The Bombshell Manual of Style Arrives Just in the Nick of Time

Laren Stover's new book, The Bombshell Manual of Style, came along just in the nick of time. It appears we're desperately in need of a decent training guide for that sweet, ultra-feminine, C-cup-even-as-a-toddler archetype best embodied by (who are we kidding) Marilyn Monroe. It would seem, at least according to an article in the Post, that those breathy tones, heavy dissolves and thick calves are a dying art. Who does the Post cite as today's bombshells? Drew Barrymore, for starters, whose husband, Tom Green, is hardly Arthur Miller. One could make an argument for Monica Lewinsky. Certainly Bill Clinton stands a better chance of measuring up to JFK because of her, though if we follow that metaphor through it demands that poor Monica be, well... sexy.

Instead, the Post looks to Marisa Tomei for inspiration. Marisa Tomei? Maybe if you gave her a full meal and a close shave.

In any case, the paper made a very admirable stab at this modern-day bombshell business, considering they didn't have much to work with. That's why I felt somebody ought to attend the Bombshell reading recently, to see if this culture does indeed have a crisis on its hands.

Expecting to find an audience full of "kitten heels," I was met with a group of extremely amused gay men, and immediately understood why I was sitting in the Chelsea Barnes & Noble. Other unusual suspects included a woman of apparent Irish descent whose dredlocks were definitely not ironic and possibly unintentional, wearing tube socks with sandals (but on these mean streets, the worst one could accuse her of was being practical). Standing next to her was a lady in jeans with short dark hair and lots of Native American jewelry, the type we used to refer to back home in Texas as a real Luz Benedict. There were also several suspiciously young-looking teenage girls on hand, too young to learn much (a bombshell must be comfortable with her body, and that, unfortunately, only comes with age). Finally there was the grandma in front of me who decamped promptly after they announced the first speaker. She was probably wondering where the hell that D.H. Lawrence reading group was meeting anyway and had a look on her face that seemed to say, "I'm too old for this bullshit."

The author, introduced as having penned "that taboo-breaking novel, Pluto, Animal Lover" (you couldn't make this crap up), acted the part. While I've met plenty of intellectual bombshells (I had a professor in graduate school who had 22-year-old boys absolutely lining up to lick her Susan Sontag gray streak), it didn't seem so natural for Stover, who strikes one as more the elegant Audrey Hepburn type. Still, she did stumble appropriately over her speech (something she even more appropriately attributed to too much champagne in the ladies' room).

Several other readers went by?blah blah blah?until...at last, the genuine article, Christina Cooley, a stylist at Mademoiselle and the inspiration for Bombshell, took the mic. With a voice so raspy it could send chills down a dead man's spine (especially when purring words like Veuve Clicquot, which she did, often), Ms. Cooley made a lot of eye contact (look down, then up) and gave the audience a charming, interactive (note to aspiring bombshells) quiz. Example: What does a bombshell do when she gets a run in her panty hose at the office? Your first instinct might be to say, "Goes home sick," but this, she informs us, is a trick question?bombshells don't wear panty hose!

Others were easier to guess, and when we did, Cooley, in an I-can-make-anyone-fall-in-love-with-me, typically maternal b.s. fashion, made us all feel like VIPs by declaring without a hint of condescension or sarcasm, "See! You got that one right! You're all bombshells!" Quick! Someone find this girl a puppy!

The book itself, which contains lots of delightful lists like "Things Bombshells Get Away with Ordinary Women Can't" and "Bombshell Words to Live By," is complemented by delightful color illustrations of panties, pumps and pin-ups by Ruben Toledo. It's loo literature to rival my brother's favorite, Don't Sweat the Small Stuff...and It's All Small Stuff (Bombshell appears to be alarmingly thick, until you realize each page is printed on roughly one inch's worth of stock, but by that point you're in on the joke). It also makes a perfect birthday present. Still I couldn't help but wonder on my way out of the store, as I noticed a coffee table book on Marlene Dietrich and my mind wandered to a somewhat different type of girl, if the 50s bombshell can be revived. While Stover's effort is doing quite well commercially, I'd think that in these times of recession the people would cry out for a tougher, grittier, more hardboiled heroine. Dietrich and Barbara Stanwyck, who thrived in the less illusion-enabling world of the 1930s, would be interesting subjects. Like the 50s bombshells, they were prone to tantrums, though these girls threw bullets at their men, rather than champagne flutes. J-Lo, a gun moll? Hmm...