Ah, To Hell With Substance...

I have a need to be frank for a moment (and I am not referring to my inner-70 year old man who can't seem to get enough of a very dry Hendrick's gin & tonics, or who always seems to compel me to use random words that have not been spoken out loud in this millenium at the most inappropriate times: Think the use of the phrase, "OMG, he is such a curmudgeon!" used liberally and often in conversation on a first date. Is it any wonder I am about 3 weeks away from purchasing several cats and becoming that "girl"?). Actually, I don't want to be frank, I want to be shallow. Not just happenstance shallow, as is my default state, but unboundedly, rampantly, insouciantly shallow. In short, shallow without apologies (the best kind).

So let's talk "pretty" here. Somehow in the last week, it seems that people have been talking about their "types" and what they find attractive more than usual. It is hard to tell why, I think it probably is some combination of El Nino, it being the year of the Rat, and (most likely) the release of Mr. and Mrs. Smith this weekend (I find the trailers for that film almost blinding in the dazzling display of beauty they capture. Some of it is him, but it is especially her. She is gorgeous, but she's also captivating. Would that I were that captivating (and it didn't require marrying the terminally fugly B.B. Thornton and wearing vials of blood around my neck)). In any event, without question, everyone's standards of the butter-melting factor of the appearance of others is different, however, I have found there is a sort of spectrum that emerges. At least it is true for me, and thus, unsolicited by anyone, I share:

In particular, re. male beauty, it appears that there is a spectrum. It seems to slide from an appreciation for the plaintive scowls of Russell Crowe (and some fanatical obsession with his fleshy thighs in Gladiator) (obviously, I am trying to understand, but just don't get it - although I guess it's not every day you see the uber-macho fellow in what is, for all intents and purposes, a skirt) to the elfin, delicacy of Legolas, ummm, I mean Orlando Bloom (swooning over someone you could probably pick up and carry over the threshold after your wedding is just something I don't get...).

The sick obsession with Cro-Damon, the neanderthal outfielder, seems to stem more from the Russell Crowe side of the spectrum. The apparent fascination with Hayden Christianson, who always looks like those three diamond anniversary stone deBeers commercials would drive him to tears, is from the Orlando Bloom side. Vin Diesel, side o' beef with eyes, a Crowe-ite. Justin Timberlake, a bit like a shorn chicken, more Bloom-ish.

Then there are the total outliers, who while you could probably categorize them on the above- spectrum are in fact, simply too painful, and thus defy categorization. Examples here, Senor Fred Durst: Claims of having bedded every recently broken up pop tart of the moment aside, though one might say he is Crowe-ish, really he just makes you want to gauge your own eyes out with a pen. Well, maybe that's a little much. But our next contestant does come pretty close to inspiring such desperate behavior: J.Lo, you have not chosen wisely, Marc Anthony is conceivably the most painful looking man on the planet. Besides being pocket sized, I am pretty sure he has been dead for several years. Lenin probably looks more alive at this point. If forced to choose, we could stick him on the Bloom side of the scale, not only for his diminutive size, but for the additional LOR connection: His uncanny resemblance to Gollum. The ring is clearly the only way he has gotten a Miss Universe, and a Miss I Own The Universe to marry him. (Note: Perhaps like Tommy Lee, and his bevvy of blondes, maybe there is something there we are not seeing. Umm, maybe not.)

Speaking of other people's claims to beauty that I don't get: I also think that most of the young (and not so young) starlets in Hollywood, despite the eOnline breathless pronouncements of their beauty, are starting to look more and more like drag queens. They look absolutely wrung out. See, e.g., Lindsay Lohan (76 lbs, appears to be 56 year old menthol chain smoking waitress named Velma), Nicollette Sheridan (nipped, tucked... in the Nip/Tuck season finale kind of way), Paris Hilton (kick-ass ANTM body, I will give her, but here's the truth no one wants to admit: She looks like an alien creature, or that she might have a case of the Penelope Cruz'es - who I am utterly convinced, at least when she is photographed at certain angles, that she has dwarfism. Also, Paris' hair is not naturally blonde and her eyes are not actually blue. It appears that when it comes to Ms. Hilton, there is not even a surface to scratch); Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen (apart from the fact that they dress like bag ladies, weight 12 pounds, and their penchant for large plastic sunglasses alternately make them look like the lady from the Old Navy commercials a few years back, child impersonators of flamboyant-era Elton John (is there any other kind?) or Sofia from the Golden Girls. Also, while I am well aware that they have, like, a kajillion dollars from direct-to-video saccharine sweet kids movies, and there was the decade of Full House - which through the magic of syndication appears to be on TV even more often than the Proactiv infomercial, and which always leaves me breathless trying to figure out the mind-boggling amount a free-standing house of that size in a tony SF neighborhood would run -- what have they done lately? Does New York Minute a legitimate film career make? Then again, Paris is so convinced that "The Simple Life" and House of Wax constitute a career that she has made a formal announcement of her retirement plans. Paris and Mike Tyson in the same week. I don't know if my world can take such disruption. I bet Tom Cruise would offer them all vitamins out of concern for their career death-spirals.) Mariah Carey. (Oh Mariah, you used to be so hot, and now, you are not quite Nicollette Sheridan-bad, but you do have a very Victor-Victoria look about you. Mimi, indeed.)

Yes, I am a bitch. I know. Kinda running with it today, so bear with me.

But in case you don't want to, let's switch gears and talk pretty: Jake Gyllenhall. Paul Walker. Jason Lewis. Josh Duhamel. Patrick Dempsey. Taye Diggs. Bradley Cooper. Moving on to the sporting world: LeBron James, Brett Favre, Ian Thorpe, David Beckam, Andy Roddick, Tom Brady, Mark Mulder... ah, the list goes on and on....

Also, in the Title IX spirit of equality, as for the ladies: Jessica Alba, Terri Hatcher, Mia Hamm, Angelina Jolie, Angie Harmon, Scarlett Johansson. Gwyneth Paltrow. Courtney Cox. Jennifer Aniston. Salma Hayek. Lovely are they all.

Looking at these preferences in cold relief of the typed page, it appears the preferences are clear: I have a seemingly incurable obsession with tall Abercrombie&Fitch looking types. Nothing but the uber-pretty for me. Oh, and one wonders why I am always lacking in dates on major national holidays?

There are, of course, the outliers, who I find attractive for reasons I cannot explain (if only that they don't fit the aforementioned mold): Jon Stewart. Eminem. David Duchovny (maybe, it's just a Mulder-fixation...)

Must also note, that even those that I have claimed to eschew appreciation of (members of the Crowe-Bloom spectrum), I do find attractive when wearing short, preferably buzz cut, type hair. See, e.g. Orlando Bloom in Blackhawk Down. Russell Crowe in Gladiator. And, dare I say it (hell, I dare - as I've clearly lost all credibility here) even Johnny Damon was not quite so loathsome when he wasn't channeling Chris Robinson. Rob Thomas looks infinitely better to me these days sporting the shorn look. Jake Gyllenhall's latest coif is truly yummy. Yes, my military affinity (dare I say, compulsion? pathology? runs very, very deep).