Monday, February 13, 2006

The plastique mystique

In which M2 is truly horrified, and yet cannot look away

Just now I went to have a li'l afternoon fog-lifter -- a cup of joe, of course -- at the Daily Grill near my office across from Bob Hope Airport in Burbank. I was seated at the bar chatting with the barkeep, when in glides this... woman.

She was dark and thin and sported a pair of melons the size of, well, melons. She was in typical Valley-girl teenie-bopper drag -- Kangol cap, sheer black blouse, rhinestone bracelets etc. -– but she was anything but teen. The closer she got, the scarier she looked. If I had to guess, I’d say mid 40s; boob job (or two), nose job, cheek implants, and, by the way her eyes narrowed when she sat down, a couple face-lifts, at least. Her upper lip was so plumped-up with whatever it is they plump lips up with I thought she was going to dribble her drink all over her décolletage for lack of control.

This, I thought, is typical L.A. run amok. I mean, L.A.’s alternative weekly paper , for crying out loud, has literally dozens of ads for “cosmetic enhancement,” lipo-suction, breast “augmentation,” Botox and all other the gee-gaws of celebrity culture-driven hyper vanity.

Surprisingly, though, she was from Manhattan, and had been trying to get there for three days, what with the storms and all. She was eerie look at, but I couldn’t help looking at her and wondering, OK, it looks weird, what does that feel like?


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