DON’T HATE HER ’CUZ SHE’S BEAUTIFUL: ‘World’s first supermodel,’ bitchy fault-finder Janice Dickinson exposes the ugly side of looking glamorous
BY DANIEL KUSNER
When Tyra Banks was putting together the reality show “America’s Next Top Model,” she needed a Simon Cowell of the beauty biz.
In her judge’s chair, Janice Dickinson stared down waifish wannabes and hurled stinging criticisms like Chinese stars.
As a glamour gal who’s been striking poses since the ’70s, Dickinson has earned the right to be an arrogant expert.
She takes credit for advising Calvin Klein to sell underwear, and she constantly reminds everyone that she’s the “world’s first supermodel.”
“I’ve walked more runways than Delta and United combined. I was Gianni Versace’s, Valentino’s and Azzedine Alaia’s muse. And I've been in more rehabs than any other model, bar none,” she says while having her hair triple-processed in a Manhattan salon.
When she’s not smiling for the camera or ripping apart reality contestants, Dickinson is a busy author. In her 2002 tell-all autobiography, “No Lifeguard on Duty,” she traced her drugged out, star-fucking trail to success.
Her many exploits included Warren Beatty, Mick Jagger, Sylvester Stallone, John Cusak and Jack Nicholson. But she had to fight men off, too — like her own pedophilac father, who regularly abused Janice’s older sister.
"No Lifeguard" ends with Janice tossing her dad’s angina pills out of a car window while he was suffering a heart attack. Before admitting him to a nearby hospital, Janice got in his face and yelled, “Die, motherfucker!”
“I killed the rat bastard. And if I had to do it again, I would. Because he deserved to die,” Dickinson says. “His abuse led me to 47 years of trying to damage myself, and I never felt good enough. He kept telling me I should have been a boy.”
Dickinson had a lot of issues to work out to become America’s beauty queen. And she’s not finished.
Her new book, “Everything About Me is Fake … And I’m Perfect” is a cautionary tale that yanks back the curtain of achieving unattainable perfection: the nasty side of Botox, bulimia and boob jobs.
“I saw 14-year-old girls on ‘Rikki Lake’ saying they wanted plastic surgery to look like the girls in the Victoria Secrets catalog. And I just said, ‘No way!’” she recalls. “I never looked like that when I was posing for Vogue. It was two-and-a-half hours of hair and makeup and a bevy of gay men who’d put me together. And from there, it’s all retouching and Photoshop airbrushing.”
But that’s no excuse to be ugly or flabby. Dickinson devotes at least half the book to dieting, beauty tips and fierce exercising.
She recalls meeting Barbra Streisand while pigging out on corn chips at a party. Streisand asked Dickinson how she managed to stay so thin.
“Swiss Kriss, honey. It’s a laxative. Once a week — boom — flat stomach. Just stick close to the john, or things could get ugly,” she warned Babs.
“I’m a gay man in a supermodel’s body. I guess that’s why they love me so much,” she laughs.
Both her books are refreshingly candid displays of Dickinson’s screwed-up-ness. Her stories would be goldmines if any of the “America’s Next Top Model” contestants wanted to use Dickinson’s own words against her.
“I handed my crown to Cindy Crawford. And if a contestant has the unmitigated gall to sass me, I’ll vote her fucking ass off the show,” Dickinson says.
You can bet that Dickinson always gets in the last word.
In her books, she rails on Eileen Ford and dishes on the “Next Top Model” contestants.
Are the books all about settling old scores?
“Duh! Of course,” she says. “And I’m already working on my third.”