Toronto Star
Februar 18, 2003
By MICHAEL DOJC

Kathy Ireland's green bedroom eyes beckon me to come hither, only "hither" is a piece of coastal paradise in Cabo San Lucas.

I'm 10 years old and my 5 bucks a week allowance — even compounded with heady '80s interest rates — won't pay for the airfare to Mexico, so I stare back at her and smile.

That was in February, 1989. I had snagged the 25th anniversary Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue from my father's office and taken it to my bedroom for a private screening.

That evening, poring over the latest in women's swim fashions as displayed on Christie Brinkley, Paulina Porizkova, Elle Macpherson and a bevy of other beautifully proportioned bodies, I was transported to a magical world where carefree women in revealing bathing suits frolicked happily in exotic sands and surf.

For me, the annual S.I. bikini bonanza used to be a welcome reprieve from the February shivers. The magazine offered a scintillating slice of an idyllic summer vacation, the kind where you find love under the sun in a foreign land, smack dab in the heart of winter, when you have a better chance of spotting exposed thighs at a KFC than on the streets of Toronto.

This year, I doubt I'll even notice the swimsuit issue on the racks. Like a cool card trick dealt out ad nauseam, the magic has all but evaporated. The proliferation of free Net porn, digital cable, the whole plumber's-bum pants fashion, and dozens of magazines that run bikini-clad gal layouts all year round has diminished the poignancy of the swimsuit theme, which has just about gone bust.

You have to wonder what went on at the editorial meetings of Spanish language People, and National Geographic — yes, that same yellow-bordered National Geographic — when they opted to join the glut of publications offering women in knickers, er, swimsuits on their covers this month.

In National Geographic's defence, they did make an effort to combine education with titillation, a novel innovation in the swimsuit issue genre. Their "special" collector's issue features a partially submerged Australian design student on the cover, wearing strategically placed seashells. Inside, along with glimpses of bare breasts and perky posteriors, is an informative 100-year history of swimwear. Who knew that in 1900, women in the bulky swim fashion of the day wound up lugging an extra 20 pounds when wet?

Boy, skinny-dipping must have been a real load off back then. Seriously, though, can't any magazine break away from the herd and sow its own pasture? Even mighty Maxim, typically a trend starter, partakes in the February flesh frenzy with its highly original "Real Swimsuit Issue," now in its fourth instalment.

The concept is doubly redundant in Maxim's case, where every month is scanty panty month. It's as ironic as Playboy putting out a clothing-optional issue.

Here's a thought for any magazine editor itching and twitching to join the fray: Try something new. Now, I understand that babes in bikinis sell issues, but how about a twist on the tired theme rather than another facsimile (at least National Geographic included a history lesson)?

Leave something to the imagination with a mystery theme. Put Rebecca Romijn-Stamos on the cover, but with this novelty — neither John Stamos nor the readers will be able to tell it's really her, because she'll be covered in ski garb and topped off with goggles and a toque.

The cover tease could read, "Free Your Mind, and Her Clothes Will Vanish." Fill the pictorial with pinups, only they'd be in everyday clothes and sans makeup; in other words: completely unrecognizable. Readers could guess "Who's that hottie?" for a chance to win a trip to an exotic locale where they'd spend a week with seven models of their choice and attempt to woo them for a reality show on Fox called Joe Model Seducer.

Not gutsy enough to completely rethink the whole teeny bikini oeuvre? That's fine, too, but at least come up with a fresh spin. Sure, put a lubed-up Lana Lusciouslegs or Bonnie Notanlines on the cover, but attach a quarter and make one of her Lycra swaths a scratch-and-win.

People love to live vicariously through the exploits of others, so the lucky Randy Reader who didn't get the "sorry, buy another magazine" buttock would get to star in next year's pictorial, along with all the stunning models in various states of undress, in a photo shoot in Martinique.

This sure would increase the demand for the requisite "making of" video, especially if Randy happens to be a lovable grandfather or a horny Grade 6er.