"They look like hookers in the red-light district of every city in the world,” the sourpuss next to me says, gazing at the parade of shell-shocked beauties loping down the runway to tepid applause at the Ford Supermodel of the World Competition, in which young women from 50 nations—including one from a place called MySpace—compete for modeling contracts. Why are they all so sad? Is it because most of them can't understand a word anybody is saying? Or because after they lose they'll have to return to the mean streets of Vilnius and Sofia, Tallinn and Minsk without a cosmetics deal or the... More >>>