Fashion Faux Pas

Poor Kate, given flack for repeating her outfits, today. I have often wondered what it would be like to have to make sure you are not repeating outfits all the time. Think how much time would be spent weekly on trying on clothes. There is no surprise there are so many hit and misses by celebs now days in the fashion stakes. They have so many more opportunities to make mistakes. I guess they have the money for it.

Bad Photo Man

So I was on a very interesting photo shoot on the weekend. I say interesting like I speak with authority; it was my second modelling shoot ever. The first photographer I have ever worked with was lovely and complimentary and placid. She was respectful and humble unlike the douche bag I met this weekend. I am going to call him “Clive”. Clive was an older man compared to me; I was amongst a group of girls aged between thirteen and twenty four, me being one of the oldest. He was fat and unattractive, hence why he was on the other side of the camera. He interrupted everything the Art director had to say, even mentioning some of the AD’s gritty sex life to the entire group, embarrassing her to no end. He then began to call everyone a name based on their appearance, rattling the fragile egos of the girls by picking on their height and ethnicity. He got in my face at one stage, trying to adjust some of my make-up. He said how much he loved make-up, especially finding it on the pillow case in the morning after bringing home a beautiful young girl. I, at that moment, vomited a little bit into my mouth. After every photo he shot, he would turn to the crew and make a joke, wait for laughs, tell more of the joke which was highly offensive and inappropriate, which resulted in taking five minutes to perfect every shot. However, strangely, from what I could tell his photos were quite good. Yet he was unprofessional and disgusting; the two don’t make sense. Is this a reflection of the entire industry; the mind baffles me as to why I want so desperately to get into this industry when people like that are a part of it. Fingers crossed Clive is one of a kind. In fact I am sure he is.

I don't get it.

I love Beyonce so don’t get me wrong when I say this.

I find it overly insulting to the intelligence the reviews and praise of “Single Ladies”, the song Beyonce Knowles. If you have been living under a rock, or you are deaf, and do not know the infectious melody, all you need to know is that it’s all about girl power, getting back at your man for dumping you and asserting that women do not need men. As much as we know that artists sing songs that aren’t about them specifically, we all know that Beyonce is a very happily married woman to rapper Jay Z. The most brilliant performances are from those that make the audience believe that you aren’t you, that you are totally this whole other person. However the belief of performances are now questioned by the audience as we know everything about the celebrity; we no longer believe Beyonce is a happy single lady independent of men, we can no longer consider her as one of the independent women of the world so we cannot justify why she is singing to us like she is one. I cannot reconcile the meaning of song with who is singing; it is confusing that a married woman can preach independence of such a large scale. I felt even more confused when I discovered one of the foxy single women in her video clip is actually a man. It is the choreographer; apparently no other girl was good enough to do the dance so he dressed up and did the clip himself. To further add insult is the fact that one out of the four writers of this song is actually female, that being Beyonce. I would love to be a fly on the wall and listen to three guys and a married woman sit around and talk about what it is like to be a “Single Lady“ and then justifiably write a song about it. The song is fantastic and well composed, and I love dancing to it, however the process of its performance is hypocritical and confusing.

Groundhog Day

If you haven’t seen the movie then you cannot say you have lived. It was one of the must see, lazy Sunday afternoon quirk movies that people will quote at you in various social interactions and, if you don’t know the quote, then you got yourself a case of “social fail”. And nobody wants a social fail, nor have someone say to you “Social fail”; there is nothing more irritating than someone who insists on using “fail” at the end of everything. You fall over: walking fail. You fart in public: body fail. Someone has to teach me how it became so main stream in such a short amount of time and how we, even the educated ones, seem to have made it a part of our regular vocab. So not only is our generation getting lazy with our English, we are now turning to making up new phrases that have very little meaning and annoy everyone. Aren’t we great? At the end of the day I guess I can handle “...fail” than the abbreviations. You know the ones – for example “laugh out loud” is “LOL” in text and computer speak. I, being someone relatively normal, use those is my social media communication (Facebook, twitter, text messaging) as a means of saying something without taking too time up or space (text messages do cost money!). I cannot identify why a normal, functioning human being with the ability to speak and form sentences feels the need to spell the letters out, “L-O-L”, instead of actually laughing, or giggling, or simply saying how funny something is. You turn a person who is mildly intelligent into sounding like a complete moron. I hope to God this is not a sign of things to come.

Anyway, Groundhog Day. I feel like lately there is an overriding sense of nostalgia about everything I do. I feel I have the same conversations with the same people, the same empty looks in the mirror when checking my weight loss progress, the same outfits reoccurring day in and day out. If I could every day I would buy something new and wear it for just one day. Then, if I didn’t love it, I would throw it in the bin. And the process would start again the next day. I guess all I would ever need in life is pyjamas and something to wear to the shops and back. I hate repeating outfits. The worst case of Ground hog day came last Saturday; I went to the MCG and was watching Hawthorn versus Geelong. I am a Hawthorn witch, my favourite player (my “man” as the BF calls him) is Breust, the new youngster who comes out at mid third quarter to kick a few late goals to help bring the win in. I get very excited when they are playing and love it, like every other fan, when they get a win. However, I have the most intense hatred for Geelong. I despise them with such great intensity that I can get quite irrationally angry at Geelong supporters. Paul Chapman’s vow to never let Hawthorn beat them again, made after the 2008 Grand Final, amuses beyond no end; in Chapman’s defiant proclamation of revenge, he has shown he is quite scared of the Hawks, knowing that without this vow he is danger of losing to them again.

So with this in mind, I sat watching the game, in the right hand bay of the member’s lower deck, hoping that the Hawks will thump Geelong. That was third time, in the space of a year, that I had sat in the member’s lower deck, hoping the Hawks would thump Geelong. And, for the third time in the space of a year, Hawks put on a show early; they rose up to the challenge and then, in the final quarter, didn’t kick any goals and lost. I walked away with not only a headache but a great sense of fear; is this going to keep happening for the rest of my life? Am I going to keep watching the same thing keep happening over and over again? I hope, one day, I can at least be a full voting MCC member and be sitting out front of the Frank Grey Smith to watch them get beaten. That will be a change.

What's a girl to do?

So what does an aspiring performer need to do to get themselves them out there? For the sake of class and being recognized for the RIGHT reasons, I have decided to compile a list of the what NOT to do. I figure that will be easier to decifer than what to do. (No particular order - it is hard to say which one is worse than the other)

Now don't get me wrong; there is much to love about certain events/people. I am just saying it would not me my method of getting recognized!

Entourage

Do I need to get an “entourage” behind me? You never really see it in the glossy trash mags but every time a celeb walks down the red carpet, or frequents a popular eatery, they are surrounded by a mob of important people. The reason they are photo-shopped out of most pictures is because, let’s face it, who wants to see the simple folk, it’s all about the celebrity! (And yes, I plan to rant at some stage the genius of Warhol’s theory of celebrity) So why would you want to be a part of the entourage? I can imagine, depending on the boss, the work would be tiresome, less than glamorously promised by said employer, no doubt there would be a strong requirement to clean up the mess of dim witted actors and models, and, all in all, would be draining on the soul. I do not doubt the necessity of having an entourage; when in Vegas, my boyfriend spotted Justin Timberlake at a restaurant, dinning with friends at a private table not far from his. Timberlake at one stage stood to go to the bathroom; with him came two seven foot security guards who easily weighed 150kg each, who escorted him to the bathroom and back to the table. I joked, when the BF told me he had spotted Timberlake, asking why he didn’t get his number for me. BF’s frank yet true response was: “There was no way I could get anywhere near him to even exchange looks with him, let alone get his number.” If I were Justin, I would never go anywhere without my entourage.
I have written a list of potentials that could fill the role as my entourage. I guess I will need the following people:

Security – I am going with the big Shaq on that one. No one said I couldn’t have something hot to look at whilst feeling a sense of protection? There would need to be one other; probably my favourite wrestler, Randy Orton. So dreamy, so muscley. Perfect if he happens to get snapped with me by the paparazzi. I shall ask them not to edit him out. Having said that, if he is meant to protect me, I hate the thought of losing him to a bullet in the chest whilst in the line of duty. Better audition someone less valuable. Note to self: find ugly people.

Manager – I have a really gorgeous savvy friend of mine who will do this for me. She is amazing; a killer smile and body, however she has the unrelenting personality and intelligence that, if meeting her in an argument, you are sure to lose. Let’s pretend, for fun’s sake, that she isn’t able to get Monday’s off work so I have to hire someone else to come to Hollywood with me. I need someone business smart, ruthless and willing to defend my every stupid decision and every sordid affair, real or made up by the money hungry slappers of the world. I need someone better than CC Babcock, the worst manager/advisor/assistant ever. Poor Mr Sheffield, of the Nanny, was persuaded not to produce a show that “was about a bunch of pussy cats singing in a garbage can” by CC, at the time, the most important person of his life. Good old Andrew Lloyd Webber saw something in Cats; I need me a Drew. I need a Dre, the doctor variety, to bring me out of the wood work to stardom. Speculation on this particular role is tough; let’s hold auditions.

Wanted: one manager willing to sell sole for my fame. Glory: minimal.
Casting Agent: Ari Gold. Enough said.

As I sit here, writing this on a lonely Saturday night, I am watching a marathon of HBO’s Entourage. Currently Turtle is sharing a spliff with Jamie Lynn in a massive hot tub, surrounded in bubbles and champagne. Drama is getting a massage in his trailer between takes on his TV show and Eric is having a drink with Sloan. The scene ends with Vince arriving home to an empty house; the shot fades out on the dark house as he calls out “Hello?” inquisitively to a desolate hallway. I just don’t believe, in the life of a mega movie star, you are ever coming home to an empty house. Surely there would be maids or a cleaner or a freeloader just getting around the place. There seemed to be a constant stream of people getting through the Osborne home in their MTV series. There were always miscellaneous faces that, as a viewer, you could never place their importance or role in the daily life of these celebrities. So how real is Entourage? Does a typical movie star live with several of his buddies the whole time and fucks everything that moves, occasionally working and appearing on talk shows? Does he come home to an empty house at night? Or is life as chaotic, and full of a claustrophobic amount of people like the Osborne’s seem to live with? I have no way of knowing until I am living the life myself. Then I’ll let you know.

I also find it rather amusing that the cast of Entourage were a total fluke. The producers had no intentions of keeping the original cast but kind of got stuck with them. The luckiest thing that ever happened to those guys.

And yes, I am that jealous.