In which I pose new questions to myself

I had to cancel a job at Dreamworks this week.

Yeah, that's right, that Dreamworks.  Don't get excited - I didn't book the voice of their next heroine, I was scheduled to be figure modeling.

Yeah, that's right, that figure modeling.  If you were wondering what I have been doing for work since I quit the restaurant, that's your primary answer.  I've also been acting and modeling for regular old photo shoots, you know, with clothes on.  But I'm not ashamed to admit that I've been modeling live in classes at schools and animation studios, sometimes in the nude.

This is kind of a weird thing to admit publicly.  I've certainly never been ashamed of my body, as many (most) of you know.  And perhaps this is part of my quest to accept my body no matter what it look like.

I guess this is about self-love.  The whole thing.  The whole question: what I'm writing about on the micro and the macro level.  I want to love my self fully, whether I'm feeling bloated and sluggish or strong and fit.  I want to love my self fully, up to the point of admitting that figure modeling is way more fun than waiting tables, and I enjoy doing it.

Does that make me an exhibitionist?  I prefer not to go there.  I prefer to think about the fact that I'm joining the ranks of people - particularly women - who worked with and inspired Matisse and Van Gogh and Picasso and Da Vinci and Basquiat and Renoir and Degas and on and on.  (Based on the artists I came up with you can probably guess just how many times I studied Impressionism in French class.)  I've joined a time-honored profession, while doing something creative and challenging.

Because, let me tell you, it's hard.  A figure model need to be comfortable taking off their robe in front of a room full of strangers, and coming up with visually dynamic poses they can hold for as long as 25 minutes.  You'd be surprised what parts of your body can twitch.  A figure model needs the mental focus to observe the twitching of their arm but not to move it.  A figure model needs get over the fact that some people, from some different points of view, may see their genitals.  (You'll notice this entire discussion is neutral-gendered; although I haven't met any, there are male figure models, and I wouldn't want to alienate them.  Also, that way I don't have to write the word vagina in my blog.)  In short, a figure model needs to be fearless.

And fearlessness is what it's all about.  I'm not saying I don't fear anything; fear in the proper dosage is a healthy thing.  I'm just saying that I don't want to live my life based on decisions made from fear.

So why did I cancel the gig?   I'll just say that I wasn't feeling well and leave it at that (I wouldn't want to be gross or anything).  Having to assess my ability to work in that way was a new experience.  Working in a restaurant if I didn't feel well, no matter what my ailment, I'd try to power through the shift.  In this case though, I had to ask myself some serious questions:  Was I physically able to pose for two hours?  Would worrying about being sick affect my ability to do my job well?  Figure modeling has a whole new set of rules.  I haven't explored these waters, and it feels like I'm navigating blind.

So I was bummed not to work at Dreamworks.  But hopefully I'll get more work there - they were very understanding.  And who knows what the future will bring?

Will the Real Hipster Please Stand Up! A guest post by Neil Stevens

The hipsters are coming!  You cannot avoid it, they are seemingly everywhere.  No not the hipsters themselves.  But people bitching about hipsters.

Log into Facebook, fire up your Twitter account, peruse some disingenuous Huffpo headline, or stand near a group of people at your favorite watering hole and you will hear it.  Yes, America loves to hate “hipsters”.   In fact they have surpassed the Jersey Shore self proclaimed “guidos” as our favorite demographic of people to hate.

Who are these hipsters? Living in Los Feliz on the border of Silverlake, recently voted by Forbes Magazine as the hippest hipster neighborhood in America, I would think to be awash with swaths of these overdressed, pompus, Groucho-looking  hipsters.  Yet I am not sure I have ever met one.

Of course no hipster would ever actually admit to being one, because that would be well, really unhip. But even alleged hipsters seem to also hate hipsters. If so many people are complaining about them, where are they?  And more importantly, how do we know they are a real hipster?

Therein lies the source of the problem. Ask anyone to identify a hipster and you will receive a hundred different responses. A hipster is a bearded man with skinny jeans, a skully cap, and way too thick rimmed glasses who plays kickball on Saturdays. No wait, a hipster is an unemployed pseudo-intellectual, living on their parent’s dole, using their film theory degree from Portland State to create finger paintings to hang at the local coffee shop. Better yet! A hipster is a self absorbed, holier than thou craven delighted to mock all typical conventions of “normal folk”, while pledging allegiance to no conventions whatsoever (except the denial of all conventions of course).

It’s almost as if “hipster” has become a kind of blanket insult for “things I don’t like”. A projection of people’s anxieties, often centered on appearance, class, or attitude.  If there is one thing we love to do as a society, it is to collectively hate a group of people and NOT feel guilty about it.  And hipsters offer a perfect target. 

Unlike say Mormons or Scientologists, a couple other groups we love to mock, the so called hipster celebrates non conformity and therefore has no central command to defend themselves.  There are no hipster meetups (Yo La Tengo concerts notwithstanding) or dues paying members. They do not have a spokesperson nor a board of directors, though if they did I am sure Fred Armisen and Wes Anderson would be invited.

If you ask me who the hipsters are, I have my own definition.   I say, people who make fun of hipsters are the real hipsters. That’s right. I mean seriously, what is more “hipsterish” than a group of people standing around making sarcastic remarks and labeling others whom live a different lifestyle from their own?  Are they not castigating the behavior of hipsters by adopting that very same behavior?

But the truth of the matter is, there are no real hipsters. Sure, there are unemployed art students, people who wear scarves in the Spring, people who wear rimmed glasses with perfect vision and drink PBR, people who ride retro bicycles and eat only artisanal foods, and people who smoke American Spirits and use Kickstarter to fund their indie film project. And yes, if these people move to your neighborhood the price of rent and kale will probably be going up.  But I am sure there is something about your own lifestyle that just screams HIPSTER in the eyes of someone else.

In that way, since there are no real hipsters, there is also a little bit of hipster in all of us. So I say embrace it!  It’s really not so bad.  There are worse things in the world than getting together to play Parcheezi and discuss how Twin Peaks is the best TV series ever. Not that we own TV’s of course.

 --Neil Stevens

Hi

I haven't blogged in ages!  Can you forgive me?  I hope so.  These days when I sit down at the computer I tend to watch It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia or I end up playing SUPER nerdy games online.  Or looking for work.

But don't fear!  This blog is my mainstay!  I may be on a bit of a hiatus at the moment, but I've got blog posts percolating.  And in the MEANTIME I have a VERY exciting surprise for you.  A guest post!  My dear friend Neil wrote a piece and requested that I publish it here.  Naturally I'm very flattered, as well as excited to keep moving things forward in new directions.  So on to the next post!

xoxox

Mr Scruffy has a tawny mottled coat. His bony spine shows clearly as he trots around kitty town. Sometimes he comes to my sliding glass door and looks in, meowing.

Mr Scruffy is one the neediest cats I've ever met. He follows you around constantly, practically howling. "Love me! Somebody left me once! Please, somebody want me!"

But nobody wants Mr Scruffy. Even when indoors and fully fed, he still follows you around like a shell-shocked child, meowing. It's as if he's listening for your response, to assure himself you're still there. You can't take a cat like that. Not in this economy. He looks old and sick. And he shits outside the catbox.

Mr Scruffy breaks my heart. I wish I could take him in; that I could be the one to want him. I wish I could be Miranda July to Scruffy's Future. But I can't. I've got my own cat to care for, and an unsteady income.

I see my neighbors interacting with Mr Scruffy, leading him to bowls of food. But no one wants to take him into their home. Even the other cats stay away from him. As if he's bad luck. Poor Bad Luck Scruff. What do we do? Where will he go? Who will love him?

My 2012