Adriana Lima

One writer. Twenty models. Six hours. What happens when a dream comes true. By David Walters February 2007, Volume 147, Issue 2

When I was six, I was morbidly obsessed with the Make-a- Wish Foundation. With its help I could shoot baskets with Larry Bird, and all I had to do in return was die. So I hoped for the worst. Eighteen years later, I had a new wish, one I was only vaguely aware of until the opportunity arose: to be in a confined space with the most beautiful women on earth for several hours. That one came true when a chartered plane flew 20 supermodels from New York to Los Angeles for the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. With a little name-dropping and finagling, I scored a seat. I quietly thanked God for not killing me all those years ago, reminding myself that people say Larry Bird’s kind of a dick anyway. The day begins with me in an airport hangar. I stand among the photographers, anxious for the sexiness to commence. And then there they are. About five of them, crouching in the parking lot smoking cigarettes, thongs peeking out from low-rise jeans. It’s one of those Discovery Channel moments that makes you want to say something vaguely life-affirming about nature’s majesty. Look at them there. So regal. So perfect. I move slowly to avoid startling them. Before we board, there’s an interview session on the tarmac. I have zero questions planned. I’m introduced to Adriana Lima, and at precisely that moment, the batteries in my tape recorder die. I fake my way through, and it sounds like awkward date talk: "So…you’re a supermodel? Do you, like, like it?" Adriana Lima thinks I am the worst journalist ever. Whatever. I can’t wait. High altitudes, cheap champagne, and palpable sexual tension. I stand absolutely no chance of getting laid on this plane. I know this. On board: I was expecting Cinemax After Dark—velour couches, maybe a hot tub—but it’s a standard 737, no room for impromptu pillow fights. To make matters worse, I’m in the absolute ass back of the aircraft, by the crapper. This sucks. I’m saved by a publicist who asks if I want to come up to first class. Oh, God, please. (I say it just like that.) It’s overwhelming—a sea of shiny-haired heads and tanned limbs splayed across armrests. It smells like honeysuckle, at least in my memory. The chatter of Brazilian accents sounds like angels singing. I ask pointless questions, smile, nod, hit on Alessandra Ambrosio. I see Adriana and manage something lame about my dead recorder. She smiles and says, "You were so sweet! You kept talking to me." She touches my arm and I instinctively and unsubtly flex my bicep. Adriana Lima thinks I am the worst journalist ever. When the captain announces our descent into Burbank, I’m torn. I want just a few more minutes on this plane, but I’m not sure why, exactly. I ponder this during a quick and unceremonious post-flight photo op, after which the girls—my girls—are hurried into buses and driven away. I stand on the tarmac, lump in throat. Wish granted. Time to die. And was it even that great? Well, yes, it was fucking great. But also confusing. My eighth-grade wet dream became reality. The glossy, one-dimensional figures from my stash of semipornographic lingerie catalogs talked to me about hang gliding and disco dancing. Gisele Bündchen is a real person, and I found that terrifying. Victoria’s Secret models aren’t the forbidden fruit; they’re the plastic, decorative kind. You can’t taste them, and that’s enough to make your head explode—and to make you almost long for JetBlue. A personal TV is self-determination; this was self-prescribed blue balls. Should a man’s reach exceed his grasp? When it involves women who wear bras and panties for a living, probably not.

Brady's New Tight End: Gisele Bundchen

Posted Jan 26th 2007 12:43PM by TMZ Staff Filed under: Paparazzi Video NFL superstar Tom Brady and supermodel Gisele Bundchen were spotted leaving Giselle's NYC apartment just two hours apart, and neither was too keen on chatting. Does it count as a "he said, she said" if neither of them says anything?

Brady did the walk of shame out of Gisele's West Village apartment around Noon yesterday. The three-time Super Bowl champ tried to cover his face with a hooded sweatshirt when a photog told him, "You're a lucky man." But Brady wasn't having any of it. "Come on brother, you're making me angry," he growled before slinking into a cab. Brady angry!! Grrrr!!!

That's still more than the paps were able to get from Gisele. She emerged two hours later to take her three dogs for a walk, covering her face and completely ignoring photogs.

Judgement Night

By Jeff Foss for EXPN.com

Also See Photos

SKI M/W Pipe Finals Friday night lights all up in the pipe. Eat your heart out, Texas.

Also See Stories Results: M SKI Pipe Finals (1/26) Men's Ski SuperPipe Results

Trevor Phillips If you caught the X Games Ski Superpipe Finals on ESPN last night, you may have woken up this morning with a funny taste in your mouth. Or perhaps your mouth tasted just fine. But either way, assuming you know enough about skiing to form an opinion about the results, you probably fall into one of two camps: Either you agree wholeheartedly with the judges' decision to award Tanner Hall the gold medal, or you wholeheartedly believe that it should have gone to Simon Dumont. Here's why both camps are right:

Tanner Hall possesses what might very well be the most technical run in halfpipe skiing: A Switch Cork 7 to alley-oop flatspin 540 to cork 900 tailgrab to right-side 540 to 540 to alley-oop to 1080. It's perfect. It's the Adriana Lima of halfpipe runs. The only thing he could possibly do to make it more perfect, in fact, would be to change things up and lead off with a switch cork 1080, thus raising the risk factor 100fold (because if Tanner crashes this early, his entire run is shot. He is essentially putting it all on the line).

And a switch cork 1080 on top is exactly what freeskiing's warrior-poet did during his second run-perfectly.

Simon Dumont, on the other hand, possesses what might very well be the biggest run in halfpipe skiing. He gets so ridonkulously high off the deck on his first hit, in fact, that spectators gazing up from the base of the pipe quite literally lose him in the lights. He does a double-grab truck driver to mute-grab 540, a right-side 540, a cork 900 tailgrab, an alley-oop flatspin 540, a 1260 (read that again), an alley-oop 720 and a switch 720. He does every one of these tricks bigger than anybody, and needless to say, they all add up to a Superpipe run as perfect as Gisele Bundchen.

But here's the kicker: Tanner went pretty damn big in this contest, and Simon was pretty damn technical.

In other words, the two best pipe riders in the known universe borrowed from each other's skill-sets. They put on one of the best shows in X Games history, and in doing so they basically rendered the contest un-callable.

This is a story as old as sports: the irresistible force of style against the immovable object of technical ability. Think Hosoi versus Hawk. Think Slater versus Irons. Hell, think Magic versus Bird. Anytime those two elements in their purest form face off on a field of play, a clear-cut victory is simply impossible. Add tonight to the chapter that explains this in the Divine Rule Book of Sport.

Hall and Dumont. The two best pipe skiers in the world, shaping and reshaping history in consecutive attempts. Our point? That on this historic evening, under the blinding lights of Buttermilk Mountain, there's only one place we wouldn't have wanted to be: In the judges' booth, holding a clipboard.

The secret to red carpet perfection? Tape and tans and girdles, OH MY!

By Sandy Cohen Associated Press Monday, January 22, 2007 LOS ANGELES — With Hollywood's awards season under way, fans will see plenty of stunning

gowns, sculpted bodies, flawless skin and camera-ready coifs on red carpets around town. What they won't see are the industrial-strength girdles, silicone nipple covers, fake hair and skin treatments beneath those flawless facades.

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