Beauty and the Beastie

There is something about 71 beauty contestants in one place that has a numbing effect on the brain. They tend to blur into a single entity after awhile, with one brilliant smile, one dazzling hairdo, one cute behind and one proud bust line.

Watching them, an observer is inclined to fantasize they are, indeed, one person, sharing the same age, the same goals, the same interests and the same desires.

They are 19, measure 34-24-35, plan on a career in modeling and/or neurosurgery, are serious students of facial aerobics, and number Mikhail Gorbachev, Bon Jovi, Mother Teresa and Brooke Shields among those they most admire.

Put them all in a jar, add water, shake vigorously and, voila, Miss Universe 1990. Applause, hugs, brave smiles, tears, cash awards, fade out.

So.

As you might suspect, I stopped by the Century Plaza Hotel the other day to observe a preliminary activity for the Miss Universe Contest, which will be televised Sunday on CBS.

Those who rely solely on the fast-format, easy-readin’ L.A. Times for their information may not be aware the pageant is even taking place. We have not covered it with what is known in the trade as a real reporter.

They sent me instead.

I happened by on Swimsuit Day, during which all the “delegates,” as they are known, paraded in their bikinis before at least an equal number of photographers and then settled into a single cluster for additional picture-taking.

I was, of course, appalled by the sexist nature of the event in this era of gender neutrality and left immediately after the last pert tush had vanished behind closed doors.

While I was there, however, I was impressed by the clockwork efficiency of the colloquium, which, by the way, concluded with the selection of Miss Photogenic. I don’t know who won, but does it matter?

Statistics for the composite beauty contestant mentioned earlier were furnished by the pageant’s public relations team, although I admit to embellishing them for, as we say, satirical purposes.

Truth is not a serious factor when you’re covering a beauty pageant. Let the good times roll.

I was even supplied with a list of questions I might like to ask, including but not limited to, “Can delegates be married?” “Are delegates allowed to have cosmetic surgery?” and “Are delegates required to have a coach?”

Thank God, the answers also were furnished (no, yes, no), thus sparing me the necessity of doing anything but evaluating the relentlessly smiling delegates, some of whom had obviously challenged the limits of their abilities by also learning to cock their heads.

Simultaneously smiling and cocking one’s head is no small accomplishment among those who aspire to beauty-hood, requiring as it does an almost instinctive ability to gauge angle and tilt factor with rigid coordination.

It should not be tried at home by amateurs.

The delegate from Argentina, a green-eyed beauty named Paola Torre, led the alphabetically arranged parade of nations past photographers who had come to L.A. from as far away as Turkey specifically to emulsify this event.

There is something about a photographer, no matter where he’s from, that brands him by trade, much as a pentagram in the palm identifies a werewolf.

I was especially impressed with the universal nature of a cameraman’s ability to communicate complex requests in simple terms. One, for instance, shouted “Hey, Korea” to indicate he wanted Miss Korea to pose for him.

Over the years, I have also heard them shout “Hey, Pope,” meaning the holy pontiff, and “Hey, Queen,” meaning her majesty, Queen Elizabeth II.

In heaven, should one ever get there, I have no doubt he would shout, “Hey, God!”

The only moment of distress in the morning’s proceedings came when Miss England, a beauty therapist (whatever that is) from Nottingham, appeared to have fainted.

For a moment, I thought she had simply over-cocked her head and fallen off the bench.

It was explained later, however, that Carla Barrow, who lists “eating out” among her hobbies, had failed to eat breakfast that day, a mistake somehow leading to her momentary swoon.

Even the keeling-over of Miss England, however, was handled with discreet good taste by pageant officials, who are no doubt trained for just such an emergency. Miss E. reappeared later, her equanimity intact.

I was, in fact, impressed generally with the ability of the girls, I mean delegates, to strut their saucy stuff under such trying circumstances.

It can’t be easy maintaining your composure when everyone is staring at your erogenous zones.