Beauty is only silicone skin deep

I don’t know why I love you, but I do . . . Tyra Banks, Queen of the Nile – or, at least, Queen of the modelling world. Probably not, truth be told: Tyra is not, nor was she ever, a supermodel. She went from catwalk to Victoria’s Secret catwalk to Coyote Ugly and then, in a very wise business move, to America’s Next Top Model. She may not have been a supermodel, but today, she’s a role model.

In the game of finances, she’s had me at “check” for quite a while now. But this evening I think it’s finally game, set, checkmate, Ty Ty.

“She looks like a mannequin,” quoth Tyra. “Absolutely stunning.” Why, Tyra, why? Series 10 of ANTM finished yesterday evening in central America and a new ‘top model’ (read Covergirl to catalogue to E! presenter) was crowned, and Tyra again spent at least 20 of the 45-minute programme reciting inspirational verse from the missals of her memory.

But what, pray tell, is inspirational about a plastic mannequin? What can be attractive about a woman who can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t enjoy herself, or, even, be enjoyed? Anti-feminism jokes aside, one has to worry about where we’re going, where we’re headed, how we are raising our children. So many of us want to be plastic, and with ANTM’s average audience age of about 14… well, Tyra, next time you think about saying something, count to 10 first.

Personally, I won’t be watching the next series. I’ve outgrown ANTM, at last, and I feel that I have a lot more with which I could be filling my time. Besides which, I have enough signs thrown at me every day, from posters, from the bus, from magazines and newspapers: “The highest function of the sign is to make reality disappear.” Sometimes I wonder where I am: in reality, or hyper-reality. Sartre has ruined, and heightened, my enjoyment of life.

Giornalismo nel mondo d’oggi

That could have been terrible Italian; only Michelangelo will know. I’ve moved my blog from blogspot to here, to establish a web presence for myself – on the advice of the frighteningly influential Harry McGee. So now, when somebody I meet out and about on a Friday night (were I ever to be out and about of a Friday) googles me, they will find not only a comment I left on somebody’s Bebo page in the days of my youth, but they will find this, me, online and creating journalism magic.

Journalism magic: the realm of, in my opinion, Anthony Lane, Robert Fisk and Martin Amis, my faves. Amis and Lane are probably similar in that they both review; Fisk reviews, but more life itself than books or film, but in no less critical a fashion – in fact, one could say more. Also, Amis is somewhat more of a pedant, albeit an adorable one, than Lane.

So here I am: those are the men to whom I look up. I did just buy Cupcakes and Kalashnikovs, so, maybe by my next post, I will have some women to look up to as well. And maybe some day, I’ll be one of those women to whom some aspiring journalist is looking up. Them’ll be the days.