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Tuesday, April 06, 2004

I'll Sound Bitter If I Say He's Never Been as Good Since Going Electric

 
I'm Watching This new Victoria's Secret commercial.

The angel wings, the shimmering bra and panty set, the ethereal model just exotic enough to make you think that if you were stranded on a tropical island after the unexpected, tragic sinking of your 40-foot yacht, she'd do nothing but service you and pour mango juice down your gullet to restore your potency for another sand-encrusted go-around.

The model slips in and out of the shadows, and I immediately reach for the Kleenex and Lubriderm. I'm a child of the television generation, and as such, powerless before the images flickering on the screen. The serendipitous appearance of a high-quality lingerie commercial requires instant, intimate attention, as time is short before I'm stuck holding my manhood and wondering how to transform a Swiffer into an object of lust.

Things are progressing quickly. The living room burns away, and there we are, on a shadowy beach, where no helpful clerks in headsets can ask us why we're testing the satiny sheen of an Angel bra on the scruff of my face. Passion. There is passion.

And what's that music? A lightly strummed acoustic guitar with raspy, plaintive singing scoring our carnal encounter. Adriana, that's her name. But who's the old guy by the fire watching us? Singing to us?

Bob Dylan is in my commercial. A craggy Peeping Tom leering at us, raising an eyebrow, skulking around and sizing me up. A wizened, folk-rock legend/vampire has taken over my thirty seconds of release.

Where did our beach go? And I certainly don't remember this song containing the lyrics "Hot hard steel, meltin' away/Nothin' but a soggy banana, she ain't gonna stay." Please, Bob, sing something from Blonde on Blonde!

Adriana looks down and shakes her head. Her eyes say she understands, but her arm is interlocked in Dylan's, and she's gone. I watch as her angel wings and gossamer thong retreat into the dark.

I sigh and look at the wreckage of my oasis. The faint smell of aloe lotion stings, but there is hope. The smart housewife in the Swiffer commercial's got one too few buttons on her husband's powder blue Oxford buttoned. Her khakis are just tight enough. And Devo is the perfect soundtrack. I always liked them better than Dylan.



About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
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