metrosexual, with beer belly.
five of the six hours of my flight back from dc yesterday were spent watching television, because the week was one of massive overwork, and my head was too tired to even read a magazine . yay jetblue. four of those five hours were spent on the learning channel: two episodes of the "survivor" of lifestyle shows, trading spaces; one episode of clean sweep, a show that introduces you to just how intricately disorganized the interior lives of most americans actually are; and one episode of my new favorite show on tv, in a fix.
basic premise is that somebody shreds the structure of their house in the name of home improvement. weary of the mess, a hapless housemate calls the "in a fix" team, who spend three days helping the homewrecker make the place liveable again while the housemate runs off to get pampered at the spa or whatever.
that is the premise, but it is not the point. the point has nothing to do with renovation. the point is humiliation. the point is testosterone. apparently, tlc cottoned to the fact that a lot of guys were watching home decorating shows and getting shit from their friends for it , so they created a new show that's all about guys that care about design, but not as much as they care about beer, women, fire, and kicking your ass!
each episode is predicated on making a complete fool of the person who fucked up the job in the first place, starting with the "it's all my fault" t-shirt s/he's forced to wear. everybody's in on it — the hot chick designer, the four burly construction guys who can't take their eyes of the hot chick designer, the snarky host, the producers, the cameraman, the editors — they're all looking to make the guy who screwed up the house look like a pansy. or trying to find ways to harsh on each other. or looking for something else to demolish. or waxing poetic about a particular shade of cerulean blue, and how beautiful it will look as a formica finish on the bar they're building for the living room.
it's the new take on the american male: metrosexual, with beer belly. caveman knocks woman out, throws over shoulder, and takes back to cave to look at paint chips.
in the episode i saw, a tall, tattooed australian, who could easily have skipped prison mere hours before, detailed the level of care he was putting into the aforementioned blue finish; followed by haranguing the homeowner about how slowly he was sanding down that finish; interrupted by the rest of the team tackling the aussie to the ground, removing his shirt, and setting it on fire in the backyard because it "smelled bad;" finished with a group discussion of the relative merits of a certain shade of pastel for the interior accent color.
i seriously want to fuck something up so bad courtney need to call these guys. what can i break that i won't miss?
the last hour of the flight was spent trading shoulder punches with amanda, who was sitting next to me.
 the atlantic monthly's now $4.99? apparently they figured out they're the kind of rag that people like me usually buy in airports but don't subscribe to, and priced accordingly.
 not that i would know anything about that.