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I'm a Model and I Shake My Little (Little?) Tush on the CatwalkNov 14 '04 Write an essay on this topic.
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The Bottom Line In which the author inadvertently becomes the man every heterosexual man wants to be (according to Eric).
It all started with a slight lifting of my long-sleeved black polo. I’d bought it on clearance from Shopko a couple years ago on my way to a staged reading of local one-act plays. We actors were told to wear all black, and I didn’t have any black in my closet. And now it just happens to be one of my favorite articles of clothing. And it was the first to go. I thought, surely, surely, someone will stop me at this point. Someone would surely shame me into re-clothing myself. After all, this was a respectable establishment, and I was in mixed company. But even as my pristine white undershirt – one of six that I’d bought at Target specifically for the run of “Lonely Planet” this fall - became flirtatiously and irreversibly un-tucked from my slacks, it seemed that in all of Dave & Buster’s, there was not a single voice of reason – not a single rational voice of dissent as the slowly rising hem revealed a patch of dark hair on a pale fleshy mound of belly, surrounding a deep, dark navel. To my great, and just-a-teeny-bit horrified surprise, not a single protest arose from the crowd as my not-so-perky man-boobs made their Chicago stage debut. Not a single “this is wrong!” or “this must stop!” for an offense that most certainly seemed to warrant a Million Man March down West Wacker Drive. And I thought to myself, this is how Republicans get elected to office! The t-shirt hit the floor and digital cameras throughout the room levitated from their resting spots in purses and fanny-packs, and on tables next to empty plastic plates bearing the scattered remains of mini-pizzas, and cheese cubes, and shrimp kebabs, oh my! And I knew then: the pants would have to come off. And they did. And somewhere between that second glass o’ Guinness and my ridiculously un-macho posing for the Epinions Swimsuit Issue, somewhere between my Peter Garrett Goes To Parliament impression and my second go-round of that virtual reality shoot ‘em up video game, somewhere between recklessly endangering the lives and sanity of four hapless passengers shoved indecorously into my little yellow Chevy, and recklessly endangering the seams of my own olive green slacks – bought as a prospective-but-ultimately rejected costume component for “Lonely Planet” (I apparently only buy clothes for plays), somewhere between making that last stop at Citgo before hitting the road en route to Chicago, and bidding farewell to a flock of Windy City groupies at the Blue Frog Pub – somewhere in all that, I felt myself creaking dangerously off my hinges. You see, I’m a very shy person No, really, I am. I’m very quiet and reserved and… … … … Okay, so I’m a crappy liar. The truth is I love meeting people, especially people I already kind of know. I love that familiarity of having known someone for years by their work and a small pixilated picture of themselves on a website, and then seeing them in the flesh and getting to actually talk to them. It’s a little like meeting celebrities. Not that I’ve ever met a celebrity. I live in Wisconsin, for Pete’s sake. We don’t have celebrities just walking around here like New York or L.A. (though the drummer from Vixen does live in Germantown). But if meeting people I’ve admired from afar – people like Ed and Caroline, Ben and Eric and Mike – and people I’ve heard of, but always assumed were way to cool for the likes of me – like Lori and Tom and Abraham – made me feel like I was that hopelessly nerdy guy with the backstage pass meeting all the rock stars; well, it sort of works in reverse that way too. When Monsieur Grover insisted in person that even though he’d never heard any of the music I reviewed, but still enjoyed reading my music reviews anyway; when Madam Dizzybint immediately greeted me with a big, warm affectionate hug as if we were old friends reunited instead of two folks meeting for the first time; and when Spike-A-Delic M.C. Crypticcradle passionately debates the talking points of my Devendra Banhart review - well, a guy starts to feel a little like Jon Bon Jovi, circa 1986. Or at least Britney Spears, circa '99. No, no, no. I’m not shy at all. And I do love an audience. (You hadn’t guessed?) Which is one of the reasons why I love Epinions. Like theatre, it gives a guy an instantaneous response. There’s an immediate, visible and even palpable volley of energy between writer and reader that’s both intoxicating, and damn-near impossible under any other circumstances. So, even when I was just starting out, and I was only getting five or six rates on reviews, with nary a comment in sight, I kept writing because even the smallest of audiences still applaud. Over the course of two years, my personal Epinions audience has grown considerably, and I’ve gotten to know a lot a folks in that audience. And these are the people I write reviews for. These (and many others who I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting in Chicago last night) are folks I have in my mind when I’m choosing which juicy autobiographical details to stick in my new Elton John review; these are the people I hope will laugh when I post something like this. And at last night’s Meet N’ Greet in Chicago, I got a chance to make these very same people laugh – in person. And they got their chances to do the same for me. Like getting one of those probing, personal questions from Kristina ("Do you have to tone yourself down for your foster parenting licensing consultant?"), or when Ben kicked all our sorry virtual reality asses in that weird little video game, or when Shelly’s face lit up talking about how Epinions is a “dark little secret” for her too, or when Andrew and Amy delivered what was probably the single most beautiful and deeply touching karaoke performance I have ever seen with a shouldn’t-have-been-a-surprisingly gorgeous rendition of “When I Fall In Love” – in a place called the Blue Frog, with retro board games hanging from the ceiling, where a glass of Diet Coke is more expensive than a bottle of Rolling Rock - at least, on karaoke night. It was wonderful. And when I think about waving good-bye to Caroline and Gene last night, or running into Shelly this morning, looking almost as wiped out as I felt (and still feel) as she was checking out of the hotel to head back home to Michigan (the second coolest state in the Union), and when I think about the last 36 hours in general, I think of a lyric by the Troggs: Love is all around, and so the feeling grows. Or was it: Wild thing, I think you move me. I don’t know for sure. But I do know, it all sure was fun.  |
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