An Item to Discuss

No man or woman of the city may call me a follower of pop culture. It would be a ridiculous assertion. I do not while away the hours lauding the latest celebrity triumph or excoriating their mishaps. I keep a respectful distance, recognizing the power while quietly maintaining my polite disinterest.

Yet a man can't keep from reading posters on the subway. It is natural for the eye to wander, as history teaches. Lately, I've been inundated with the idea of Tyra Banks as a talk show host. A former model, Banks is apparently making the leap to television. This is as much as I know. The posters, featuring the star in various smiling poses, suggest an atmosphere of intriguing, impish fun. Words like "Conversationalist" (playing off the idea of a conservationist, which we may safely assume Miss Banks is not) are emblazoned across their center. Another poster says "Gabology," conveying the concept of Banks as an instructor, albeit in a nontraditional field.

Enough description. Here is the plain fact: Tyra Banks has a weak face. She looks like someone who had to watch an aggressive uncle beat a pet dog to death at age seven. Since then, her smile is a defense. She shrinks at meeting new people. Confidence in herself is shattered. She fights a constant battle to forget the harsh world impinging on her purple thoughts.

The hype for her new talk show seems sad and desperate, like a spastic vegan hawking his wares at a gun show in Abilene, Texas. The more we see of Miss Banks, the more eager her promotion, the more we are prepared for her failure. She plainly lacks the composition to hold together a dinner party, much less a television show. Jay Leno, smirking like a fat pasha, will be using her name as a punch line in mere months.

I have a new idea for a poster. It shows America in a post-apocalyptic moment. Tyra Banks and an unidentified man are the last two people on Earth. She is wrapped in black fabric. An earthquake has split the ground before them. The man, with a near-hysterical expression, is hanging from the ledge, having been caught in the new crevice. It is obvious he has protected her in the days since the old world ended, keeping her from catastrophe. Now, having fallen to ill fortune, he merely needs her hand. But Banks, traumatized, can only rock back and forth in the fetal position, gripping her dark cloak. She seems him out of the corner of her eye, but is paralyzed to the point of inaction.

Beneath, the caption reads:

Tyra Banks Will Let This Man Die.


We know you are weak, Tyra Banks.