Being safe in Iman’s view doesn’t involve a security detail, or even an iron-clad insurance policy. Instead, she said, feeling secure is a state-of-mind, one that exists apart from her own environment. “It’s just the idea of being safe for all children, whether they’re in Darfur or Lower Manhattan,” said the cosmetics queen, whose eponymous line of maquillage had set up a booth at the event. (Several creative-types—from performance artists to interior decorators—were asked to contribute works that convey their notion of safety.) “For me, in terms of being safe, just the idea of knowing, having the freedom that you can live a life without violence, abuse and all of that.”

Iman said she is looking forward to recharging her domestic batteries in the near future. “I’m just looking forward to the holidays and spending time with my family,” she said of her planned ski vacation. Asked where she and Ziggy Stardust were headed, she snapped with a laugh: “I’m not telling!”

Star Jones [Reynolds], former co-host of The View, on the other hand, was all too happy to let The Daily Transom peek, however briefly, at her inner sanctum. After all, that’s where her security blanket lives.

“I think what makes me feel safe is the security of knowing that I have family and friends around me,” said Ms. Jones, 45, who was wearing a short black Robert Rodriguez dress and a popping pair of obligatory Christian Louboutin pumps. “There’s a whole lot that goes on in this world, and knowing that you have support—just somebody that you know will always tell you the truth. I’m very lucky in that regard,” she admitted, nodding her head in the way that seems reflexive for most T.V. personalities. “I have a lot of people in my life who will just tell me the truth, and that wasn’t always the case. But it does require you to be vulnerable and let yourself hear the truth, because it’s not always what a lot of us want to do.”

“Pretty women like Denise, you just like to be in close proximity to them,” Mr. King said. “When you’re in close proximity your heart rejoices.”

How did they get to know each other?

“It’s like in the poem, you know what I mean? You meet her in the spirit,” he said semicoherently. “I knew her husband and I knew her. Her husband’s in Europe. … But I’m here now, I came, I saw, I conquered—now we’re gonna knock out cancer!” Whoo-hoo!

It was up several flights of escalator to the Marriott Marquis banquet hall, where rap mogul Sean “P. Diddy” Combs and chiseled actor Jason Lewis were among those circulating. The performer Joss Stone had climbed off the stage and was wading among the tables belting out something very soulful.

“I’ve know Denise since I first arrived in New York 22 years ago, we had mutual friends in London,” said the socialite Anne Dexter-Jones. “She has such spirit, she’s never missed one of my charity events.”

Court TV persona Star Jones was also there. “She’s one of my best friends in the world,” she said of Ms. Rich. “Denise is as comfortable at a McDonald’s as she is at Daniel. Trust me, we’ve been to both.” Oh, we trust you, honey.

Midway through the dinner, Mr. Reynolds, a Wall Street banker with a flair for the flamboyant, toasted his guests. “Al went around the table and thanked each one of his friends,” recalled an attendee. The birthday boy paid special tribute to music mogul L.A. Reid, calling him “an inspiration to all the other brothers trying to make it.”

Then he turned to his wife—“my everything,” the birthday boy called her. “You taught me how to love and how to be a better man,” he declared.

The revelry continued at Stereo by the Shore, the Hamptons outpost of the 29th Street nightclub, where Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds grooved to the smooth beats of renowned hip-hop D.J. Doug Grayson until 2:30 a.m. “They were cute and flirted with each other all night,” said the spy, adding they did a lot of heavy grinding on the dance floor, but “there wasn’t any canoodling.”

NYTV asked; Mr. Casablanca answered.

"All I can say, at this point, is my column will appear (amped) someplace else as of next June," he wrote in an e-mail.

Where will he go? What will he do? Is E! letting such divine talent slip away?

A network representative had the following response tonight. "Ted is still very much with eonline. He's a very valuable member of their staff."

She added: "I can't speak to his contract, but everybody here's like, 'What?'"

—Rebecca Dana

Dropping God’s name has been going on for a while, mostly at music-award ceremonies, and often by the likes of P. Diddy. After listening to these unironic acceptance speeches where He is repeatedly thanked, it can all seem a tad unfair: One is frequently left wondering what made the Almighty decide to help Mary J. Blige become a huge success while allowing Whitney to rot and spiral. I guess He really does move in mysterious ways.

Matters reached a crescendo recently when Star Jones Reynolds, after prematurely auto-ejaculating from The View, claimed to have reached her decision to do so “after much prayer and counsel.”

This stunningly illuminating statement clarified things for those of us who have been wondering what God has been up to lately. Upon reading Star’s quote, we plunked down our newspapers, we reached for our loved ones and held them close, and we declaimed, “So that’s what God has been doing! He’s been helping a jolly talk-show lady.”

Instead of calming the insurgency in Iraq or easing the plight of the refugees in Darfur, He’s been guiding Star Jones Reynolds through the vicissitudes of her showbiz career. Instead of dealing with China’s apocalyptic pollution problem, He is helping Star stiffen the sinews and summon the blood for her clash with Barbara Walters, a woman who has successfully managed to convince many people—myself included—that she might actually be God.

Star’s assertion that God is not only interested in her shenanigans but is actually giving her advice got me thinking. Maybe God needs to get a little more focused: Maybe He’s one of those otherwise fabulous people who just needs a little help with his priorities.

There are so many outrages and horrors that are screaming louder and more deservedly for God’s attention than old Star that it’s hard to know where to begin. But let’s try anyway. Here goes:

Dear God: How come you are not doing anything to stop THE FOAM MOVEMENT? I’m talking about this dreadful food trend whereby wholesome ingredients—goat cheese, lettuce, basil—are whooshed through a horrid machine and turned into something which looks, and tastes, like it came out of a spider’s ass. God, foam is akin to puss or drool, and we mortals should not be permitted to spew it on our food.

I called food demi-god David Kamp at his Connecticut weekend retreat and asked him the origins of this revolting culinary development. “Foams were the first thing to cross over from the Spanish food laboratory of the nutball chef Ferran Adrià,” clarified Mr. Kamp, whose much-anticipated book The United States of Arugula hits the shelves in September. He warned me that a new and even fouler trend was on its way: “Hard-core foodies are now rhapsodizing over shrimp-cocktail essence sprayed into the mouth via an atomizer. In other words, we are in a techno-futurist age in which food must appear to be anything but food.”

God! Can’t You leave off chatting with Star about her career strategy for two minutes and do something?

And while You’re at it, please explain why You allowed THE SKINNY JEAN TREND to gather so many disciples. While You waft about in cool, flowing robes, You have allowed us to encase our legs in hot, skin-tight, bunchy denim. When even Kate Moss looks dopey and uncomfortable, don’t You think there might be a tidgy-widgy-wedgy bit of a problem?

And, given that You, our Lord, are obviously such a TV buff, I would love to know why You’re not helping any of the winners of America’s Next Top Model to actually get regular modeling work. JoAnna? Naima? Nicole? Where are they now? I know Vogue is a long shot, but would it kill You to throw a few bookings for medical catalogs in their directions?

Re architecture: If You weren’t so busy taking Star Jones’ temperature, You might have been able to stop THE CHARMLESS CHROME ’N’ GLASS CONDO TREND in Manhattan, whereby institutional-looking apartment buildings with floor-to-ceiling windows in nasty neighborhoods, or overlooking six-lane highways, are deemed to be more desirable than the Dakota. If these high-rises’ commanding views of flowing traffic are now so desirable, why haven’t You, God, gone into partnership with Ian Schrager and bought LaVera City overlooking the 495? I’m sure Your old pal Star would be up for a penthouse.

And God, if You are seriously committed to helping celebs fire up cheesy careers, why limit Yourself to Star Jones Reynolds? There are loads of more deserving folk: Many of Your flock would love to see Matt LeBlanc have a hit show or Adriana back on The Sopranos.

On a more personal note, if I may be so bold, I would like to know why You, our Lord, saw fit to allow the destruction of the birdfeeder that I painstakingly constructed in our backyard. There I was, gazing out at my handiwork one minute—feeling a bit like Saint Francis of Assisi—when a raccoon appeared out of nowhere, threw my feeder into the crook of his arm, à la a Balenciaga purse, and wiggled off into the undergrowth.

Good God, y’all!

Dropping God’s name has been going on for a while, mostly at music-award ceremonies, and often by the likes of P. Diddy. After listening to these unironic acceptance speeches where He is repeatedly thanked, it can all seem a tad unfair: One is frequently left wondering what made the Almighty decide to help Mary J. Blige become a huge success while allowing Whitney to rot and spiral. I guess He really does move in mysterious ways.

Matters reached a crescendo recently when Star Jones Reynolds, after prematurely auto-ejaculating from The View, claimed to have reached her decision to do so “after much prayer and counsel.”

This stunningly illuminating statement clarified things for those of us who have been wondering what God has been up to lately. Upon reading Star’s quote, we plunked down our newspapers, we reached for our loved ones and held them close, and we declaimed, “So that’s what God has been doing! He’s been helping a jolly talk-show lady.”

Instead of calming the insurgency in Iraq or easing the plight of the refugees in Darfur, He’s been guiding Star Jones Reynolds through the vicissitudes of her showbiz career. Instead of dealing with China’s apocalyptic pollution problem, He is helping Star stiffen the sinews and summon the blood for her clash with Barbara Walters, a woman who has successfully managed to convince many people—myself included—that she might actually be God.

Star’s assertion that God is not only interested in her shenanigans but is actually giving her advice got me thinking. Maybe God needs to get a little more focused: Maybe He’s one of those otherwise fabulous people who just needs a little help with his priorities.

There are so many outrages and horrors that are screaming louder and more deservedly for God’s attention than old Star that it’s hard to know where to begin. But let’s try anyway. Here goes:

Dear God: How come you are not doing anything to stop THE FOAM MOVEMENT? I’m talking about this dreadful food trend whereby wholesome ingredients—goat cheese, lettuce, basil—are whooshed through a horrid machine and turned into something which looks, and tastes, like it came out of a spider’s ass. God, foam is akin to puss or drool, and we mortals should not be permitted to spew it on our food.

I called food demi-god David Kamp at his Connecticut weekend retreat and asked him the origins of this revolting culinary development. “Foams were the first thing to cross over from the Spanish food laboratory of the nutball chef Ferran Adrià,” clarified Mr. Kamp, whose much-anticipated book The United States of Arugula hits the shelves in September. He warned me that a new and even fouler trend was on its way: “Hard-core foodies are now rhapsodizing over shrimp-cocktail essence sprayed into the mouth via an atomizer. In other words, we are in a techno-futurist age in which food must appear to be anything but food.”

God! Can’t You leave off chatting with Star about her career strategy for two minutes and do something?

And while You’re at it, please explain why You allowed THE SKINNY JEAN TREND to gather so many disciples. While You waft about in cool, flowing robes, You have allowed us to encase our legs in hot, skin-tight, bunchy denim. When even Kate Moss looks dopey and uncomfortable, don’t You think there might be a tidgy-widgy-wedgy bit of a problem?

And, given that You, our Lord, are obviously such a TV buff, I would love to know why You’re not helping any of the winners of America’s Next Top Model to actually get regular modeling work. JoAnna? Naima? Nicole? Where are they now? I know Vogue is a long shot, but would it kill You to throw a few bookings for medical catalogs in their directions?

Re architecture: If You weren’t so busy taking Star Jones’ temperature, You might have been able to stop THE CHARMLESS CHROME ’N’ GLASS CONDO TREND in Manhattan, whereby institutional-looking apartment buildings with floor-to-ceiling windows in nasty neighborhoods, or overlooking six-lane highways, are deemed to be more desirable than the Dakota. If these high-rises’ commanding views of flowing traffic are now so desirable, why haven’t You, God, gone into partnership with Ian Schrager and bought LaVera City overlooking the 495? I’m sure Your old pal Star would be up for a penthouse.

And God, if You are seriously committed to helping celebs fire up cheesy careers, why limit Yourself to Star Jones Reynolds? There are loads of more deserving folk: Many of Your flock would love to see Matt LeBlanc have a hit show or Adriana back on The Sopranos.

On a more personal note, if I may be so bold, I would like to know why You, our Lord, saw fit to allow the destruction of the birdfeeder that I painstakingly constructed in our backyard. There I was, gazing out at my handiwork one minute—feeling a bit like Saint Francis of Assisi—when a raccoon appeared out of nowhere, threw my feeder into the crook of his arm, à la a Balenciaga purse, and wiggled off into the undergrowth.

Good God, y’all!

I love to remind people-especially young, culturally illiterate people-that there was a time, not so long ago, when movie actresses were fairly low on the totem pole. I'm talking about that moment in the late 1960's when the smelly, hairy hippies arrived on the scene and administered a massive and brutal countercultural enema. Suddenly, everything went very Zabriskie Point, if you know what I mean.

Among the first casualties was Old Hollywood: Suddenly the movie sirens, glamour gowns, fanzines and spotlights of the 30's, 40's and 50's seemed ridiculously farty and anachronistic. Almost overnight, Led Zeppelin became a much bigger deal than Elizabeth Taylor. Sorry, Liz!

In order for us to move on from our current celeb/glamour fixation, something major has to supplant it. In the 60's, we replaced the celluloid goddesses with groovy rock stars, radical politics and wheat germ. If we are ever to be liberated from Nicole's gussets and Charlize's bust darts, we need something totally major to take their place. Girls, let's all make a mental note to figure something out before next year. Between us, I'm sure we can come up with something.

In the meantime, all we can do is grin and take the piss out of it. So here goes ….

My Top 10 fave moments from the 77th Annual Academy Awards:

1. MOST MESMERIZING MOMENT:

With the Michael Jackson re-enactments starting this week on E! (7 and 9 p.m. nightly), it was really hard to concentrate during the Oscars, never mind get mesmerized. However, when Beyoncé sang that eerie French ditty surrounded by rosy-cheeked choir boys (hope Michael Jackson was watching), I was both haunted and riveted.

2. BIGGEST TREND:

Lots of black, but I think this is less of a trend and more of a desperate attempt to look ultra-classy and thereby avoid being slagged off by the likes of moi. I was hoping that Vera Drake (my Oscar pick), with its unremittingly sludgy postwar color palette, would start a trend, sending a river of poo-colored gowns down the red carpet. Didn't happen. Best poo-colored gown: Natalie Portman (pictured) looked perfect in her exquisite Lanvin number.

3. SMARMIEST MOMENT:

Too many to count. When I told Terry Doonan, my well-groomed and debonair 80-year-old dad, that I was going to cover the red carpet for this newspaper, he said, "Oh, Christ! What a bloody bore!" Terry is qualified to opine. He worked in the BBC news department as a Russian monitor all through the Cold War, and he was the first bloke in England to hear about the Kennedy assassination. He too is mystified by the borrowed gowns = front-page news conceit.

4. MOST ANNOYING MOMENT:

My take-out food from Souen (212-807-7421) was late. I ordered wild salmon with broccoli and brown rice. I can only conclude from this uncharacteristic delay that all the macrobiotically inclined New Yorkers were sitting at home watching the show and ordering in. For a protein-rich dessert, try their adzuki bean mousse ($4).

5. MOST IRRITATING ACCEPTANCE SPEECH:

I missed most of them because my dog Liberace was frantically squeaking his new toy all evening. It's shaped like a woman's purse, and on the side are written the words "Chewy Vuitton" (www.glamourdog.com).

6. MOST TURGID HAIRDO:

Hilary Swank's frowsy, school-marm chignon. See also Drew Barrymore and Renée Zellweger. The least turgid: the wild, neo-hippie Zabriskie Point mane, as worn by Gwyneth, Gisele and Halle.

7. MOST ALARMING TREND:

People turning into one another. Melanie Griffith is turning into Kathy Griffin. Scarlett Johansson is turning into Nicole Kidman. Salma Hayek and Penélope Cruz are turning into each other.

Second most alarming trend: movie stars hard-assing the frock houses. Cate Blanchett, not content with getting a freebie, only agreed to wear her yellow Valentino on the condition that the house bolted its doors and dressed nobody else.

8. MOST POIGNANT MOMENT:

Star Jones Reynolds proudly raising the hem of her gown to show off her own Starlet by Star Jones for Payless $20 sequined evening sandal. Second most poignant: Lou Gossett Jr. snoring during Roger Mayer's lengthy Humanitarian Award presentation.

9. MOST INCREDIBLE BEAUTY SECRET REVEALED:

Keeping your trap shut. The most alluring, compelling, can't-keep-your-eyes-off-them women in the house had the least to say. I'm talking about Vanessa Paradis and Gisele Bündchen.

10. MOST RECKLESSLY UN-P.C. MOMENT: Kathy Griffin complaining about the room service at the Hotel Rwanda.

How about this idea for next year: a total ban on European frocks. Every nominee is obliged to commission, and pay for, a frock designed by America's new sweetheart, Jay McCarroll, the winner of Project Runway. The corpulent and charismatic Jay, who is much funnier than Chris Rock, could also host the evening.

Voilà!

The heartfelt stream of superlatives that flowed from Ms. Jones Reynolds' lips on Sunday night-"You do good work all the time" (Tim Robbins); "You are truly one of the greatest actresses of our time" (Glenn Close); "You do it so well and you do it all the time. You give us good work each and every time" (Laura Linney)-was so unrelenting that it left me seriously wondering whether, rather than lauding the actors and actresses in front of her, she might actually be taking the piss out of them. Her gushy interviewing technique had a curiously paralyzing effect on her interviewees, most of whom stood mute while she did all the talking. By the time Ms. Jones Reynolds had finished telling them how unbelievably fabulous she thought they were, all they could do was stare wanly at the massive Chopard diamond which clung precariously to the ruched green chiffon, which in turn clung precariously to the ample Jones Reynolds bosom. (More of those later.) Don't get me wrong: I'm not complaining about Ms. Jones Reynolds. There was actually something strangely compelling about her unusual approach.

Adding a dash of genuine hilarity to the mix was Star's co-host, Kathy Griffin, who elected to perk up her section of the red carpet by asking inane, belligerent questions: "Got any weed?" "How's my breath?" "Do you want to swing with me and my husband?" "Scientology or Kabbalah?" If her interviewees dared to wave to friends or look away for a split second, she would berate them with a stern "Focus! Focus!" Her main goal of the evening seemed to be spreading a vile rumor that Dakota Fanning, the 10-year-old star of Hide and Seek, had gone into rehab "for drugs and alcohol."

Paradoxically, it was the wacked-out Ms. Griffin, as opposed to the enraptured Ms. Jones Reynolds, who unearthed the most interesting factoid of the evening. "How do you know Joel Schumacher?" barked Ms. Griffin provocatively at The Grid's Julianna Margulies.

"I met him when I was waiting tables in the 80's," she said.

"Where?" demanded Ms. Griffin.

"At 150 Wooster in New York," replied the crisply attired Ms. Margulies. Who knew? O.K., so it wasn't that interesting. But with the Rivers duo relegated to the unfindable TV Guide Channel, that's about as pithy as it got. Come back to the five-and-dime, Joan and Melissa, Joan and Melissa!

The absence of any Riversian machine-gun badinage caused my thoughts to wander on several occasions. I started thinking, not without a certain amount of excitement, about the upcoming Michael Jackson trial and the E! channel's historic and highly commendable decision to provide daily theatrical re-enactments. Who will play Michael? How about Amy Poehler? She does such a great job of imitating Mr. Jackson on Saturday Night Live. Dakota Fanning seems assured of a bit part. Victim sibling? Is there a role for Star Jones Reynolds? The mother of one of the accusers, perhaps. Her new husband, Mr. Reynolds, could definitely play Jermaine.

Regarding that Jones Reynolds marriage, this is one area where Star and I agree 100 percent. Graft! Graft! Graft! I have been advising women for years to find a sponsor for their weddings. It makes perfect sense. Why empty your father's bank account for something which may not even last six months? The more freebies, the better. Nobody has followed my advice with more verve and creativity than Star. I like to think that she got the idea from reading one of my bridal columns in this very paper.

Focus! Focus!

Look, there's Diane Sawyer with nominated husband Mike Nichols. Did you happen to catch that probing ABC Primetime Live special last year where Diane charted the rise and fall of a young porno star? It was quite riveting. At one low point, Ms. Sawyer-sincerity going full throttle-lowered her voice and said something like, "And then she gave away her most precious gift." What could possibly constitute "her most precious gift," I wondered as I sat quivering with anticipation through the commercial break? Cut to porno star, who reveals all, saying something like, "So I was offered a lot of money to do double anal, and I …. " Diane, really! "Most precious gift" equals "double anal"? How come that show never copped a Golden Globe? How many women on Sunday night's red carpet have given away their most precious gifts? If so, what were they?

Focus! Focus!

We are supposed to be talking about the frocks.

The grooviest look: Cate Blanchett, radiantly skinny and eccentric in her forget-me-not Jean Paul Gaultier.

The chicest older lady: Glenn Close wearing a gorgeous vintage Geoffrey Beene, in homage to the recently deceased designer.

The freakiest personage: that supersized, unknown young man with the center-parted ringlets who came as someone's date. You seemed like fun. Who are you?

The most adorable gamine (in the absence of Dakota Fanning): Natalie Portman in Chloé.

The most unimpeachably gorgeous and timelessly beautiful broad: Diane Lane in her jade-colored Monique Lhuillier.

Certain trends manifested themselves:

Drapey: Teri Hatcher in Donna Karan, Jennifer Garner in Valentino.

Feathery: Nicole Kidman in Gucci and Ashley Judd in Prada.

Cocktail-y: Eva Longoria in Oscar de la Renta and Renée Zellweger in Carolina Herrera.

These style moments were dwarfed by the biggest, most noteworthy mega-trend of the evening: Boobs are out! Tits are toast! Knockers are no more! Those massive industrial-strength Hollywood hooters are now a thing of the past.

Yes, there were cleavages hither and thither, but they were discreet dual mozzarellas pushed up to form two pleasant fleshy mounds: e.g., Hilary Swank. Some stars opted to wear intriguing frocks which pushed their chicer, smaller boobs in opposite directions: e.g., Halle Berry and Kate Hudson. The most extreme proponent of this revolutionary anti-mammary trend is Ellen's new girlfriend, the boyishly figured Portia de Rossi-who, in her white Valentino, seemed devoid of not just breasts, but nipples too.

And now the men.

News flash! It's official. I am no longer in love with Johnny Depp. Johnny, you looked great in your kingfisher blue suit. I love the fact that you deviated from the fascist black-tie-and-black-shirt 90's moment. And I particularly loved your Anne Slater blue glasses. (Blue was another demi-trend of the evening.) But, Johnny, I have to break it to you: My heart has been stolen by another. I'm talking, at the risk of sounding like Star Jones Reynolds, about the incredible, talented and electrifying Mr. Jamie Foxx.

Not only is Mr. Foxx breathtakingly beautiful, but he is also smart as a whip and fun! Snappy, unpretentious and celebratory, his acceptance speech probably ranks as one of the best in the history of award shows. Ever! Right, Star? His innate glamour and energy, not to mention his butchness, made all the other blokes present-especially Michael Imperioli in that dreary gray suit-look like the cast of The Office.

Jamie, je t'adore!

Re next year: Here's my suggestion for E! coverage. Bring Joan back and pair her up with Kathy Griffin. Melissa and Star can co-host a special E! losers' after-party together-no winners allowed. Here the girls can use their passion for flattery to restore the damaged egos of the crestfallen. Jamie and I will probably stop by at some point, but don't count on it.

morning, in between freelance copywriting assignments. The Today show had just gone off and it was time for Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, a

talk show that deals with the complexity of relationships-basically, who's

getting some and who's not. Until recently, Cybill Shepherd was the host, along

with a panel of experts: a comedian, a doctor and assorted actors who, like me,

were in between nothing. I knew Ms. Shepherd's days were numbered; she never

did look comfortable. I always got the feeling she was chanting to herself,

"It's a paycheck, it's a paycheck."

Ms. Shepherd has been replaced by Cristina Ferrare, the

former model and ex-wife of John DeLorean. Her fellow panelists include a

comedian (relationships must be a big joke after all), a doctor, a wiry blonde

and a pretty black woman with flowing hair.

The black woman looked familiar. So much so that I initially

thought to myself, "Is that …? No. Can't Be. Well, I'll be damned! NBC has run

out and found its own Star Jones." Her name is Bo Griffin, a radio talk-show

host, and like Ms. Jones, she's a knockout. A big knockout.

I can imagine the meeting where it all happened ….

First Exec: "This is a

good lineup. We have the comedian, the doctor-"

Second Exec: "Yes, that's great for credibility. And women

love Cristina ever since she came out about her loss of libido."

Third Exec: "Yeah, that was so powerful I think it came

back. But we're missing something. What about an African-American woman? Who's

that gal on ABC?"

First Exec: "Oprah?"

Second Exec: " No-oo ,

the heavyset, pretty one with all the hair."

First Exec: "Oh, you mean Star Jones."

Third Exec: "She's great-sassy, smart and big. But Star's

busy. Hey, maybe we can find our own."

Meeting fades, music swells, Al Jolson is shown on one knee,

arms outstretched, mouthing "Mammy."

I wonder about the focus groups. Were the interviewees

wired? If so, did the monitoring machine they were hooked up to go haywire and

display sharp downturns when the image of a slender black woman came up? Then

did it rise at the sight of a heavyset black woman? Did she conjure up warm and

loving nanny memories in the interviewees, like the time they rode the bus

together and she stood so that her young charge could have the whole seat to

herself?

America likes its black women big; it's the mammy thing.

Mammy's skirts are a part of the fabric of our history to this day. We see it

in commercials. The star of a campaign for a pine-scented cleanser is a pretty

woman, black with cornrows. She's large, too. And for 30 seconds, she sasses

America into keeping their homes germ-free. The Pine-Sol Lady is definitely the

work of some poor numbers cruncher who proved to his colleagues that to reach

their target audience, they need a portly black woman. She'll get the folks

disinfecting in no time. Mammy knows best!

Because I'm an advertising copywriter, I've sat in on many

casting sessions. I remember one for a skin moisturizer; a couple of full-sized

white women showed up. It was like, "Is she kidding?" But when a full-sized

black woman showed up, there were grins. Acceptance. She didn't get the part,

but it clearly had nothing to do with her weight. No one has a bad thing to say

about Mammy.

Black women especially embrace the mammy thing. Black women

have a far more positive self-image of their bodies than white women. When I'm

with black girlfriends, we don't talk about our thighs, we like our butts. When

you give us a compliment, we take it. We don't say things like, "You're

kidding, I'm so fat!"

Misses Griffin and Jones probably feel very good about

themselves. Unlike their co-hosts, they can enjoy their jobs and not have to

worry about gaining weight. No bags of celery and carrot sticks in these girls'

dressing rooms. Star will tell you in a minute that she loves her bacon.

However, the mammy thing bites us on our nice, round butts

all the time. A heavy black woman conjures up warmth, safety; she won't take

your man away from you while she's holding your baby. Star Jones gets to drool

over Michael Douglas; Vanessa Williams and Halle Berry get Michael Douglas'

drool all over them. Rhett Butler could tease Mammy about her red slip, but it

wouldn't have been the same if it were Prissy. 

I did my own research on mammy worship. I asked one white

girlfriend of mine-I thought one white was a fair sampling; 40 million blacks

get judged on the behavior of one every day-what she thought about the use of

big black women in the media.

"I have to tell you, if I were in the mall and had to leave

my children with someone and there were two women nearby, one thin and white,

the other heavy and black, I'd leave my kids with the black woman. What's wrong

with that? I'd leave them with a fat white woman, too. I'd choose her over a

thin black woman."

I pointed out to her

that she's thin. Does that make her less of a good mother? After a long moment

of silence, she answered, "No, it means I wouldn't want other people leaving

their children with me." She giggled and signed off, something about picking

the kids up. I should add, my dear friend's home is mammy-free; she actually goes

near her children. 

She won't be leaving her kids with me. I'm a small black

woman, 107 pounds, certainly not mammy material.

Personally, I have nothing against heavyset black women

getting plum jobs on television, and I'm not calling for an end to hiring women

built like them. It's the stereotype that bothers me. Can't a black woman my

size be seen as wise? Can she not impart wisdom, give America a good talking

to? Or am I not mammy enough?

Or maybe, in the eyes of whites, I'm not unattractive enough

for their comfort. I remember casting little girls for a commercial I'd

written. We picked four-three pretty white girls and one pretty black girl.

Then the door flung open and a girl bounded into the room. She was black, her

hair was a mess and she was righteously funny-looking. Frankly, she looked like

a pickaninny. The art director said, "She's terrific-let's use her instead of

the other one." The producer looked at me; he knew what I was thinking. Calmly

I asked, "Why is it that the white girls get to be pretty, and the one black

girl has to be the odd-looking one? Either we go pretty for all or

funny-looking for all." We went for pretty, but not without discussion. If I

were not in the room, the funny-looking little one would've gotten the gig

based on a white person's point of view of what a little black girl should look

like in a mix of white girls.

I'm not in any of those rooms anymore. And I'm certainly not

sitting at the table with the big shots at the networks. No, I'm just a writer

trying to make a living. And I'm tired. Aren't you too, Mammy?