12:03 pm | 02 July 2003 | models. beans. trashbaghelmet!

Embroiled in sloth and hypoglycemic hangover, i read Bridget Jones's Diary on Sunday morning. It was cute, or whatever--essentially the lit equivalent of circus peanuts, which was exactly what i wanted--but i take issue with its premise. this new generation of crappy pap young-women's sex-&-the-city novels seems to be based on the idea that some essentially unattainable man--some big, fancy high-roller, almost exclusively involved in entertainment and or/media, will 'tire' of the models, actresses, and hangers-on with which he is surrounded and will, in the end, proclaim his love for the puddingy protagonist who is pretty in an average way, charmingly neurotic, quirky, etc. I would file this idea under NICE TRY, BUT GO BACK TO BED.

Dudes. This doesn't happen. Men that are involved in the fields of entertainment and/or the media LOOOOVE those girls. Hell, all men love those girls. You can protest until the cows done come home, and i'll not believe for a second that it's true. And who wouldn't? If i were surrounded by a cluster of adorable nineteen-year-old boys, all giggling and vying for my attention and bringing me hot cocoa and shit, it would be great (for like five minutes. then it would piss me off). But whatever. A friend of mine has an ex-girlfriend who is widely known to be deranged; still, when he said, "she was a model," it was with a wistful twinge in his voice.*

Which brings me to my next point. I'm not saying all men only want models. I'm saying that, given the opportunity, and given the near-constant proximity of starlets etc., the idea that such men truly "tire" of such a life is a crock of pooty. Farmers don't keep standard poodles because "oh, you're so different from the cows i hang with all day!" And so forth.

As i get older i am sort of happy that i don't look like Heidi Klum. I don't terrify small children, but my appearance is decent at best**--which means i'm never gonna have to be a trophy wife. And thank god! I don't want to spend the next twenty years scrambling up the slippery slope of trying-to-maintain-youth only to end up at a bus stop on Sunset with a faceful of Botox, crevices spackled full of eighty-dollars-an-ounce Peter Thomas Roth antiaging gel, and hobbled by lipo pressure pants and mock-croc Christian Louboutin slingbacks. I anticipate being appreciated for my only-slightly-pickled mind, if i end up stayin' with anybody for any amount of time at all--and while beauty fades (or at least changes), i am just gonna keep getting awesomer.

Which brings me to my final point: why the hell would these books even posit in the first place that an averagely cute and quirky girl would want to go out with Mr. Hotass Producerhead anyways? I don't LIKE guys who want models based on their model-ness. I like guys who can handle more mental activity from girlfriends than the equivalent of a houseplant. I am not so good at mindless ego-stroking. But i never felt too connected to Bridget Jones, anyway. For one, i can hold my liquor. clm.

*I learned from someone else that she was not in fact a model, just a skinny Japanese girl who'd been raised in Europe and gone to prestigious universities and was quadrilingual and shit--this aforementioned stuff being less important or indicative-of-character than "she was a model," apparently.
** "At best" means "not hungover, depressed, emotionally strung-out, drunk, or squirrelly" and consequently has a 4% chance of ever actually happening.

Great Strides in Vegetarianism

Last night, i went to see some friends' bands play. Then i got treeeashed. Then i went home. At which point, extremely drunkenly and with much vim and enthusiasm, i whipped open the cupboards and made myself a delicious bowl of...garbanzo beans. Yes. Chickpeas. I have become so hardcore herbivorous that WHEN I AM TOTALLY DRUNK I CAN THINK OF NOTHING MORE DELIGHTFUL THAN A BOWL OF (plain, cold, unfancied) GARBANZO BEANS. And they were delicious. This is weird, i know. I just wanted to share.