If you haven't seen this woman, search for her on the internet. She is ridiculously hot. With a great body. And three kids.
That's the rub. Here's a a woman who posted a photo of herself, fitter than most fit people with her kids, with the caption "What's your excuse?" The parenthetical being "...for being a fat mom." A lot of outrage for her, considering a LOT of the outrage had nothing to do with the fact that she owns two businesses, raises three kids with no nannies, former recovering bulemic. married and works the fuck out. People wish they had her constitution. Her grit and drive. I hate the people who've seen this and felt outrage. I feel sick of unfit people. At times, including myself.
She is wonder woman. An absolute gem. Yet....yet...people have vilified her as being pompous. Really? This grates on me, since...people constantly rip on poor role models. HE'RE SHE IS! I just don't understand people sometimes. I love that she flaunts it. Love it even more that she's that motivated. Shit, I poured a Hormel's chili down my throat before I wrote this. She's the quintessential MILF. She should be crowned Queen MILF.
The supposed arrogance does come with a price...if anyone had taken a moment to read her blog. She has a great deal of uncertainty in life. As yours truly. She questions her life A LOT. Like yours truly. A simple search of this woman would probably kick up a lot of dirt many could/would use against her. She seems to have the typical anxiety of all mothers. No one commented on it. She questions her relationship with her hubby. Which no one commented on. Yes...this is stalker-ish of me. But more than anything, I wanted to know where this may've come from. And it was all from a good heart. That a person who re-focuses their lives wants to scream it from the mountain tops. They want everyone to feel the same as they do. And to come out of the drudgery as she has. Maybe it was a cry of support. Maybe we're just a bunch of cynical asshats that see only the surface and we stop there.
But she puts it out there.
That's right Maria Kang...what IS our excuse?
Thursday, October 17, 2013
There's Someone For Everybody
You know when you're single and people tell you that there is someone for everyone? Not true. And forgive me if you think I'm taking a Louis C.K. bit but there really isn't. I think at a certain point, if you're single past a certain mark, you have to re-evaluate and accept that you will most likely die alone. Which is really not as grim as it sounds. Unless you live with a cat. And if I learned anything from the show "Hoarders," it's almost certain they will start to eat you. And then wear your clothes. Because cats think this is funny.
I live in a community of people where there CLEARLY isn't someone from them. I'm not sure how I came to be there, except, we may all share a common disdain for humanity. In my case, I'm a lone dude who has strange rituals. In their case, they're bitter cat ladies who've been screwed over, have screwed over, in the process of screwing, or just plain screwed up. These are very much angry embittered people who latch onto some slight, regret, pain in their past. Festering inside themselves. There are certain types that you can tell just hold it in. Around me, these are women who have fat bloated faces. Ruddy noses. Dour expression. And live in the armpit of Van Nuys, so no one in their right mind would visit. I'm certain there is also an air of former groupies of lousy L.A. bands that never made it. The tip on that is the concert t-shirt of bands that are WAY too bad for irony (not like these teens who wear a Sex Pistols "Never Mind The Bullocks" tee they found at Hot Topic).
No, I'm talking about miserable people who've congregated to one spot that people can hide from the rest of the world. We look at our neighbors and breathe a sigh of relief that we aren't as bad off. Well...I can say they think the same of me.
I notice, recently as the last "family" moved out, how wild that it never occurred to me that everyone around me was single. Not completely single, but my neighbor has a daughter, she's a single mom. Two doors down and above, there's a guy who sits by his computer and looks off into the L.A. river next to a computer that looks to be from the early 90's. Creepy. And alone. There's my neighbor directly above from me that has a stranger schedule than me. He comes and goes and doesn't say a single thing to me. In fact, one day I was standing outside smoking a cigar when he passed by, didn't acknowledge me. The landing to the stairs only really fits one person. Miserable fuck.
So my point being, I think at a certain age we really pick up fucked up shit about our habits. I think these habits are usually too gruesome to share with others. For instance, I watch 90's sitcoms on my laptop while I take a dump. Seems to be appropriate. But how could I possibly introduce a new relationship that would accept that? Or that my gym clothes are strewn around the apartment to "air out." Yeah, that'll get them hot.
A lot of this shit is in our heads. But still...if there is someone who could accept me taking a shit enjoying "Roseanne," what possible darkness could this person be harboring?
So going back to dying alone. I feel it's something we all have to go through. Dying alone. I don't like that feeling of people suffering/celebrating my death. And I don't like to be on the other end too. Somehow, just not having to fulfill anyone's expectation feels like freedom. No obligation. No disappointments. Just, living your merry way. One time I told an ex girlfriend, that if I was getting into another relationship, they'd have to be on my schedule or else they're not going to make it. Very arrogant and childish. But how often do couples look at their lives and wish they could make that statement. Is being alone bad? Most of the times, I don't feel so. But every once in a while...it's nice to remember and feel that feeling of being in love. It's been really a long time now, I only have memories. And maybe that's what my neighbors have too. Which is why we're all hiding out from the world. The miserable world. But at least it's yours. Here's some simple math for you:
If you have a wife and kid. What are the chances that they'll be the source of your pain and disappointment in life? Multiply that by how many years you want to live.
Now, if you're alone, what does that percentage become?
You have no one to blame but yourself.
I live in a community of people where there CLEARLY isn't someone from them. I'm not sure how I came to be there, except, we may all share a common disdain for humanity. In my case, I'm a lone dude who has strange rituals. In their case, they're bitter cat ladies who've been screwed over, have screwed over, in the process of screwing, or just plain screwed up. These are very much angry embittered people who latch onto some slight, regret, pain in their past. Festering inside themselves. There are certain types that you can tell just hold it in. Around me, these are women who have fat bloated faces. Ruddy noses. Dour expression. And live in the armpit of Van Nuys, so no one in their right mind would visit. I'm certain there is also an air of former groupies of lousy L.A. bands that never made it. The tip on that is the concert t-shirt of bands that are WAY too bad for irony (not like these teens who wear a Sex Pistols "Never Mind The Bullocks" tee they found at Hot Topic).
No, I'm talking about miserable people who've congregated to one spot that people can hide from the rest of the world. We look at our neighbors and breathe a sigh of relief that we aren't as bad off. Well...I can say they think the same of me.
I notice, recently as the last "family" moved out, how wild that it never occurred to me that everyone around me was single. Not completely single, but my neighbor has a daughter, she's a single mom. Two doors down and above, there's a guy who sits by his computer and looks off into the L.A. river next to a computer that looks to be from the early 90's. Creepy. And alone. There's my neighbor directly above from me that has a stranger schedule than me. He comes and goes and doesn't say a single thing to me. In fact, one day I was standing outside smoking a cigar when he passed by, didn't acknowledge me. The landing to the stairs only really fits one person. Miserable fuck.
So my point being, I think at a certain age we really pick up fucked up shit about our habits. I think these habits are usually too gruesome to share with others. For instance, I watch 90's sitcoms on my laptop while I take a dump. Seems to be appropriate. But how could I possibly introduce a new relationship that would accept that? Or that my gym clothes are strewn around the apartment to "air out." Yeah, that'll get them hot.
A lot of this shit is in our heads. But still...if there is someone who could accept me taking a shit enjoying "Roseanne," what possible darkness could this person be harboring?
So going back to dying alone. I feel it's something we all have to go through. Dying alone. I don't like that feeling of people suffering/celebrating my death. And I don't like to be on the other end too. Somehow, just not having to fulfill anyone's expectation feels like freedom. No obligation. No disappointments. Just, living your merry way. One time I told an ex girlfriend, that if I was getting into another relationship, they'd have to be on my schedule or else they're not going to make it. Very arrogant and childish. But how often do couples look at their lives and wish they could make that statement. Is being alone bad? Most of the times, I don't feel so. But every once in a while...it's nice to remember and feel that feeling of being in love. It's been really a long time now, I only have memories. And maybe that's what my neighbors have too. Which is why we're all hiding out from the world. The miserable world. But at least it's yours. Here's some simple math for you:
If you have a wife and kid. What are the chances that they'll be the source of your pain and disappointment in life? Multiply that by how many years you want to live.
Now, if you're alone, what does that percentage become?
You have no one to blame but yourself.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Photographing Models: An Exercise In Madness
A lot of people might think photographing models is fun, but it really sometimes gets on your nerves.
Not the models. Or the people. It's the stuff that's in your own mind. The stuff that makes you second guess every bit of your skill and tastes. The stuff that really keeps you awake at night wondering "why?"
In general, photographing people is a good time. Especially if you can collaborate on a concept with your talent. For me, recently, it's been trying to recreate "era" photos. Pinup. Vintage stuff. I've been fascinated with the 1940's & 50's as a kid. I think because my parents had an English language learning book from that era. It was very bizarre to grow up in the 80's knowing what galoshes were. Meanwhile, kids were referring to them as rain boots.
So we flush out an idea. Rough sketch. Study poses. The "look." And then we have the shoot. Because my clientele now is relatively new, there is direction I have to give them. To which, it may have been beneficial to know what it meant like to be on the other side of the camera. Unfortunately, I have a stupid ugly fucking face, so I can only relate to it in terms of shots I've already seen. Ot stuff I think looks good and flatters their body. Which is easier said then done. It does bewilder me when you think you have it in your mind how someone will look in a pose but then when you see it thru the camera, it's so off-based it destroys your initial concept. This happens more times than I'd like to think about. Especially difficult when you have to project to your model that all things are going well.
Models are really insecure. Why shouldn't they be? In the days of the cruel cruel internet, a bad photo can send some off the nearest bridge. Well, in my case, I try to "protect" the image to the best of my ability. Which comes down to why I say it's sometimes painful to photograph women.
Once a shoot is done. You are alone. The kinetic give and take and rush of finding the right light, the right angle and play is over. There it is...complete silence. When I process my own black and white film, it's the excitement of getting that roll into the tank to process. I open a beer, go to my bathroom and process film. It's relaxing.
In color, I sit the rolls down and just stare into space. I replay a lot of the shoot. Often times I try to "feel" which shot looked great in my mind. And which ones I cringe at. I sicken myself with this game, because there's too much silence. To offset this, recently, I've taken back up with playing XBOX games. Usually long puzzle solving games that require I force my brain into some other world. It's a really great distraction.
Thank god for NFL football Sunday too.
Come Monday, I drop the film off at the lab. The feeling is a mixed bag. Anything can happen at this point. It's out of my hands. This is exciting as well. Since, all I do is wait. I twiddle my thumbs and try to drive the thought of the shoot from my mind. I know some shooters who would force themselves into a different project. Move on and up. Setting up for the next shoot. Me...I get too wrapped up. I get giddy to present the image to the model.
When I get the neg back, I rush back home to scan. This part of it makes me unbearably happy. I can see an image on the negative. That's a plus so far. Then I warm up my scanner and start to scan...one by one. The images start to appear.
This is a point in which you either want to text/call your model and burst out that you got the results you wanted, or you want to drive off the nearest bridge, preferably engulfed in napalm.
Let's say it's the prior. Each image populates into your library. I get happy. I can see potential. I have some 80's sitcom playing in the background, so I have noise to drown out the doubt sometimes playing in my head.
Once it's in the bins, there comes the terrible task of whittling down your images. This is so painful, it may've been invented by the Marquis De Sade. Oh wait, that was sexy painful. I mean...just gut wrenching, since I've now gotten to a point where I don't just ignore...I delete. This very specific act, tells me...we may revisit the image, but it's going to take a lot. So once it's in the trash, it's more than likely gone. This decision is not taken lightly.
When I gruesomely go down to the finalist, like some game show about talent, that's when I start my film cleaning. This involves going into a photo editor and dust busting. Scratches, hairs and blemishes. Fine tuning the imperfections but also leaving some to maintain honesty.
This takes a while. A while...a lot of booze and more 80's sitcoms.
When this is done, it's now the time to fine tune the color.
Coloring is when you really get to see the fruits of your labor come together. For me anyway. Most people would rather dump this to a re-toucher. Maybe I should. But, I have preset looks that my images tend to have. And I lean on them. Is it cheating? Kinda of. Imagine if I didn't tell anyone, no one would ever know. But I also go in and fine tune. This is a little painful since I do have an idea of what I want, but often the changes aren't big, they're miniscule.
This process takes some time. Mostly for self-flagellation. I get really punchy during this time. Never happy. Looking deep into areas that people would never notice. The real insanity kicks in when you stare at an image so long, you end up hating that person for making you this way. Which, in reality, they have NO clue what you're going through. And it's all in your twisted mind that people will even give a shit. Remember that scene in "Carrie"...the "they're-all-gonna-laugh-at-you" scene. It's not far off.
So once you get your images colored, and you've kept insanity at bay. It's the time when you actually present it to the client/model.
You sit on pins, waiting for approval. These are people who have an idea of what you've done, but, like trying to describe entertainment business to your folks, they really don't know until they've seen it.
I'll be honest with you. This is the best part of the process. Mostly because you felt like you've just taken the world's most satisfying dump...but you've also proven to the model/talent, you're not an complete idiot. The reaction is usually what's most worthwhile. The feeling of having an idea, and exceeding the expectations. I think there are a LOT of shooters out there that can relate. And they can pay you any amount, but nothing is more complete as being recognized as creating something from nothing.
Not the models. Or the people. It's the stuff that's in your own mind. The stuff that makes you second guess every bit of your skill and tastes. The stuff that really keeps you awake at night wondering "why?"
In general, photographing people is a good time. Especially if you can collaborate on a concept with your talent. For me, recently, it's been trying to recreate "era" photos. Pinup. Vintage stuff. I've been fascinated with the 1940's & 50's as a kid. I think because my parents had an English language learning book from that era. It was very bizarre to grow up in the 80's knowing what galoshes were. Meanwhile, kids were referring to them as rain boots.
So we flush out an idea. Rough sketch. Study poses. The "look." And then we have the shoot. Because my clientele now is relatively new, there is direction I have to give them. To which, it may have been beneficial to know what it meant like to be on the other side of the camera. Unfortunately, I have a stupid ugly fucking face, so I can only relate to it in terms of shots I've already seen. Ot stuff I think looks good and flatters their body. Which is easier said then done. It does bewilder me when you think you have it in your mind how someone will look in a pose but then when you see it thru the camera, it's so off-based it destroys your initial concept. This happens more times than I'd like to think about. Especially difficult when you have to project to your model that all things are going well.
Models are really insecure. Why shouldn't they be? In the days of the cruel cruel internet, a bad photo can send some off the nearest bridge. Well, in my case, I try to "protect" the image to the best of my ability. Which comes down to why I say it's sometimes painful to photograph women.
Once a shoot is done. You are alone. The kinetic give and take and rush of finding the right light, the right angle and play is over. There it is...complete silence. When I process my own black and white film, it's the excitement of getting that roll into the tank to process. I open a beer, go to my bathroom and process film. It's relaxing.
In color, I sit the rolls down and just stare into space. I replay a lot of the shoot. Often times I try to "feel" which shot looked great in my mind. And which ones I cringe at. I sicken myself with this game, because there's too much silence. To offset this, recently, I've taken back up with playing XBOX games. Usually long puzzle solving games that require I force my brain into some other world. It's a really great distraction.
Thank god for NFL football Sunday too.
Come Monday, I drop the film off at the lab. The feeling is a mixed bag. Anything can happen at this point. It's out of my hands. This is exciting as well. Since, all I do is wait. I twiddle my thumbs and try to drive the thought of the shoot from my mind. I know some shooters who would force themselves into a different project. Move on and up. Setting up for the next shoot. Me...I get too wrapped up. I get giddy to present the image to the model.
When I get the neg back, I rush back home to scan. This part of it makes me unbearably happy. I can see an image on the negative. That's a plus so far. Then I warm up my scanner and start to scan...one by one. The images start to appear.
This is a point in which you either want to text/call your model and burst out that you got the results you wanted, or you want to drive off the nearest bridge, preferably engulfed in napalm.
Let's say it's the prior. Each image populates into your library. I get happy. I can see potential. I have some 80's sitcom playing in the background, so I have noise to drown out the doubt sometimes playing in my head.
Once it's in the bins, there comes the terrible task of whittling down your images. This is so painful, it may've been invented by the Marquis De Sade. Oh wait, that was sexy painful. I mean...just gut wrenching, since I've now gotten to a point where I don't just ignore...I delete. This very specific act, tells me...we may revisit the image, but it's going to take a lot. So once it's in the trash, it's more than likely gone. This decision is not taken lightly.
When I gruesomely go down to the finalist, like some game show about talent, that's when I start my film cleaning. This involves going into a photo editor and dust busting. Scratches, hairs and blemishes. Fine tuning the imperfections but also leaving some to maintain honesty.
This takes a while. A while...a lot of booze and more 80's sitcoms.
When this is done, it's now the time to fine tune the color.
Coloring is when you really get to see the fruits of your labor come together. For me anyway. Most people would rather dump this to a re-toucher. Maybe I should. But, I have preset looks that my images tend to have. And I lean on them. Is it cheating? Kinda of. Imagine if I didn't tell anyone, no one would ever know. But I also go in and fine tune. This is a little painful since I do have an idea of what I want, but often the changes aren't big, they're miniscule.
This process takes some time. Mostly for self-flagellation. I get really punchy during this time. Never happy. Looking deep into areas that people would never notice. The real insanity kicks in when you stare at an image so long, you end up hating that person for making you this way. Which, in reality, they have NO clue what you're going through. And it's all in your twisted mind that people will even give a shit. Remember that scene in "Carrie"...the "they're-all-gonna-laugh-at-you" scene. It's not far off.
So once you get your images colored, and you've kept insanity at bay. It's the time when you actually present it to the client/model.
You sit on pins, waiting for approval. These are people who have an idea of what you've done, but, like trying to describe entertainment business to your folks, they really don't know until they've seen it.
I'll be honest with you. This is the best part of the process. Mostly because you felt like you've just taken the world's most satisfying dump...but you've also proven to the model/talent, you're not an complete idiot. The reaction is usually what's most worthwhile. The feeling of having an idea, and exceeding the expectations. I think there are a LOT of shooters out there that can relate. And they can pay you any amount, but nothing is more complete as being recognized as creating something from nothing.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
I've Seen My Future...And It's Grim
This morning I went to the gym. As is my usual routine. I wake up...get sober, take vitamins and head for the gym. Mostly it's for the hot shower. And every once in a while for the view of the dames. I'm in the cable exercise area. It's mostly where personal training happens. Also where most of the women are. Whilst at the thigh machine (because I have chicken thighs) a conversation piqued my interest. It was a man chatting up a girl. Or I should probably say woman. Seemed about 30's...it's hard to tell with Euros since they seem SO much more worldly. She was European chic even at 7AM. Matching gym outfit. Makeup was perfect. As was her indistinct accent. Mediterranean, maybe. She could tell people to fuck off and they'd think it was charming.
She was beautiful, no doubt. The kind of dark hair, smoky eyed woman who looks great in a Bentley, top down, scarf around neck. Large sunglasses. Really classy. Though at this moment, on the quad machine. She has one of those looks like she's never done serious weight training. It's something in her diet that keeps her this beautiful. And definitely not anything at the gym.
Anyway, the big lug that sidled up to her...they knew each other. He was a big fellow. Looked to have played...high school football, and maybe made Division II college ball. He'd look to have pounded many a keg stand. Ruddy nose. Clearly the result of being in a frat. He's the type of dude who comes with catch phrases. For instance, I'd seen him earlier bellowing to a couple of heavy-set Latinas "Hey, we'd all love to splash some water on our face and call it a workout, but you gotta want results." No joking.
To this classic beauty sitting on the machine it was "yeah, I was doing incline pushups this morning. Three hundred of them. I said to myself 'bro, you're 48, let's see if I can still do three hundred."
To which she inquired "When did you turn 48?" "Today" he beamed. That's when the flood gates opened for him to impress. First it was the empty compliment of how her cardio workout was working. Then it was back to him and his ability to still feel like a 30 year old. I think she'd been in some t.v. show. I'm not sure, because I overheard him joking "Yeah, must be nice married to Charlie Sheen." To which...she'd start laughing. That's when he said it..."'Two and a Half Men' is every single guy's dream. He's rich. Gets chicks. And gets drunk." Not sure I saw her expression to that, but I'm sure she played along. Who knows what happens when the ogre is upset. That's when it dawned on me. I'm 38. Going to the gym. Looking at women. Doing physical feats to prove I'm not as old as I am. I am, in fact, this guy in 10 years. And it's sad.
No one really counts on this guy to be anything but...that guy. He's probably the guy who re-lives glory days of how he use to get "hot tail." The days of playing football. The better days. Then reality is in front of him. The classy lady walked away. Did a classy exit. And he's back to pacing the floor of the gym. Wonder what that's going to look like at 50.
Nevermind, I'll just wait 12 years =).
She was beautiful, no doubt. The kind of dark hair, smoky eyed woman who looks great in a Bentley, top down, scarf around neck. Large sunglasses. Really classy. Though at this moment, on the quad machine. She has one of those looks like she's never done serious weight training. It's something in her diet that keeps her this beautiful. And definitely not anything at the gym.
Anyway, the big lug that sidled up to her...they knew each other. He was a big fellow. Looked to have played...high school football, and maybe made Division II college ball. He'd look to have pounded many a keg stand. Ruddy nose. Clearly the result of being in a frat. He's the type of dude who comes with catch phrases. For instance, I'd seen him earlier bellowing to a couple of heavy-set Latinas "Hey, we'd all love to splash some water on our face and call it a workout, but you gotta want results." No joking.
To this classic beauty sitting on the machine it was "yeah, I was doing incline pushups this morning. Three hundred of them. I said to myself 'bro, you're 48, let's see if I can still do three hundred."
To which she inquired "When did you turn 48?" "Today" he beamed. That's when the flood gates opened for him to impress. First it was the empty compliment of how her cardio workout was working. Then it was back to him and his ability to still feel like a 30 year old. I think she'd been in some t.v. show. I'm not sure, because I overheard him joking "Yeah, must be nice married to Charlie Sheen." To which...she'd start laughing. That's when he said it..."'Two and a Half Men' is every single guy's dream. He's rich. Gets chicks. And gets drunk." Not sure I saw her expression to that, but I'm sure she played along. Who knows what happens when the ogre is upset. That's when it dawned on me. I'm 38. Going to the gym. Looking at women. Doing physical feats to prove I'm not as old as I am. I am, in fact, this guy in 10 years. And it's sad.
No one really counts on this guy to be anything but...that guy. He's probably the guy who re-lives glory days of how he use to get "hot tail." The days of playing football. The better days. Then reality is in front of him. The classy lady walked away. Did a classy exit. And he's back to pacing the floor of the gym. Wonder what that's going to look like at 50.
Nevermind, I'll just wait 12 years =).
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