Glamorama: Occupational Hazards

The occupational hazard of making a spectacle of yourself, over the long haul, is that at some point you buy a ticket.

…excitement crackles in waves through the frosted air as we near the Taco Cabana sign, which explodes into the night, pink and frothy like spilt ocean water. Everyone who’s anyone is there, the energy is bursting, it’s the top of the mountain, the front of the rollercoaster on the first big drop. It’s Studio 54 without the bouncers and less cocaine, though judging from our spastic, maniacal behavior this fact is less than obvious.

... wardrobe has been provided by J-Crew, the Gap, Banana Republic, American Eagle, Urban Outfitters. The lighting is still harsh and I shoot an angry glare at the production crew who scurry away to try and fix the problem, but it’s cool because I realize that the cameras have a softening filter and relief hemorrhages from a place I can’t describe.

…and people are screaming with laughter, the separate tables are like flocks of birds chirping and singing with delight, since everyone is playing the Full House Game, which involves of all things, smiling at each other when your name is called. Photographers press their faces to the glass, their breath making small constellations of condensation, trying to see us, trying to see who is sitting by who, who is crushing on who, who does the best DJ Tanner impression, and their shutter lights detonate on cue like severed nerves bleeding into the purple night.

…I notice my proximity to an ex-girlfriend and sigh, “Whoa baby” under my breath, get up and find a new table, a new set of friends. This turns into perpetual orbit from table to table, circling the room, and I’m pretending each group is press junket and smile, offer interviews, talk about my diet and how I got physically prepared for my role, offer advice about the Israeli-Palestine conflict, which invariably comes down to “people should, like, take a chill pill” and/or “generally have a mentos.”

…no one notices when the director walks briskly into the restaurant, grabs my arm and pulls me away, into a corner, where he yells, waving his hands into the air, his eyes bursting with anger and disappointment since I still have not hit my mark, not acted on cue, not played the role with enough emotion, still not played the role the way it says in the script to be playing it.