Tonight's the night I torture my husband with "America's Next Top Model," hosted by the overly dramatic Tyra Banks. This guilty pleasure started out as weekly TV date with a friend where we drank beer, ate meatball subs, and mocked the show loudly with our mouths full. We would bet on the competitors like Kentucky Derby entrants, with the prize for picking a winner being a giant, softball-sized burger and a Jack and coke from Casino El Camino on 6th Street. But since I moved away from Austin, the quantity of airbrushed art and Jesus stickers around me has spiked, and so has my solo interest in the show, which I now refer to as ANTM. I even visit the website.
So tonight at 7, UPN will light our living room. I will still laugh and yell at the screen, but the protective layer of irony will be gone and I will be revealed to my husband for what I've become: a devoted fan of a reality TV show. The sight will be so horrific that he'll be drawn to it against his will, the same way the Sirens drew Ulysses to the whirlpool. Before he knows it, he'll be familiar with the "model stomp" method of walking, the meaning of the term "go-see," and who "noted-fashion-photographer-Nigel-Barker" is.
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