As much as this embarrasses me to admit, I watch a lot of television.

I'm the kind of person who tends to flip it on when I get home, make dinner, and then settle down in front of it for the rest of the night.

Sometimes I reflect nostalgically on my single days when all I owned was a tiny little box with rabbit ears and a VCR. Most of my nights were spent out on the town or in front of my laptop, pounding out short stories for editors to reject.

Now that I'm married and moving through the inevitable stages of married life, I've been talking to my hubby about how we want to raise our kids. And inevitably one of the first things we both agree on is that we don't want to expose our kids to TV too early and we will definitely limit their viewing time when they get older.

What we don't ever discuss is reducing our own viewing time. The disjoint between the ideal parents we envision ourselves being, and the reality of our actual sorry selves, is already becoming apparent and we don't even have kids yet.

All I know is that watching television makes you stupid and while I have progressively lowered my expectations of myself in the last few years, my hopes for my kids remain, unfairly, high.

It makes me want to move to the forest when I read that 40 per cent of three-month old children and 90 per cent of kids under two regularly watch television and DVDs. Okay, so "regular television viewing" means 40 minutes a day (that's about eight "You ARE the fathers" on Maury) but still.

Developmentally and personally, TV viewing is basically dead time for both babies and parents. Even though 29 per cent of parents polled said they believe television and DVDs were good for their child's brain, according to the American Academy for Pediatrics, a child under the age of two should not be exposed to television.

Teletubbies be damned.

Runways and Chopping Blocks

There was so much promise with last night's episode of ANTM. A refugee scrambling for travel documents? A punk chopping her thumb off? Anya posing nude for more photos, despite recent protests against her earlier nude shoot? Does it get any better than this?

I hope so, because this season of ANTM has been ho-hum,and last night's episode was kinda hummmmmmm (that's the sound the machine makes when you die).

The episode opens with Stacy-Ann eating an apple with two hands like it's a half-rack of ribs. I guess in the model world a whole apple is the equivalent of a meat platter.

Paulina shows up at the loft to teach the girls how to schmooze at parties and conduct themselves in interviews. This amounts to her insulting every one's personality and leaving.

Left to her own devices (and a sharp knife) Lauren slices off the tip of her thumb and is taken to the hospital. Meanwhile, Fatima is on the phone with one of the show's producers, trying to find out if the consulate will give her the traveller's documents she needs to be able to leave the country (the girls seem to be aware that they are heading abroad soon).

That night, with Lauren freshly bandaged, the girls are dressed in Jay Godfrey dresses and asked to work the 'green' carpet at a rebranding party for 7-Up (hey, it's all natural lime and lemon flavours now!)

Shockingly, Anya Zoolander is the most articulate and poised one of the bunch. Yes, feel free to re-read that last sentence.

Whitney comes across as both obnoxious and airheaded, Stacy-Ann isn't half as natural as a can of 7-Up, and none of the other girls really get camera time. Oh, except for Dominique, who on the green carpet, tells the cameras that she is wearing a dress by designer "Jay...Georgio."

For Anya's schmoozing, she gets to model in a new 7-Up ad, naked except for a bunch of citrus laid across her. She also gets paid $10,000 for the gig. Damn.

Back at the loft, the girls quickly dismiss Anya's fortune, and focus on packing their bags. The Tyra Ticker has told them to be packed and ready first thing in the morning. At the same time, Fatima get a call that she is to be at the consulate at 9am to meet about her traveller's documents.

Before the sun is up, the girls are zipping off in a limo to the airport. They're all packed and pumped to find out where they're going. But surprise! Mr. Jay is waiting in front of a private jet to let them know that they aren't flying to warmer climes, they're posing all day on the windy cold-ass tarmac. Nice!

Fatima confesses to Mr. Jay that she has to head back into the city to go to the consulate and Jay acts shocked, as if none of the producers were at all privy to this meeting that was set up...by the producers. As Fatima slinks off, the remaining girls get outfitted in 40s travel outfits and take turns each being the 'lead' model in round after round of photos.

At the end of the day, the frozen models stagger into a hangar and are amazed to find the judging panel set up and waiting for them. Turns out there is going to be an immediate elimination.

Fatima rushes in breathless, and again, Tyra acts mortified and utterly shocked that Fatima was off getting travel documents that were arranged by the show for her to get.

But perhaps the most perplexing part of the judging panel is that despite posing for 6 hours and taking turns stepping out front and centre for the camera, the girls are all ultimately judged on the basis of how they appear in two photos. I mean, Tyra pretends they're different pictures by announcing gravely to each girl, "This was your best shot" but the same damn photo keeps getting shown. And it's actually a crap photo. And how did it get developed so quickly. Is there a one-hour photo place at La Guardia?

Tyra criticizes the girls for their lack of social skills at the lame-ass 7-Up party, and mimics Whitney's pageantry airs by giggling "I'm Miss America. I want to save the world and the Iraq." Hehe.

Since Fatima has no photo she is judged on the basis of her body of work. And her and Stacy-Ann are in the bottom. And even without a photo, Fatima stays and Stacy-Ann goes.

With abject cruelty, Tyra tells the remaining girls that they're going to Rome. (Sorry Stacy-Ann). Oh, but that private jet behind Tyra? That's just for the judging panel because they're famous and the girls? Well, not so much. Tyra cackles as she lets them know they'll be flying "commercial." Ciao.

Next Week: Dominique proves as inept in Italian as she is in English.

How Hate Can Bring Us Together

Thank god for funny blogs. How else would I waste time until Maury comes on?

Gawker-recommended blog Not Hating Just Saying rants on dodos, marathon runners and hipsters.

Get your hate on, blog-style.

Croatia is For (Ex) Lovers

Croatia is my new favourite cultural mecca. The reason?

It's home to the Museum of Broken Relationships.

The Museum displays objects that symbolize lost love to their previous owners.

Gall stones, axes, matchstick wedding albums, and other Croatian symbols of broken heartedness are accompanied by sweet and weird testimonies.

Far more fascinating than dinosaur bones.

Is Porn Going to Save Your Stalled Writing Career?

If you call yourself a writer, and you have yet to be published, you will inevitably hear a lot of advice from well-intentioned folks on What You Should Write to Get Published.

This advice usually runs along the lines of: "You know what you should write? Erotica. Seriously, I heard a radio show/friend/stranger talking about how this man/woman writes about pirates/vampires/dragons and sex and s/he's making six figures a year."

You're most likely to hear this advice after having not written a word in months and not being laid in about as long and of course the person telling you this advice is about as qualified as a carnie to advise on matters literary or otherwise.

And yet, despite all this, you will always have in the back of your mind this sense that that well-intentioned asshole is right.

Well, the asshole is right. Sort of. British author Rupert Smith has received critical praise and popularity for his high-minded fiction, but he's now revealing that he's outsold himself as a gay erotic writer under the nom de plume James Lear.

According to Smith:

"One disgruntled customer on Amazon described a James Lear novel as "smut with pretensions", and I think this is actually quite a good summary of the Lear method. It is unashamedly smut; let's face it, most readers like good sex scenes, whether they're dressed up in literary drag or not. The "pretensions" are the added extras: I try to provide a ripping yarn, some decent character development and a lot of good jokes."

Of course, knowing that good porn sells is not the same as being able to write good porn. I was once complimented by British author D.M. Thomas (author of the smutty White Hotel) for my "talent for writing sex." I've admittedly held this praise near and dear to my heart, along with a comment from a girl who told me I had big eyes (I don't really), and the guy who once admired my "perfect nail beds."

You know why? Because writing about sex is hard (groan). I'm just finishing up Camilla Gibb's Sweetness in the Belly, and last night I actually grimaced while reading a passage in which she describes heterosexual intercourse.

I reached out and grabbed him from behind to pull him in as close, as deep, as could be, me the shell, he the snail, home.

First of all, while a limp penis may resemble a slug, there is nothing sexy about it. Secondly, if your vagina is a shell, you might want to go get that checked out.

As always, people will assume popular writing (i.e., erotic) must be easy to craft. But sex, whether literary or literal, is a delicate business that, no matter how tempting, offers no guarantees.

Sometimes the pay-off is huge and sometimes, well, sometimes, you're better off watching TV.

Books, Google Maps, Twitter

If anyone can explain to me what this means and if I should care, I'd love to hear from you.

How Can Size 10 Make You a Plus-Sized Model if Plus-Sized Clothing Starts at Size 16?

If you haven't caught an episode of this season's America's Next Top Model, it will take watching five minutes of last night's airing for all to be revealed.

Here's how is breaks down: Dominique is crazy. Fatima is crazy. Lauren is crazy. Claire might be crazy, but we're not sure. Stacy Ann is crazy. Anya is albino crazy. Whitney is the token plus-sized model and always told she has a pretty face. Kataryzna is Eastern European and constantly mocked for this by the judge's panel (who apparently believe all Eastern European girls look like sluts).

Oh, and Tyra is crazy and everyone hates everyone.

Caught up?

So, the eight remaining girls are divided into two teams and sent off on Go-Sees with the assistance of a Sprint GPS system. Since Manhattan was built on a grid, and all go-see locations are within walking distance, the product placement is totally redundant. It actually confuses the girls who hold the Sprint phones out in front of them like divining rods instead of, you know, reading street signs.

Team One is Lauren, Anya, Fatima and Kataryzna. Team Two is Claire, Whitney, Dominique and Stacy Ann. Whitney is told that her size 10 body would be unacceptable for Pamella Roland's runway and I immediately decide I hate the line. However, when Team One arrives, Fatima is told her size 0 frame is also unacceptable for the runway. As long as body discrimination goes both ways, I'm cool.

In the end, Team Two wins, and Stacy Ann books the most shows. Seventeen editor Ann Shoket tells the winners they are going to be shot for a summer beauty spread for the magazine. They get to wear brightly coloured bandannas and make cheesy smiles and it's all very Seventeen.

The photo shoot challenge for the week takes the girls to a theatre where Mr. Jay is suspended on a treadmill, running Terminator-style in a very awesome light-coloured suit. Creepy futuristic music is playing as he pumps his arms up and down and the girls watch on in what may be slightly fearful awe.

Anya gushes in her Zoolander accent, "He looks like a silver robot."

Mr. Jay bursts through a wall of cardboard boxes and the girls squeal. Turns out they are on the set of the new art performance production Fuerz Buerta.

The girls are told they must lay in a shallow pool of water on a sheet of Mylar suspended in the air. Photographer Mike Rosenthal will shoot them from underneath. Cool?

After being told she doesn't need to slide into the water face first like a city kid attacking her neighbor's Wet 'N Slide, Claire does exactly that and almost gives herself a concussion.

While she recovers, Dominique slips and slides like a trannie sperm. Stacy Ann isn't quite as comfortable, looking more like a tadpole. Most of the girls seem to find semi-drowning to be, well, semi-horrible. Another Tyra torture shoot success!

At panel, Katarayzna debuts her new short cut. It turns out Tyra still can't pronounce her name, so Miss J assists by renaming her "Neutrogena." Pauline 'praises' the new do by noting Kataryzna's "weird Eastern European tackiness is now gone." Ouch.

On the topic of hair, Nigel calls Dominique a "mess" and says her hair looks like "There's Something About Mary." Yeah. Apparently the new insult is "You look like you styled your hair with cum."

For a second week, I am shocked by the bottom two. This time it's Claire and Lauren. Claire (yes, Claire!) is sent home and she appears as baffled as I am. Packing up her bags in the loft, she admits that she feels huge guilt for leaving her baby and husband for a failed endeavour. What is totally mind boggling is that between the two mommies, Dominique is the one who remains.

Next Week: Legal troubles for Fatima and Lauren circumcises her finger.

Ibi Kaslik Takes Centre Stage

Last night was the Toronto launch of Ibi Kaslik's new novel, The Angel Riots, hosted by Pages' This is Not a Reading Series.

The event began with an ill-matched interview between Eye Weekly's Sarah Liss and Kaslik. Liss' cool man, cool vibe did not connect with Kaslik's critical considerations of the creative process.

I mean, I wasn't expecting Liss to get all Mike Wallace on Kaslik, but Liss definitely wasted an opportunity. Kaslik is one of Toronto's most honest and intelligent writers and her thoughts on the craft are always thought-provoking, if not provocative.

After the one-on-one, Kaslik pulled out a guitar and put on a show of spoken word, melody and beats. All eyes in the standing-room-only crowd were fixed on Kaslik, although I admittedly had one eye surveying the room to see if any familiar faces could be spotted.

Much of Penguin's PR machine has focused on the 'social scene' that inspired Kaslik's rock novel and I wondered if any scenesters would make an appearance that extended beyond the page. There were a number of hipster exes in attendance (in fact Apostle of Hustle performed after Kaslik) but none of the charts' current darlings were to be seen.

Of course, who needs showy pop stars when you've got a lit lion taking centre stage?

As Kaslik advised Andrew Whiteman when he was plugging in her guitar, "Less effect is better." In Kaslik's case, it's all about keeping it real.

Some Atonement on the Weekend

I have to admit I did not sit down to watch Atonement this weekend with any measure of anticipation. I think Kiera Knightley is too scrawny to be cast as anything other than a junkie. The fact that she is a Chanel model still baffles me.

I am also a longstanding Ian McEwan fan who questioned how a filmmaker would be able to capture that classic McEwan atmosphere of half-truths and tension.

By the end, I was glad I'd seen the film. The first part, which is by far the strongest, does indeed deliver a nerve-wracking high wire act of conflict, desire and colliding identities. We follow at the heels of the precocious Briony, whose innocent crush on Robbie the gardener fuels her revulsion when she accidentally reads a draft of a letter he has written to her sister, Cecilia, played by Keira Knightley.

The revelation of a single word drives a course of events that leads to Robbie's imprisonment. This is where the movie seems to lose its direction, as it stands back and observes Robbie's participation in the war with a sometimes-frustrating distance. It is as if the audience is intended to lose their beloved along with Cecilia, which might have worked if this film were Cecilia's story. But it's not, and we are also left to guess at the choices that lead her to disregard her family fortune in favour of nursing.

That said, the film is gorgeous to watch, and the scene of a war torn French beach overtaken by hundreds of thousands of disillusioned British troops is one that will remain with me for a long time.

Perhaps most remarkably, Knightley not only shows some talent in her performance, she is actually quite striking. And as my mother-in-law noted, that James MacAvoy is one hot kisser.