Saturday, January 01, 2005

Trompe l'oeil

I think I might've vomited a bit in my mouth after catching a late-night showing of a Trim Spa commercial featuring Anna Nicole Smith. She first appears in Bo Derek braids running out of the water like a corseted marine mammal forced into a life of servitude and 1 900 numbers. Subsequent shots showcase her lithe frame in sequined skankwear hushing sweet nothings into the camera in her best Marilyn Monroe meets Ethel Merman impersonation. Her over-inflated lips also resemble two slices of raw liver surgically grafted to her, let's say, face. Part of me wanted to reach into the screen and hold her, tell her it's going to be all right and that her nasty case of VD might not be curable, but what do words mean anyway? The other part wanted to change the channel and watch the remaining 3 minutes of Diva On A Dime. Guess who won out?

Answer: Anna Nicole Smith.

You can't blame me for having morbid fascinations and a spleen-splitting distaste for an ersatz Queer Tie on a Fat Guy-type show that sucks due to hackneyed pun-ology and a lack of engrossing characters. (Who didn't relate to Jai, the 97-pound Latino?) How can someone possibly mess up the gay-folks-as-entertainment formula? It's foolproof. Throw together a non-threatening, sexually ambiguous, ex-Broadway dancer with a dowdy pre-op Swan reject and it's a money-making venture bursting with potential. But what did Diva/Dime do wrong?

They hired a woman (with prominant tan lines to boot).

Trust me, Pending-Matey-of-the-Yacht-Club: Those 4-for-a-buck buttons could never pass for real brass. She totally Lady Macbethed you, man. To think you would've impressed more people at that snooty affair had you worn a pair of Wham!-era hot pants with a bias-cut sarong hung on bejewelled nipple rings.

What a waste of a clean shave.


Happy New Year everyone! May 2005 bring yet another wave of trauma.

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