Which, btw, NYFW is upon us. Skateboards are out in full force, girls are flooding the streets with heels in their bags, agents and models are bravely laboring through Labor Day while single mothers working at Denny's say "Yeah so are we, plus I gotta buy groceries tonight, fuck off." It's a glorious time.
So here's a casting story, but one I bring up in particular because of the underwear connection, and also because I was just interviewed at a show and...well keep reading. But first I have to apologize for starting off my last couple posts with a shameless reference to my Twitter. Especially since the 6 people who actually read this thing probably already follow me on there.*
*I am not counting you, Taiwanese guy who stumbled upon this by accident. And I apologize for the inconvenience.
Second, I'll say I'm sorry for making this the second post in a row with a semi-focus on testicles.
This casting started off like most-- waiting in a hotel hallway for my turn, going in and handing an ostensibly normal person my book. For those unaware, by "book" I don't mean "written piece of prose." LOL @ most casting directors giving two shits about any ability in that realm. There's a stereotype for a reason.
The "book" is a portfolio of images-- from campaigns, editorials, lookbooks, runways, etc.-- put together in strategic order by an agent (most likely with the uncredited help of an intern) that showcases your ability to not look like Chandler Bing in a photograph.
Basically the opposite of this. Unless maybe you're me.
It serves as evidence of your valuable abilities, until of course you're done modeling, when those "abilities" aren't quite as valuable and your resume is basically a picture book. It also doubles as a douchebag indicator, as any guy who struts around the city with their book held out prominently is pretty much signaling their douchitude to anyone with working eyes in seeing distance.
The "casting director" here-- title in quotes because he ends up scoring a good 6.5 on the "How Creepy Is This Casting Gonna Get" scale, 1 being a polite grandmother with a tray of cookies, 10 being the Terry Richardson HJ Zone™-- had no interest in my book whatsoever, and wanted to jump right into things. Which is all the better, except jumping into things wasn't snapping pics and letting me go on with my day, it was putting me on camera and launching into a series of questions.
The idea was to get my (and presumably the guys who went before me) initial reactions, the first-thought-that-comes-into-your-head. The idea beyond that? I really don't even know. But here's how it went...
1. "What does fashion mean to you?"
Here's the thing. Before I was scouted, I didn't know a god damn thing about fashion. I watched America's Next Top Model and was outraged when Melrose got robbed. That's about it. (And she got fucking robbed alright. Four reward challenges and the best finale walk? Robbed.)
The point is that the 7 people who read this blog are doing so either because:
A.) I personally bribed them to,
B.) A sense of schadenfreude that helps assuage their own awkwardness at, say, being caught staring off into someone's crotch on the train that morning while thinking about dinner,
C.) They got redirected from Google Taiwan on accident. (I included you this time, my friend.)
In other words, nobody's reading this to hear about my riveting opinions on the Dior F/W '12 line (which I did wear btw, it was positively delightful).
So what's fashion really mean to me? That's a very deep and complex question that if I answered at length would take up the rest of this post. And I have a testicle story to get to. Next question.
2. "What's your favorite thing about being a model?"
The tits. They're everywhere. Doing a runway show with girls is like jumping into a McDonald's ballpit, if all the balls had nipples.
Fill them with milk and this kid would be even happier.
Just kidding. About giving that as my answer I mean, not about that being true.
It's the talented people you get to meet. People who are doing what they care about (for the most part) and are utilizing you to achieve something that they care about (for the most part). In an industry about appearances, it's refreshing to meet and work with and connect with people who have depth beyond the surface.
And it just so happens that some of those people let their tits fly. Amazing, right?
3. A quick word-association game
...where I cannot promise I didn't mention Star Wars.
4. "What direction do you think fashion is headed in?"
See Question 1. Who cares about my opinion on this? I've only been a part of it for basically one era of its entire lifespan, and in that time I've worn things that have made me feel like I could rule a British province in the 1600's to things that look like I've been kidnapped and held as someone's plaything in a basement. Is there really a unity in the direction of all this?
With the interview portion overwith, we jumped into the next stage. Which meant jumping into a pair of Calvin Klein running shorts. And nothing else. By "running shorts" here I mean the tiny, barely-shorts featured prominently in cross-country races and 80's basketball games.
So...these.
Given my propensity to eschew pants, this wasn't a problem. I readily hop into the shorts, if you can call them that, and...
...and then this guy busts out a bottle of baby oil. And starts to rub me down. Still, somehow-- call it systematic desensitization, call it the dangers of the modeling industry in letting vulnerable young people be unsupervised, call it me being distracted by looking at the shorts and pretending to be Larry Bird-- I don't have a problem with it. I mean, we were on a pretty high floor, so I was pretty sure I wasn't getting kidnapped into a basement. And it made me look "sexy" and smell nice, so...come on.
Anyway, I start posing all over this metal chair, this way and that, as he snaps away. When all of a sudden he pops his head out from behind the camera and says, and I quote...
"Hey, uh...could you tuck your balls in?"
I look down at myself and, sure enough, my junk is dangling out like fresh poultry in a Chinatown window. I hurry to tuck myself back into decency...
...but this dude doesn't stop snapping his camera. The shutter continues to click the entire time. Which means on some memory card, somewhere, probably everywhere if I were to run for office, are a bunch of still images of me, oiled up, on a metal chair, tucking my testicles into tiny underwear-shorts.
The bonus level to this N64 level of Awkward is that, as I hustled out of the place (I used "hustled" on purpose, wait for it...) I accidentally bumped into some random tall dude. I quickly apologized, only to realize that it was Jay-Z. Like Jay-Z, the real Jay-Z. Not a fake one.
There's really no story there-- he just kept on his way, I did a double-take and went on mine. Except that from now until my future political opponent unsheathes those images, he's gonna wonder why in the world that gangly kid smelled like baby oil. Concrete jungle where dreams are made of, folks.
