-nana. So you think you can dance, dance, dance.

Omigod. How totally awesome was it last night to see Hok, Pasha, Danny, Lauren, Lacey, Neil, Dominic, Sabra and others in the sold-out live tour? I think sitting around 10,000 screaming pre-teens actually induced my husband's first period. That would explain his tears during the hummingbird song (and yes, I totally balled three times!)

My sister, boyfriend and me lovah hollahed for our favourites (Neil, you're so hot!) and giggled at the girl in front of us who kept bouncing out dance moves in her seat that she had clearly been rehearsing since the summer.

It was like sitting on my couch watching one of my favourite tv shows, except I had to keep my pants buttoned and beer was not allowed. And I was surrounded by thousands of strange little girls.

I haven't had that much fun since grade 7, when me and my friends choreographed a routine to Kyle Minogue's Locomotion and performed it for the entire school. Awesome!