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Posts Tagged ‘models’
I love Disneyland. I can’t help it. As cynical and embittered as I might be – the second I enter that crazy, Third Reich-inspired Anaheim parking structure I squeal with pleasure. I delight in the incredibly ordered, military precision of those polite Disney ‘Cast Members’ who direct me into my Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse, or Chip n’ Dale parking space. Southern California may have the nation’s worst traffic, filthiest air, and unrelenting poverty – but I am able to buy unrestricted, go-anytime-you-want, zillion dollar platinum passes for my family. (I can’t be bothered with pesky black-out days or having to stand in line with those sandal wearing, German tourists)
I’m one of those truly embarrassing dads that wears his Mickey Mouse ears around the entire park and has the gumption to rock-out to that bizarre ‘Block Party’ parade where all the cute, young dancers dressed as flowers bounce up and down on stilts. Naturally, I maintain a standing reservation at ‘Ariel’s Grotto,’ the chicest place at Disneyland. (Ariel’s Grotto is Disney’s version of the Stork Club, all the prettiest most poised Disney princesses visit your table and make small talk. I’ve developed a very close personal relationship with Cinderella who calls me ‘Sir’ Tod when she sees me – it’s a gas!)
Last weekend, we arrived at the park promptly at 8:30 AM and the moment I slid my Platinum pass though the gate scanner I was like a thoroughbred charging down main street. Anxious to get to Space Mountain, The Haunted House, Indiana Jones, and all the choicest rides I took no notice of my son having come to a complete stop behind me. I whizzed past a tour group of Japanese housewives and was but a few, precious steps from jumping on the new (minimum two hour wait) FINDING NEMO ride when my cell phone rang. My husband informed me that our son Ethan was staging a sit-in and refused (REFUSED!) to go on any rides. My husband George, who works in film production and at times talks to me like I’m his production assistant, ordered me to return to base camp at once.
Angrily, I returned to our ‘base camp’ which of course turned out to be that hokey, general store where Disney sells their ghastly treasure trove of high fructose corn syrup-laden candy, cookies, and Mickey Mouse shaped Rice Krispie treats. Ethan was in tears and made the most grotesque pronouncement I had ever heard.
“I don’t like Disneyland rides,” he cried “I only want to go to the playground.”
George explained to me that the majority of ‘adult’ rides were too loud and hurt Ethan’s sensitive ears. Munching on a Goofy shaped scone, Ethan was resolute. He was absolutely NOT going to go on a single ride that I favored. No Indiana Jones, no Haunted House, No Space Mountain and certainly no Tower of Terror. He even nixed IT’S A SMALL WORLD and PETER PAN for Christ’s sake! My fury began to build.
“You can’t be serious,” I demanded, “What is the point of coming to Disneyland if you don’t ride the rides?”
“I’m afraid this day isn’t about you,” George replied, “This day is about our son and he wants to go to the playground in California Adventure.”
“Yeah, Dad it’s about me.” Ethan sneered as the scone crumbs fell from his mouth.
Hand in hand, George and Ethan began to head down Main Street towards California Adventure home of the infamous ‘Tree Playground.’ I was outraged. Clearly this was some kind of cooked-up conspiracy. What did they mean ‘This day wasn’t about me?’ Excuse me, but EVERY DAY is about me. I work hard. I break my back making the money to pay for those elitist entry passes. It’s my God given responsibility – no scratch that, God given RIGHT to ride THE MATTERHORN with with my family. I was seething and sulked all the way to the gates of California Adventure. I wanted to kill them both.
Upon arriving at the ‘Tree Playground’ which I’ve come to learn is called ‘Grizzly Peak’ Ethan scampered off to climb a rock wall. George and I sat there staring at our son and at each other. It was 9:05 AM and I insisted on getting a frozen Margarita from Rita’s Baja Blenders. (My second favorite watering hole at Disneyland after Ariel’s Grotto) Standing there in my Mickey Mouse hat, sipping my alcohol day-glo drink, I watched my son climb the same rock wall 30 times.
It was probably the cheap tequila that had permeated my brain, but by 9:25 I began to see the Zen of this situation. I had no place to go – I had only to be. My job was to sit there, watch my son climb the rock wall an infinite number of times and shout words of encouragement. My husband George tentatively came next to me and squeezed my neck.
“How’s my baby?” he asked soothingly.
“I’m sad.” I responded.
I mourned that there would be no thrilling rides on ‘California Soaring.’ I mourned that there would be no witty cocktail banter with my close friend Cinderella. Worst of all I would be forced to be my son’s valet, carrying his half-eaten scone, Mickey Mouse ears, and water bottle for the rest of the day.
George put his head on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “I love you, you know.”
I pulled my husband close to me and kissed him deeply. I pretended not to notice the German tourists gawking at the two full-grown, drunk men wearing Mickey Mouse ears kissing.
Several days ago I received the most thrilling email of my life.
A children’s modeling agency was interested in possibly representing my son Ethan. Liz-Beth, the agency owner was seeking ‘talent’ for a prominent childrens clothing catalogue and had heard through a mutual friend that my son Ethan possessed the ideal All-American ‘look.’ Liz-Beth suggested that I bring Ethan to the set early Sunday morning for some test shots. She assured me it would be in intimate affair and was really just a formality – Ethan’s good looks, poise and natural ‘ability’ was certain to land him the job and a fabulous future career in childrens modeling. My head began to spin with excitement. Just the words ‘set’ and ‘test shots’ sent me into a tizzy. I fantasized about attending New York’s Fashion Week, front-and-center with my good friends Dita Von Teese, Mary Kate Olsen and Anna Wintour discussing Ethan’s meteoric rise to the top of the childrens modeling world.
“He’s a winner, an absolute doll!’ Dita would shout during the crowd’s standing ovation for my son.
Anna, who generally said little during fashion shows, sat in her folding chair sobbing.
“I’ve seen the face of God,” Anna moaned “Ethan. Ethan. Ethan.”
“Stop it, you two,” I would chide playfully “He’s just an ordinary kid.”
“Only much better looking!” Mary Kate would giggle.
Anna, Dita, Mary Kate and I would dissolve into peels of laughter, our little ‘joke’ causing crocodile tears to roll down my cheeks. The other ‘lesser’ children in the show might as well have been wearing burlap sacks – their mediocrity eclipsed by my son’s incandescent beauty. Not wanting Dita, Anna, Mary Kate, the fashion press or (God forbid) the paparazzi to see the tears of joy rimming my eyes, I planned on wearing my Faux Semblant Carré Louis Vuitton sunglasses that I adore, but my husband George swears make me look like Edith Head.
“We’ll do our best to make it,” I replied (trying to sound blase in my email response ), “But Ethan’s been working like crazy – I had hoped that he might have at least ONE day off this month. I’ll see what I can do.”
The next few days at our home consisted of model boot camp. At regular intervals I would bark at Ethan to ‘find the lens‘ and would demand he give me varied ranges of facial expressions. I would carefully critique his ‘look’ and then fine tune his poor ‘performance.’
“Look Ethan,” I said during one frustrating posing session,”Modeling is not for the faint of heart. It’s a career, not a job!” He shrugged his shoulders and continued to throw a tennis ball against my bedroom wall.
Sunday finally arrived and I sprang out of bed. I carefully dressed Ethan and styled his hair to look ‘sporty.’ With great anticipation, we set off for West Los Angeles and our thrilling new life in childrens modeling!
The audition was being held at a large hangar in close proximity to the Santa Monica airport. As we entered the building I could hear the cacophony of dozens if not hundreds of children. A small, dark vestibule opened into large open room that served as a photo studio where throngs of the most gorgeous, blond haired, blue eyed Hitler Youth looking children frolicked. It was as if I had entered the modeling equivalent of VILLAGE OF THE DAMNED. I was stunned. My son happily joined the throng of boy clones currently engrossed in some kind of twisted video game, and I stationed myself at a table with a mother who never glanced at me nor spoke a single word. From what I could tell, she was too busy downing espresso shots and emailing her son’s extensive modeling portfolio to perspective agents, photo shoot producers and magazine editors.
An hour later, my son’s name was called by a bored production assistant who informed me that they had already met with 500 children in the last two days – and were in desperate need of some Red Bulls. I had difficulty in locating Ethan as he had officially joined the Aryan Brotherhood. I had a hell of a time differentiating him from the Austin, Trevor, Brandon, Malcolm, and Henry clones so I loudly called out his name and took the child that responded in the affirmative.
The entire photo session lasted 15 seconds. My son looked at the camera, yawned and made a half-hearted attempt at smiling. The photographer snapped a dozen or so listless digital photos, high-fived my son and it was over. My son raced back to join his buddies in the brotherhood and I watched my, I mean his dreams of modeling go down the tubes. There were no fashion shows in our future, no fabulous lunches at NOBU with Anna, Dita and Mary Kate, and certainly no future bidding wars by IN-STYLE for our ‘candid’ at-home photos.
On the drive home, I casually asked the child in my car (I think I took my child) if he had enjoyed his modeling experience. I was shocked to learn that he thought it was ‘cool’ and asked me to set up a playdate with his blond buds from the brotherhood.
I put the number for NOBU back in my Blackberry’s speed dial.
Some of you poor souls have already read this story, but I felt like a good Louis Vuitton bag, sometimes this shit just gets better with age. Enjoy! – TRD (The Reluctant Dad, not Turd you bitches!!!)
Years ago, when my son Ethan was a toddler and attended preschool, I used to really dread the hours between 4-6 pm each day; for this was the time that he returned home from school famished and hyper-stimulated. With babies, this time of day is commonly referred to as the ‘witching hour’ as babies tend to get cranky and no matter how much cooing, swaddling, or comforting you do, they still scream their heads off. Our son Ethan, entered this stage and never left. I now call that time of day ‘The Bitching Hour’ because my son does nothing but complain, whine and make cunning observations.
“Daddy, I don’t like this snack.” “Daddy, I want a play date.”
“Daddy, you’re too old to wear that outfit – it’s embarrassing.”
In the old days, when George and I first brought Ethan home from the hospital and the ‘witching hour’ would approach, did we soften the lights, turn on the Mozart, and try to create a restful, relaxing atmosphere? Of course not. We handled that unpleasantness the old fashioned way – we got fucked up. With Ethan stashed securely in the Baby Bjorn, George got incredibly adept at mixing Apple-tinis (remember them?) and we would get properly hammered. To further combat the tedium of our circumstances, we would invite a different gaggle of friends over each night and host rousing cocktail parties in Ethan’s makeshift ‘nursery’ which coincidentally turned out to be our wet bar. I believe that Ethan’s first words were ‘jigger,’ ‘extra shot’ and ‘Grey Goose.’
In addition to the ‘witching hour’ cocktail parties, to pass the time Baby Ethan and I developed a series of bizarre, semi-sadistic games that for some reason kept him incredibly entertained. I once read in that frightening ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting’ book new parents should play Peek-A-Boo and talk baby-talk with their newborns because it somehow helps with their speech and face recognition development. I don’t know what developmental skills my son acquired while we played ‘push-daddy-off-the-really-high-king-sized-bed,’ or ‘hit-daddy-in-the-head-with-a-Playskool-mallet,’ as well as ‘pull-daddy’s-hair-until-his-eyes-water’ but our son certainly seemed to enjoy himself.
Now, that our son is six year’s old, 4-6 PM has become his ‘enrichment’ time. Like all the well turned-out young children in our neighborhood, Ethan enthusiastically participates in the standard tennis, gymnastics, soccer, and Taikwondo lessons. In fact, Ethan has more resume enhancing ‘appointments,’ ‘lessons,’ and ‘tutoring,’ than a third year medical student. Despite this hectic schedule, Ethan still sets aside one day each week (Wednesday) to play a new and improved version of the ‘Bitching Hour.’ The latest game we’ve developed is called ‘Runway Rampage.’
In this particular game, Daddy is a famous fashion model (Either Naomi Campbell, Kate Moss, or Heidi Klum - they’re all equally deplorable) and my son is a well known and respected fashion show producer/director. Ethan commands me to ‘set the mood’ by turning up the lights in my bedroom and blasting Beyonce’s ’SINGLE LADIES’ as loudly as possible on my stereo system. Donned in his STAR WARS headset, Ethan first checks his clipboard, consults his stopwatch and then silently motions for me to make my pass on our makeshift catwalk. Like a drill Sargent, he shouts orders at me like ‘strut’ and ‘work it’ and as I pass him, dissatisfied, he punches me in the stomach as hard as he can.
“You call that modeling?” he cries “You’re not even trying! Again!”
I make at least 20 passes down the catwalk and have in turn endured 20 gut punches. I try not to think about the psycho-sexual connotations of my young son pretending his father is Heidi Klum and punching Heidi in the stomach because her strut isn’t up to snuff.
After a while, I get tired of working the runway and tell Ethan that this super model is super in need of a drink. Like any good producer/director who is dissatisfied with his ‘star’s’ performance, Ethan yells, cajoles, pleads, and eventually begs me to return to the catwalk so that he can continue his assault. I become terribly conflicted and think about other little boys whose fathers are pursuing ‘manly’ pursuits with their sons such as throwing baseballs, building model airplanes, and collecting stamps while I’m sashaying down an imaginary catwalk while my son sucker punches me. Am I doing the right thing?
I need a new agent.
Were you to visit my pretentious, over-decorated home in Los Angeles, and take a visual inventory of my choice of household servants, it would become painfully clear to you that I don’t hire people for their credentials, punctuality, nor their ability to construct whole sentences. Like Britney Spears, whose homemaking ‘choices’ I feel are seriously misunderstood, I tend to surround myself with male actors/models/dancers/whatevers who can’t cook, clean, garden or food shop for shit, but whose head shots are exquisite!
You would think that my eight-year-old son Ethan, who much to my horror is becoming straighter and straighter each day, would see through my lascivious gender bias and DEMAND that I throw in a hot girl servant now and again. Perhaps some tender young scullery maid or cleaning lady who might dote upon him and flirt outrageously. Much to my bewilderment and enjoyment, such a request has never been made. On the contrary, my son Ethan, a total ‘guy’s guy,’ seems to revel in the constant array of Brandons, Matthews, Trevors, and Gregorys. While I am predictably dazzled by each ‘manny’s’ snow white teeth and washboard abs, Ethan honestly regards them as some kind of brethren, kindred spirits who share his interest in baseball, video games and ultimately… girls. With each of these gorgeous, dumb-as-a-box-of-hammers, ‘dudes’ Ethan has developed an innate comfort level and perplexing, somewhat frightening language completely alien to me.
Last night, as I sat upon our porch sipping a rather mediocre Burgundy, I watched Skyler, our new & improved manny/actor engage my son Ethan in a football toss. Skyler decided that Ethan should ‘go long’ and hurled the ball as hard and fast as he could. I held my breath and watched Ethan careen up the median to catch the ball as devastatingly handsome, frighteningly dim- witted Skyler shouted “Get under it bro, get under it!’ To my surprise, Ethan caught the pass and as he raced back towards Skyler, the two met and exchanged ‘high fives’ in addition to the ultimate in macho fuckery, a ‘belly bump.’ Skyler grabbed Ethan and as he held him jubilantly above his head, Ethan turned to me and shouted ‘Did you see that dad, I caught it!’
I waved proudly at the two straight men celebrating before me as a strange feeling suddenly overcame me. At first, I thought it was acid reflux from the crappy wine I was drinking. But after a brief moment of introspection, I realized that I was strangely envious. Ethan would always be the golden boy, the well-liked, popular boy that never wanted for love, attention or playmates. Unlike me, Ethan would never be picked last for football, never be called ‘fag,’ or worse, have to lie about who he truly was. I was in danger of becoming tiresomely maudlin, when out of nowhere, Ethan spontaneously waved Tyler away and requested that I join him on the lawn for a catch. I dumped my glass of wine, hurriedly descended the steps to my house and joined my son on our impromptu ‘field,’ content in the knowledge that while Skyler, Matthew, Gregory, or Trevor may ‘play for his team,’ I would always be captain.
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