Tabloid therapy

I flip through my wife's copy each month, but lately I've devoured all of her fashion tomes because I've been hors de combat after surgery. ( I am now back, leather tough and panther quick.) I swear I'll read the 9/11 Commission Report down the road, but for the moment I'm happy poring over everything that comes through the mail chute.

That would be magazines and catalogs.

I am overwhelmed by the legions of catalogs that arrive for my wife each day like the brooms in "The Sorcerer's Apprentice." Williams-Sonoma, J. Jill, J. Crew, Pottery Barn, Garnet Hill - those I've heard of - but new to me is the volume from the strange and wondrous world of fabric offerings. The catalogs featuring women's clothes, with notable exceptions like J. Crew, which is hot, leave me cold. There's nothing to stare at.

As for men's catalogs, I like my Patagonia, despite the fact I haven't bought a thing there since pre-9/11. I giggle at the ones from Vineyard Vines, the outfit that started making great men's ties some years ago and has since become an absurdist parody of preppy clothing. I never tire of the plumb sensibleness and hopeless lack of style of L.L. Bean. That said, how can I miss them if they won't go away?

What makes my day is the celebrity candy online. Last week, I was glued to a feature in the online edition of The New York Daily News on plastic surgery among the stars titled "Good Genetics or Great Surgeons?" This package included pictures of more than 30 alleged stars, each with before and after photos of possible face work. Nicole Kidman swears no plastic surgeon has ever touched her face. Not so, sadly, for Priscilla Presley.

Later in the week, The Daily News trumped its face work fantasia with a stunning portfolio of celebrity tattoos. First among equals is Angelina Jolie, whose giant dragon on her lower back is impressive and intimidating. Hubby Brad Pitt, according to the paper, sports a tattoo of the levee system in New Orleans. Great, Brad.

There's a harrowing shot of Sylvester Stallone getting major work done on his upper arms, and another of Tommy Lee getting tattooed in an airplane. Lee is best known as the ex of both actress Heather Locklear, who now does hair commercials, and the chesty Pamela Anderson, who does God knows what. Not to be outdone, The New York Post offered a nifty look at "19 Naughty Navels." Will the fun ever stop?

But the nonpareil of junk remains The National Enquirer, which I read religiously at my CVS and now consume online. Boy, did I bookmark that one fast. Last Tuesday, for example, in an Enquirer Exclusive, I was stunned to learn that Bristol Palin, ex-lover of Levi Johnston and daughter of the astonishing Alaska Governor Sarah Palin, is back with a former boyfriend named Johnny Chandler. Meanwhile, Levi hotly denies his family is white trash. Keep in mind that his mother was busted last December on drug charges and the half sister of his father was recently arrested and charged with two counts of felony burglary for breaking into the same house twice while her 4-year-old daughter waited outside.

I've always gone straight for the Enquirer stories. I read them at the pharmacy, leaning against the rack as I wait for a prescription. Perpetual winners are the ones spotlighting the unflattering bodies of stars at the beach. We're talking fairly blurry telephoto shots, but the cottage cheese thighs, love handles, and guts are unmistakable - and I'm only talking about the women. There was one of Arnold Schwarzenegger in a bathing suit resembling a pudgy refrigerator.

Alas, these pursuits undermine the discipline I need to maintain while recuperating. The sad truth is, good celebrity dirt trumps daily showers, clean clothes, regular meals - all the essentials to mental and physical health, particularly in times of extremis.

It's so easy to let it all slide. Blow off discipline and focus on the important business at hand, be it making of a peanut butter and banana sandwich or learning with horror that women's shoulder pads are back. So: Is it absolutely necessary that I take a shower today? What's so wrong with tomorrow?

What's wrong is that I quickly resemble Ray Milland's alcoholic in "The Lost Weekend." My outfit includes a baked ziti-stained T-shirt under a gamy wrapper, my polar bear pajama bottoms, the uncharming white stubble of the old and the homeless, and greasy hair spiking up like an extraterrestrial. When I greet a delivery man at the door, he appears convinced I will attack him with my crutch, screaming he is the Son of Sam as I beat him, and hightails it back to the safety of his truck.

Luckily, my wife stops my slide into oblivion. She informs me I need to take a shower. Her exact words are, "You stink."

My message, gentle readers, is to go down market while recuperating from big stuff. Find a nice blend of prurience and hygiene. Seriously, what do you really want to read about - Uzbekistan or "Oprah Revenge on Dr. Phil"? We all have tabloid minds. We just hide the fact with our subscriptions to The Atlantic. So how low can you go? I can find no bottom.

Sam Allis's e-mail address is allis@globe.com