Advertising – Page 43 – I Don't Get It

Friends Don’t Let Friends Drink And Operate Chainsaws

I’ve heard of helping your buddies move and then sharing a case of beer, but this is a different breed of cat.

Here’s how I think it all went down. Dapper Dan left the firm early, but not before enlisting Kip and Truman from accounting as his partners in landscaping. They floored their Studebakers to suburbia with an urgency mandating no time to change out of their office duds or set their fedoras down. Curse you, early sunset! In the past two hours, Dan has felled a tree, while Kip and Truman have laid the steps along the pathway. Won’t Betty be surprised?

Now it’s time for a break. Kip raises his spade, and Dan tops off his (third) glass of sociable whiskey (it pairs well with Pall Malls). Don’t snag your trousers while you straddle that trunk. And save some Corby’s for the other two. You remember what happened last time, Dan.

For The Seafood Lover In You

Along with a handful of birthday greetings in my in-box today, was this inviting gem of an email, reminding me that “Lobster is back for a limited time.” Nevermind that I asked to be removed from their mailing list seven years ago. In their defense, the terms do say “Please allow 10 days as noted in the CAN-SPAM Law for Quiznos� to remove you from all future email advertisements.” Maybe it’s just taking longer than usual because of global warming or the recession or changing gun control laws.

Nevermind that my husband has a lobster allergy, so we never eat it at home. Nevermind that I don’t even eat lobster at RED LOBSTER (although I did enjoy a pre-Prom dinner there), due to the fact that I go into sodium chloride shock each time we take part of their salty cheddar bay biscuits.

In fact, it’s been so long since I partook of lobster, that I have no idea what it tastes like. No clue. But I can tell you that Quizno’s wouldn’t be my go-to place. Oh, heck, no. I would have warm lobster with butter sauce, not a mish-mash of mayo. And BTW, the bottom of the ad says it’s only 51% lobster. Why not 50%? So they could legitimately say the MAJORITY of it is lobster, by a percent? I suspect it’s like the “krab” at Subway, devoid of any “crab” at all.

Perhaps it’s even better than McDonald’s latest treat, fish bites.

Now, McDonald’s claims that these fried balls are made of tender, flaky wild-caught Alaskan Pollock. Isn’t this the same company whose jingle began, “Two ALL BEEF patties, special sauce…,” and then it turned out that the Big Mac was really just pink slime, and not so much of the all beef?

Maybe if I ever get up to Maine one day (or north of Dallas), I’ll stop inside some fisherman’s wharf where Rachael Ray once spent $20 on a po’ boy that made her giddy, and taste an authentic lobster dish. Until then, Quizno’s, I’ll pass on your former slogan: Eat Up.

Oppa Chunky-Style

Sweet Lord, that’s a jumbo-sized newborn! I can see why Mom’s not smiling–or laughing-or jumping rope–or coughing–anymore. Unless that baby was delivered C-section, there’s a 99% of light bladder leakage in the forecast. Where is Whoopi Goldberg when you need her?

No one likes a fragile, underweight infant. A big chub is the picture of good health. But that double-digit pounded baby in the Mennen ad is intended to depict a newborn. Really? Here is the small print:

I think we’re gonna need a few more cans, Ma! There’s a lot of swaddling to be done…

According to the Guiness Book of World Records, the “heaviest baby born to a healthy mother was a boy weighing 10.2 kg (22 lb 8 oz) who was born to Sig. Carmelina Fedele (Italy) at Aversa, Italy in September 1955.” There’s no pic to back that up, but let’s just recognize that it’s even bigger than this one.

It’s straight to bottles for you, Michelin boy! Even La Leche League gave his mom a free pass on the nursing. Seriously, his arms look like little Pillsbury Crescent Rolls. Bless his heart.

I’m not saying the redheaded Mennen baby isn’t precious; with a good heavy lifting belt velcroed around my waist, I’d like to hold it as well. I’d just like a little more truth in advertising. BTW, I wonder what that now-fifty-five-year-old baby looks like? Could it be that that little porker was Kevin Bacon?

Wing Droppings

What do you think of when I say “wings”? Red Bull? Paul McCartney? The 90s NBC sitcom? Well, if you’re like most gluttonous Americans, probably these:

If you’re a lady between the ages of 13 and 49, currently bloated and irritable, craving chocolate and Pinot Grigio, it might mean this:

But if you don’t foresee buying many more of those boxes in your future, or you’re done with them entirely, “wings” might mean this most awesome of hairstyles. You probably attempted some semblance of it at one point.

http://homesteadinghousewife.blogspot.com

I’m familiar with all of those wings, sometimes incorporating the three of them in the same moment. But never had I seen a power mower with wings until today.

The small print reads, “This giant of precison mowers…is the pride and joy of many men who mow grass for a living–and more than a few wealthy men who mow grass for fun.” For fun! Interpret as you will.

There are also scads of songs with “wings” in the titles. Broken wings, dove’s wings, eagle’s wings, little wings, silver wings, paper wings. But the song I never ever want to hear again, so help me God–not at a wedding or a funeral or a bris–is “Wind Beneath My Wings.” I can’t take it one more time. I really can’t.

INXS told us that, “We all have wings, but some of us don’t know why.” Does this gal know why? To fly from catwalk to catwalk? Those look heavy.

Victoria's Secret model Candice Swanepoel during the 2009 Victoria's Secret Fashion Show — Victoria’s Secret model Candice Swanepoel during the 2009 Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show

Wings have inspired quotes from Shakespeare to Charles Dickens, but only one as elegant and classy as Mae West could have confessed, “I’m no angel, but I’ve spread my wings a bit.” Which reminds me of this:

What’s the shelf life on that tat? A wee bit more than this unfortunate gal’s…

Ouch. Pass the blue cheese.

So whether you are right wing or left wing or a Detroit Red Wing, remember that we can all soar on wings like eagles. Or not.

Life Is Like A Box Of Panties

It’s not too late to get your lady what she really wants for this inane Hallmark-induced holiday. Regardless of her age, her weight, or even her sign (which you probably don’t even know, you CAD), no woman can resist a box of panties. Just the thought of lying down on a yellow linoleum floor, surrounded by a veritable pinwheel of pastel-colored high-waisted granny panties gives me goose bumps. I know what I’m wearing under my Easter dress… Cupid, draw back your bow!

Look, Ma! I don’t have to do the wash for three weeks solid! Nevermind the scent from the hamper…

See how mesmerized she is as they swirl around her, like Snow White singing to the birds? The sheerish netting on the pair she is sporting is so seductive. Earl won’t be able to keep his hands off her once he steps down from his big rig. That’s sexy from the bottom of her bum to her naval. Nothing like scratchy fabric chafing her lower rib cage to put her in the mood for an amorous pretend holiday. Fasten your seatbelt, Earl!

Note how carefree she has become, tossing her brassiere to the wind, strategically placing panties across her bosom, the way Peter Pan mermaids stuck adhesive starfish to their own chests. That mermaid may seem jubilant in this scene, but her joy masks the pain of knowing she will never, ever be able to wear boxed panties. Curse you, Neptune!

Frankie Says Crap Your Hands

Crap Your Hands, Everybody! Everybody, Crap Your Hands! I think things were actually GAINED in translation. Hopefully, a kind stranger will inform him what a difference a letter can make on his sweater that appears to have been stitched in the style of a Quaker. But at some point, he can remove it and toss it in the Goodwill pile. This lady is not so fortunate.

This pic hails from the Hanzi Smatter blog, dedicated to the misuse of Chinese characters in western culture. The lady who owns this arm believed the Chinese symbol to mean “chi.” Maybe she identified with the idea of vitality and life force and energy. Well, it’s not chi, per that blogger. Sadly, the symbol translates to “rice.” Rice.

But not all is lost. I mean, rice is still consistent with the Asian theme. Toss it in with that eerie koi (not to be confused with Iriquois), and it might make a great meal! Maybe she could stir fry it in a mild chili sauce and fresh orange peel, like P.F. Chang’s hunan style hot fish. Yum! As Winnie the Pooh says, I feel a rumbly in my tumbly. Actually, it isn’t farfetched to be associating food service with this colorful sleeve, since the enormity of it excludes her from many upper level management jobs, save quirky ice cream and sub sandwich shops.

Should we cut her (and the thousands of others who failed to research the symbol they had permanently inked onto their skin) some slack? I mean, there ARE 50,000 characters in the Chinese language. One cannot assume that all tattoo artists are fluent, no? And P.S., simply branding your arm with symbols does not automatically induct you into the spiritually enlightened hall of fame. It doesn’t give you a rich tapestry of character and dimension. Not all Chinese people do Tai Chi and catch flies like Mr. Miyagi, philosophizing near lily pads. It doesn’t make you deep. In the case of rice-girl, it just makes her ignorant.

So what’s the flip-side? When Asian people see things written in English, do they assume it’s all trivial and frivolous? Everyone knows Americans are fun and hip because we’re constantly shouting black music. Even our President does it.

If you’ve ever made a trip to the Engrish site, you’ve seen how desperately Asian designers are in need of skilled translators. But really, why would you walk around, wearing something that makes no sense? How can you make a statement when you don’t know what the statement is?

Maybe they like America’s bold stance on immigration, so they put it on a shirt.

Guatemara??

And who could argue that Pacino reeks of cool? Even if he commands you to say hello to the bad gay…

And check out this question for the Creator. Are you there, God? It’s me Chao-Xing.

My bet is he’s at the nearest head shop. Now this next one is complex.

First, and foremost, lollygag, unless it’s loitering in front of a 7-11. Second, repeat a random Wilson Phillips lyric. Next, the typical association of a foamy kitten and dwarf bravery, because those two go together like peanut butter and jelly. I hate to admit that dwarf bravery has NEVER shone on me. Not once.

Americans have spent so much time thinking Asian culture has the answers, but what if they think WE’RE the deep ones?

Hung in the sky blessing. Need drift on the waves. Preach it, brother, preach. That reminds me, I need to rent “Point Break” again.

Who knew Americans had the secret of life? We had it all along! Honey Boo Boo and Mama June can testify.

Well, it is. And it’s way better than crapping your hands.

Kiss Me, Kate–After You Gargle

Yeah, yeah–I realize this ad is old. But it’s not old to me. I grabbed a stack of old In Styles while at the used bookstore yesterday and this shot in a 2010 issue made me stop. Not to collaborate and listen, but to wonder WTH? Are her clothes in the bag? Does her driver have a brush she can borrow? Is she fresh from some coke-fueled rambage with ex, Pete Doherty?

This demands a caption contest. I’ll start with the lamest one that dates me:

Raise your hand. Raise your hand. If you’re sure.

That’s A Wrap

When did we all collectively decide that wrapping gifts was très passé and gift bags were en vogue? Sorry, that’s too much French; I suddenly feel the need to surrender to the enemy. The point is–was this a democratic decision or a hostile takeover? Freedom of choice or pressure to conform?

Technically, gift bags were introduced in 1987, but I never laid eyes on one until the 1990s. Apparently, it took off like gangbusters, and we all baaa’d like sheep and got on board the bandwagon. Was it sheer laziness that compelled us to simply toss our gifts on a bed of tissue, or did we want to stay on top of trends? Or was it like elections–we simply wanted change?

Just sit back with a mug of Sleepytime tea and visualize the o tannenbaum of your dreams: Does it stand proudly atop a slew of thoughtfully-wrapped red, green, silver, and gold boxes, some balanced and piled four gifts high? Or is it a one-level wasteland of crinkled Dollar Store gift bags with half-ply Charmin spilling out? I can tell you which option will grace the pages of Southern Living.

And as far as Christmas is concerned, how do we explain that Santa’s sack is full of gift bags? Certainly, the wind would catch them at some point, and they would float away into the wintry night sky. And who wants to picture Santa at his or her fireplace, daintily pulling gift bags out of his sack, preciously setting them under the prelit $300 Hobby Lobby “Douglas Fir?” Not I. I’ll take my Santa without cream and sugar, thank you.

And isn’t the part of the thrill of childhood ripping the paper to shreds? Just getting full-on Tasmanian Devil and taking out all your latent aggression from that stupid vocab test and that idiot who puts his mouth on the water fountain before you, and just tear into it like nobody’s business? Isn’t that what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown?

But it’s not just the holidays. Have you ever celebrated a birthday party at a restaurant, and the official time for the guest of honor to open gifts has not arrived, so you’re sitting there, eating chips and salsa, drinking margarita after margarita, trying not to accidentally kick over the gift bag next to your stilettos, for fear that the innards will spill out all over the tiled floor? No need to fear with a wrapped gift. It’s spillproof.

And why should I have to spend $5 on a gift bag for a $10 gift? Yes, I’m cheap. Rare indeed is the friendship that mandates more than a $25 gift. You can see I’m not wealthy, or my site would be pimping 4×4 truck ads all up and down the margins. And P.S. does it REALLY matter to you what the gift TAG looks like? Or will it be discarded within seconds? If by chance, I have cutesie reindeer and snowman “to and from” stickers on hand, super. But if it’s not a holiday, you’re name is being written on top in Sharpie pen. Deal with it.

Furthermore, you can’t rip adhesive off a fabulous curlicue red bow and shove it on a gift bag. Some of those glue adhesives retain ever-stickable properties; you can use and reuse for up to threescore years. They look absurd on gift bags, but when centered on a wrapped gift–it’s like the porridge that Goldilocks ate. Just right. And don’t get me started on mylar pom poms…

Now if you’ve blogged long enough, you may have stumbled upon the sites of fashionistas who lose their religion over a pair of Jimmy Choos. That kind of enthusiasm is contagious. I wasn’t like that in my 20s. But wouldn’t it be awesome to go all ape$#%& over a pair of SHOES? I couldn’t dredge that up for a winning lottery ticket.

The closest I ever came to that level of irrepressable excitement was over a decade ago, on a visit to The Container Store. That’s right. It didn’t matter that the weather outside was frightful, because what I beheld was delightful–aisles (plural) of gift wrap tubes. In prints you’d never conceived of. Prints that blew my mind.

Shut. Up.

Get. Out.

But gift bags don’t make me giddy. Now I understand their merits–when you care enough to regift the very best–if you have occasion for an enormous monkey-themed baby shower bag, or enough friends who appreciate “Feliz Cumpleanos” bags in fishing village hues. The tissue, however, cannot be recycled. Once it’s been tugged out, it’s DOA. The smoothness is gone, and it just looks trashy. Oh, I’m sure you’ve tried it. Maybe you thought you got away with it. But they knew. They knew.

I Want To Wear You Like An Animal

I pulled this ad out of my Vanity Fair magazine and set it on the coffee table for further inspection, as it seemed curious to me on several levels. My son walked by and asked why a scorned Taylor Swift was lying near the remote and tub of coconut oil, and I explained that Miss Swift, fickle as she may be, is nothing if not ladylike–nay, princesslike–and would not be caught dead in a bedazzed jungle cat motif.

This honor goes to Karlie Kloss, the Juicy Couture model for the Fall 2012 campaign. Now when I hear Juicy Couture, for some reason, the Brit’s voice pops into my head singing in her stilted robotic voice: I’m Mrs. Lifestyles Of The Rich & Famous (You want a piece of me?) I’m Mrs. Oh-My-God, That Britney’s Shameless (You want a piece of me?). No, thank you, we do not (and apparently, neither does Jason Trawick). The point is, Juicy Couture brings to mind velour tracksuits.

So there we have a JC designer wedged between JLo and The (Green) Material Girl. Are these the best examples of juicy derrieres? One of them has an ample booty, and one of them has a boney booty, but neither of them can claim “juicy” anymore. Perhaps Madonna could suggest that her designer daughter, Lola, start a line of clothing for post-menopausal women, with a more accurate label. Something like “Wither Couture.”

with-er

To dry up or shrivel from or as if from loss of moisture.
To lose freshness; droop.

But back to Miss Kloss, the anti-withered. In fact, she’s not even legal to imbibe yet, at least not in the States. I’m no Anna Wintour, so I can’t tell you what they WANT this ad to say to the consumer. But I can tell you what a common woman between the age of Britney and Madonna sees when she looks at this ad.

Either her teeth are clenched as part of her snarly little sneer, or she better hop on over to the orthodontist tout de suite regarding that underbite.
Why is she wearing a dog collar? Those genuine diamelles look heavy and will smack her in the face the next time she bends down to adjust her stiletto.
Is this bedhead or a mousse commercial or are we supposed to think she just had sex at the seaside pavilion in the background with a former pro-surfer-turned-hobo?
That upturned eyebrow is laden with disdain. Don’t you peer at me through those nerdy girl glasses (do they even have lenses?). I think if we panned out of this shot, she’d have an empty gin bottle in her hand (minor in possession!), ready to smack us. This is all very Louisville-slugger-to-both-headlights, if you get my drift.
Why is she wearing a presumably faux fur jacket at the beach? Is she cold from detox chills?
What is up with the leopard/cheetah with palm trees sprouting out of his head? Animal cruelty alert! Just try to look into his clear blue eyes without turning away. That ferocious cat seems to understand the mysteries of the world. Or maybe he’s slowly choking to death in the deathgrip of that Charming Charlie’s choke collar. Either way, this is all reminding me of the feng shui woman yesterday who told me the best way to cure my insomnia was to rid the bedroom of animal prints, including animal print sheets (who has THOSE?) because they are too “energizing.” If Karlie did, in fact, pass out drunk on her jacket in that pavilion, the animal print seems to have done more enervating than energizing.

Animals, animals, animals! Where is Hal Linden when I need him?

And just in case you missed the animal references, here she is ON ALL FOURS in a leopard-print jumpsuit hoodie monstrosity, cavorting on the sand after she had her Gatorade to rehydrate. Who’s a happy girl now? Who’s a happy girl?

More than anything, this reminded me of my college roommate’s cat, Misery, when she was in heat, rump raised and ready to rumble. I think I’ll take my couture pulp-free this year, perhaps altogether juice-free. Lola, have you got any etchings done yet??

Romping About

I just watched a clip of Romper Room (for the first time in my life–purely as research), and I made an observation: not one of them was wearing a romper.

Webster defines a romper as “a jumpsuit for infants.” These rompers look like onesies to me. The Free Dictionary describes a romper as “a loosely fitted, one-piece garment having short bloomers that is worn especially by small children for play.” Neither of these definitions include garments for grown people. And Webster should know; he’s been defining for a while now. But I definitely remember seeing fashionable gals wearing rompers a couple decades back. Check out this animal and floral print. Looks like someone borrowed grandma’s negligee…

ebay wants $48 for this. Are you kidding me? In THIS recession?

What we do know is that rompers are worn by those who romp. Romp is defined as rough and energetic play. Lively, merry play. One site equated it to capering (playful skipping). And here I thought capers were only in my Olive Garden chicken piccata. All I know is that I definitely do not romp. I move like a basset hound with hip dysplasia.

The urban Dictionary, however, our go-to source for slang nearing obsoletion, defines a romp as the nasty, like a romp in the hay. You know, frolicking boisterously. In which case, one would shed all clothing, not put on a uniform to perform it. So why does http://www.ioffer.com label this a romper?

I’m not catty, so I’m not going to comment on a butter face wearing a butterfly belt. Wait–is that Posh Spice? Nevermind. But I do take issue with this as a romper. It is obviously a jumpsuit, more genetically related to an Elvis Jumpsuit than to a romper. And that material clearly lends itself to dromedary toe. So, ioffer, you may offer, but I politely decline. A jumpsuit extends to the floor. A romper has blousy bloomers that allow for gusts of wind to air out nether regions. See below.

Don’t act like you don’t remember this silky little number. I wore something almost identical in a fetching shade of maroon to my uncle’s wedding the week that Whitney Houston topped the charts with Dolly Parton’s song. Yes, it was appropriate garb at the time, unfathomable though it be. It was a very Contempo Casuals time in our country’s history.

Being a square may no longer be hip, but I can’t imagine that even the women who fall all over themselves trying to get a copy of Fifty Shades of Gray would want to see their man in this (yes, that’s what they called it) romper. Don we now our gay apparel!

you're welcome, www.liquidvinlyclothing. com — you’re welcome, http://www.liquidvinylclothing. com

Surely this is impeding his cavorting. But with that tat and that wedding band, romping is definitely on the agenda. You go, middle aged man! Way to keep your BMI down. See, P90X does work.

And now we arrive in modern times, right here, right now.

They say you can’t wear it the second go round if you wore it the first go round (oh, remember Merry-Go-Round? And The Wild Pair? Sorry.) These celebs look young enough to be abiding by that rule. But that doesn’t defend these rompers. They look wrinkly, and none of these denims is a proper dark rinse. And is the pseudo-Applegate wearing acid-washed? There is NO excuse for that!! They can try to play it off as fun and flirty, but, ladies, we know the romper truth. We know how they extend bathroom stall time by up to thrice a normal amount. And then you’re basically hovering, buck naked, over a public toilet. Or you resort to the tug-aside. Either way, no, thank you. Let’s send this look out to pasture and retire the romper for good.

Advertising Icon Transformation

courtesy of http://www.RedesignRevolution.com

I know, right? You’re already uncomfortable.

I love makeovers. LOVE them. And even though I love food, the makeovers are my favorite part of Rachael Ray’s show. And even though I love me some kooky, tipsy Kathy Lee and Hoda banter, my favorite part of Today is the ambush makeover. And don’t get me started on Clinton and Stacey spiffing stylistically-challenged folks up in straight leg, dark rinse trousers that elongate them.

So I understand the irresistible lure to fix the ugly and the outdated to market a product (although, apparently auto companies have not quite grasped that idea, and have actually gone in reverse for the past forty years, producing uglier, blander models, but that’s neither here nor there.) Successful advertising often requires changing with the times, and–in the case of the Quaker Oats Company–the need to stop offending particular groups. On her 100th anniversary, syrup icon Aunt Jemima received her latest makeover. I totally get the desire (read: pressure) to update her image, but do all transformations have to include a younger, thinner version?

Truth be told, I’m not digging this current Jemima. I’m not feeling the nurturing. Those pearl earrings are more for the boardroom than the kitchen. I’m not saying you need a do rag to cook, but I do have concerns that stray hairs from her more polished coif may find themselves in my pancake batter. And I just feel like if I asked her to whip me up some flapjacks, she might not be so keen on it. And before you call me racist, just know that the original Aunt Jemima, Nancy Green, actually was born into slavery in 1834, so the look was indicative of the time, like it or not. I imagine she did have the last laugh (all the way to the bank). Now onto a W.A.S.P.ier icon…

Unlike the changing Jemima faces, who–let’s remember were all paid to represent her–Betty Crocker was never a real person. Her name and face were contrived to appeal to homemakers. Well, I’m a homemaker, and I’m not down with any of these Betties. Talk about a lack of nurturing. The portraits all look so sterile. These faces don’t say yummy walnut brownies to me; they say news anchor or banker wife (or “no wire hangers!”). And I’m almost certain one of them is a Baxter-Birney. Next!

I think we can all agree the 2006 Sun Maid Raisin girl makeover was an epic failure. I prefer the happy Gilda Radner to this creepy CGI no-indentation-in-her-upper-lip-Julia-Roberts-smile Little Red Riding Hood. The cheerful immigrant girl was clearly up at the crack of dawn to pick grapes, but I doubt the “new and improved” Raisin Barbie would have stumbled home yet. And something about her armpit bothers me. And finally…

courtesy of www.businessinsider.com — courtesy of http://www.businessinsider.com

In retrospect, maybe the 70s Brawny dude does look like he did a little porn on the side, but at least he looks like a real guy. Depending on your age (white people) you either have an uncle or a brother who looked like this guy. And he probably had a name that rhymed with “hairy” to match: a good, solid era-specific name like Gary, Larry, or Barry. He changed the oil on his Camaro himself (while listening to his Boston eight-track), he drank beer out of cans–not bottles–and gave no thought to wine pairings and manscaping. This is the guy I want representing the durability and strength of my paper towel. This guy knows how to clean up a mess.

But the new effete guy? The one in the red plaid shirt that he just picked up from the dry cleaners? What’s his name? Perhaps it rhymes with “Aiden,” as in Brayden, Caden, or Jaden. How is he going to clean up spilled milk and vodka vomit if he just had his mani-pedi done? A Brawny guy should not know what exfoliating is, but Caden does. Honestly, I think fem queens will dig either one, depending on their preference for bears or not, and I’m certain the wording of “Pick A Size” beneath the blonder Tom Selleck is not lost on them. But speaking as a straight woman with an opinion, I say: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific But For The Love Of All That Is Holy, Stop Touching It

I watch a lot of late night television. A lot. At the time it actually comes on. Late. I don’t record it or DVR it or whatever else people do these days. I simply know when shows come on, and then I sit in front of the television at that time and watch them. If I were too busy to do that, I would have to reassess my life. Many times, when Leno or Kimmel are on commercial, we turn the channel to Letterman, and my husband asks for the umpteenth time why he is still on the air. My hub has no memory of Dave’s heydey decades ago; all he sees is the crochety beige shell of a host who lost his humor and his sass well before the Towers fell. He’s like that cantankerous old ventriloquist dummy, Walter. Sometimes we think, “This will be the night that the Top Ten is actually funny.” But it never is. Never. I tell him I’m pretty sure they did a really funny list in 1993, but then I remember even Conan was funnier than Dave that year. Crap, that was twenty years ago. TWENTY. One score. Yeesh.

Nonetheless, Dave, Jay, Craig, Conan, and the two Jimmies have one thing in common: guests. They share the same guests. We see the same actors in different suits, night after night, promoting the same movie with the same clip and the same set-up that gets really old. But even this pales in comparison to what really gets my goat. And a week never goes by without it happening. Sometimes it happens twice in one night. And it’s never the actors, only the actresses. And no, it’s not their ridiculously short dresses that they intermittently tug down, as though they had NO IDEA how it would register on camera, as though a stylist strapped them down in a chair and dressed them against their will, never explaining how fabric bends when one moves from standing to sitting, or worse–some madman appeared just before they went on stage and hacked six inches off their dress with a cleaver. The nerve!

But that’s not it. What chaps my hide is how often they touch their hair. I don’t mean once or twice. I mean every couple of seconds. Inhale, touch hair, exhale, be normal. Inhale, touch hair, exhale, sit still like a composed human being. And they try to play it off as though they weren’t doing it. Jay Leno will say a witty retort, and they will laugh nervously, and bang! There goes the hand up to the face. Half the time, their hair isn’t even IN their face to begin with. They just want to touch it, like they’re Kelly LeBrock and they just started using Pantene, and they can’t believe how touchable it is. It is so annoying. Sometimes they will take the same strand of hair and attempt to pull it back behind their right ear, but it’s just a TOUCH too short, and so it immediately falls forward, and yet they spend the entire segment, fiddling with it, yanking and falling, yanking and falling. Katie Holmes is the worst! And no, it doesn’t make you look cute and sweet and humble, and aw, shucks. It makes me wonder 1) why are you so damn insecure if you are a famous Hollywood actress millionaire or 2) you need to upgrade your Hold Control on your hairspray. Can I suggest TRESemme (ooh la la) extreme hold? That’s like five dollars at Walgreen’s, and that crap’s not moving. Not in a tsunami.

I’m not talking about hair twirling. It’s not just a casual, playful thing. It’s moving it back, moving it out of the face, pushing it away, over and over and over and over again. Mila Kunis. Demi Moore. It’s not sexy. It’s distracting. Don’t their publicists tell them to ix-nay the hair-touching after so many repeat offenses? Look, if you simply cannot control yourself, perhaps you should do what Scarlett Johansson so often does. Wear an updo with nary a tendril in sight. Pulled completely off the face. Then there’s nowhere to hide. And isn’t that the point? Aren’t talk shows for shameless self-promotion? If you still can’t fight the fixation, then just grab the water mug and sip. Some people do that a lot. Just don’t take it to extremes. Maybe you could tug on your earlobe like some hyperactive Carol Burnet. Bring that one back into vogue. Or rub that chin hair nub back and forth, the one you plucked three nights ago. Or–and this is crazy–you could simply fold your hands in your lap and act like a lady–and I can’t believe I’m saying this–like Britney Spears did on Kimmel last September. She kept her hands in her lap and off her face. She did have the world’s shortest oufit on, though. And she was all stiff, like maybe she needed to pee. But her hair looked fabulous, all Barbarella and sexpot. And she barely touched it at all. Go, Britney!

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