A few days ago, across the street from my office
building at Rockefeller Center, the sounds of Caribbean music reached my ears
as I made my way into work in the morning. I knew that the Today Show has, for some time now over the last several years, at
least, featured mini-concerts. Perhaps Fox News was doing the same thing with
its morning show, I speculated—a thought probably planted a few days before, when
I saw a bandstand set up with some musicians onstage.
This time, as I drew closer, I noticed the little
scene in this photo. It was a veritable cabana party going on. What could be
the occasion?
Good ratings? Or something that must be music to the
ears of Roger Ailes—a potential megascandal for the Obama administration? The
music and the relaxed attire were so festive that I half-expected to see Bill O’Reilly,
Sean Hannity, and God knows how many other house conservatives come out to do
the Limbo Rock. (They might be slightly premature in their expectations:
Fifteen years ago, as the Monica Lewinsky situation hit the fan and dreams of
impeaching Clinton danced in their heads, they were ready to do the Bimbo Rock.
We all know how that turned out.)
Just around the time I was taking in this scene,
another one greeted me: a mad hive of people pressing toward the door of the Fox
News Building, madly snapping photos of someone hidden by the crowd until that
person had slipped behind the door. The last time I had seen such a swarm of
shutterbugs snapping away was during a book (???!!!!) appearance by Cindy
Crawford at a Barnes and Noble store on Fifth Avenue one Christmas season
nearly 20 years ago.
“Who were they shooting?” I asked a couple of
bystanders.
Each offered the same initial response: “Oh, some
supermodel.”
Some
supermodel. It says something about contemporary
American culture, I think, that this answer could be so blasé. The term “supermodel,”
after all, was originally coined to designate an individually far removed from the
normal pack of models in terms of money and level of fame. Over the years, it applied
to the likes of Cheryl, Christie, Cindy, Elle, Kathy, Tyra, and Katie. It
usually combined several of the following: 1) a Sports Illustrated cover, or multiple ones; 2) appearances in
Victoria’s Secret; 3) at least one divorce; 4) extending 15 minutes of fame
into a fashion line, talk show, or reality show; or 5) eye-candy appearances on
film, with no pretensions toward lasting thespian careers.
We have come quite a distance from those days. “Some
supermodel” implies that we’re making so many of these that we simply can’t
keep up anymore. America, it seems, has become better at inventing supermodels
than at inventing gadgets.
The second of the two onlookers I spoke to offered a
name for this supermodel: Miranda. At this, I drew a near-total blank. I could
think of only three reasonably well-known figures named Miranda:
Miranda Hobbes, the red-headed lawyer friend of Sarah Jessica Parker’s Carrie
Bradshaw on Sex and the City (a fictional
character, be it noted); Miranda Richardson, with a well-deserved reputation as
an actress but never, to my knowledge, as any form of model; and Miranda
Lambert, who has made her mark on country-music stages rather than catwalks.
I could just imagine the intense disappointment of a
friend of mine (and he knows who he is!!!!!) On a prior occasion, he had
chastised me, a lifelong Yankee fan, for not knowing that: a) Derek Jeter was
dating Jordana Brewster, and b) Ms. Brewster was easy on the eyes. What would
he think now, when I not only had failed to come up with a picture of “some
supermodel” but couldn’t even summon the last name of the one in question?
This
is the story of my life, I’d have to tell him: a minute late and a dollar short.
The next day, idly perusing one of the tabloids
without which life in New York is sadly incomplete, I was, at least, able to
supply the name of “some supermodel.” I learned that Miranda Kerr was an
Australian supermodel and that she had dropped in on “Fox and Friends” the
prior day. Evidently, she was promoting her own skincare line.
I still don’t have a clue about anything else this
woman has done (although, I suppose, a supermodel is not expected to do anything except recline on a beach somewhere, being snapped away)—but I’m sure my friend will enlighten me some (after
scolding me for being too late to snap a picture of the Aussie lassie).
1 comment:
Derek Jeter dated Punky Brewster?
Just Googled Miranda Kerr. Apparently, she's married to Orlando Bloom, who was in those Pirates of the Caribbean movies. So she likes guys with no chest hair.
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