It's raining shallow idiots

Sorry to be gone so long, dearests, but it was a four day weekend for me, and since I do all my best writing at work, while avoiding actually working, there seemed to be no time to jot down observations of the world. I didn’t you all cared so much. Besides, as you may have gathered from my last post, I was a trifle melancholic, but I’ve since decided to buck up and just let the melancholia be there if it must, and go on about my business. I’ve recently been intrigued by the Meyers-Briggs Personality test, and am convinced that my melancholy comes along because I don’t put enough faith in my inborn preferences. Like, I’ll be going along all happy and fine, but suddenly think, for whatever reason, that the things that do make me happy shouldn’t make me happy, and so I get the idea in my head that some big changes need to be made, when actually all I need to do is say “Yeah, such-and-such does make me happy, and that’s all right.”

For the interested, I test as INTP, but I think I’m really INFP, and test as T because I think that’s what I’m supposed to do.

Jet thinks he’s an ENFJ, which is, you’ll realize if you’re in the know, as perfect match as can be for an INFP.

A pleasant weekend was had by all, with Jet doing a little house beautification while I rehearsed, and then us packing up Dino and Floozy Flingland and taking a jaunt about the countryside, where we happened upon the Apple Butter Festival in scenic Berkley Springs, WV. The Festival was a little new-agey for our tastes, but Floozy found some great bargains, and we were all encouraged to return in a couple of weeks when the crowds were less oppressive.

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I nearly came to blows with an ugly, ugly woman last night while walking Dino, the cutest, most precious dog ever to walk the Earth. By ugly I mean ugly on the inside, where it counts, though she was no looker, and didn’t help matters that she hadn’t washed her hair in a while and was wearing what looked to be an Apache buckskin.

So I’m walking Dino, who is precious, and little, and had already done her dainty “business” for the evening, which I was dutifully carrying in a plastic bag until it could be disposed of properly. She stopped in someone’s yard, as she is wont to do, to “tinkle”, which certainly does no harm to anyone. Just as she squatted to do the deed, a car pulled up behind to park along the curb, so I hustled her out of the way, not even giving her time to complete her deed.

So on we walk, and suddenly from behind, I hear “Um, excuse me, sir, would you come back and clean up your dog’s crap out of my yard?” You will get the right impression if you go look in a mirror, scrunch up your face until it’s as ugly as possible, and then try to say the above while making your voice sound like Fran Drescher’s, only more annoying.

“It’s okay,” I called in a friendly, genial, neighborly tone, because I am friendly, genial, and neighborly in nearly every situation one could imagine. “She was just peeing!”

“Um, no, there are lumps in my yard.” (Continue to scrunch your face up. Pretend you are Fran Drescher, only younger and stupider, but trying to sound smart and mature.)

So I go over to see a turd the size of a summer squash, which if it HAD come from Dino, would have comprised about three-quarters of her total body mass.

“Do you really think this came out of HER?” I asked, incredulous but still friendly.

The response was a glare not only from her, but from her lichen-covered pinch-faced hangers-on who had crawled from her Vega Blowabout like potato bugs from under a stone.

“Well, it’s not hers, but I’ll clean it up for you anyway,” I said, only allowing a hint of sarcasm to slip through, so as to prove that I was their better in every way.

“Thank you,” (you’ll really have to scrunch your face up for this one), “and stop letting your rotten dog crap in my yard.”

Sounds like someone’s bucking for a fiery bag of dog shit on their front stoop on Hallowe’en night, hmmm?

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Monday evening I had occasion to be strolling the National Mall, biding my time before going to a rehearsal for a gig at the National Gallery of Art, when I was approached by two swarthy-looking types carrying armloads of video equipment. Imagine my delight when they turned out to be a news team from the Voice of America Indian division (those of you in the know about my true identity will recall my long-standing love of Indian culture – subcontinent, not Native American – which dates all the way back to age five when I caught chicken pocks from Chithra Stephens, and was recently reinforced by memorizing all the songs from Lagaan in order to get free muffins at Dunkin Donuts). I then proceeded to be interviewed, on camera, about what I felt was the most important issue in the upcoming election. I said something along the lines of “congenial relations with our allies”, and I said it several times, because the interviewer wanted to do everything in one take, and kept messing up when he turned to the camera, and said (in Hindi), “Blah blah blah Washington blah blah blah blah Teenage Bamm-Bamm blah blah blah blah.”

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Little Sister Bamm-Bamm almost crawled through the telephone and did back-flips in order to get me to watch Manhunt: The Search for America's Most Gorgeous Male Model, which I did, if only to remind myself why I don’t watch reality television. The premise, apparently, is to take a group of all-American fellows, set them up in a fast, hip lifestyle, and then systematically watch as they are overcome by their own vapidity until only one remains, to become America’s next male supermodel.

Oh, and one of the contestants is a real model, planted in the group as a spy. (hint: It’s Kevin P.)

Oh, and one of them is secretly gay (hint: there’s more than one. And it’s no secret.)

The problem, of course is that there ARE no male super models, because male models are accessories for female models. Set dressing, if you will.

Manhunt airs on Bravo, home of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, which seems to be making a grab for gay viewers. I wonder if they have any gay people on staff, or at least, any gay people that don’t live in New York City and think that the pinnacle of social prominence is gaining admittance to that week’s hot club. Their programming choices seem to be on a par with BET suddenly deciding to show Amos and Andy reruns and Stepin Fetchit movie marathons.

In all fairness, perhaps I'm too hasty in assuming that a show featuring half-naked men is targeting gay men. Little Sister Bamm-Bamm and her straight gal friends could not contain their delight. They were giggling like schoolgirls pouring over the latest Tiger Beat.

The show is apparently hosted by Carmen Electra, although she barely appeared in the premier episode. A perfect choice, really. I imagine the production meeting went something like this:

Producer 1: “Hey, who can we get to host Manhunt: The Search for America's Most Gorgeous Male Model ?”

Producer 2: “Most gorgeous, huh? Hey, how about Carmen Electra, who married Dennis Rodman and Dave Navarro, the TWO UGLIEST MEN ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH?”

The big obstacle to overcome in the first episode was for the guys to strip down to their underwear and skydive…sort of. The real skydiving was done by actual skydivers, each of whom had one of the semi-nude models strapped to their chest. (One can only imagine the glee in the skydiver’s HQ when the duty roster was announced…”okay, guys, today we have safety training, plane maintenance, and then all of you will have a semi-nude idiot strapped to your chest for a jump.”) One by one we were treated to footage of each lad screaming like a girl on their descent, then high-fiving each other once they were safely on the ground. Riveting.

Oh, and….I KNOW they were skydiving, and I KNOW it was probably cold way up in the air like that…but these boys have NO reason to be prancing around in their underwear, if you get my drift. At least shove a sock in there, like real models do.

Once on the ground, they are harangued by Bruce Hulse, self-described as America’s first male supermodel. Again we are treated to a riveting few minutes of Mr. Hulse making the boys emote for him, and apparently there are only three emotions necessary for being a male model – “seductive”, “your dog just died”, and “Blue Steel”, whatever the f*&% THAT is. Frankly, they all three look like “I just crapped my pants and it really smells”, but oh well.

I rate reality shows by how many of the contestants I would want to invite to a dinner party, and so I give Manhunt a 2, (2 points higher than The Apprentice!) for Seth and Jason. Yes, the Christian and the redneck. Just to show you how open-minded I can be.