Jenna’s Model Life

Thursday I shot here:

It was very pretty. The hills — recently burned, from what I understand — were uproariously green. The place was an old ranch, still named for its original owners, the Gillettes (of the safety razor fame). A variety of rangers stopped by to ask us what we were doing, and took turns explaining the now-state park’s unusual history — its owners have included a VP of MGM and the Catholic church; at various times it was a Buddhist temple, a children’s camp, and an ESOL school. California bought it for $35 million last year.

It was only a test shoot, but the photographer rocked (despite/because of being 7 months pregnant? I can only imagine the hormones she was surfing; I was getting tired by the tenth look, but as fast as I could change, she could have the next shot set and lit and ready and waiting. Edit, March 12: Not only was she fast on the day, but I just noticed the pictures are on her site — and the test is not even her most recently-posted work. I’m on the second half of page one and the first half of two). The stylist had a trunk full of treasures, the hair and makeup artists were talented, and the male model was from Iowa. Small world, etc.

The night before, the agency had only warned me that I’d be doing a test with a sweet photographer who was going to get some good shots, and that I should go to her house at 8 a.m.

I wondered a little at the early call-time, but between that and the instruction to bring a sack o’ clothes (”Your favourite jeans, any other jeans, sandals, heels, dresses, shirts, jackets, scarves and, you know, other things,” was the helpful list I was working off), I figured the shoot would be the usual kind of test — in a studio/living room, with minimal makeup and only a few looks. The sweetener: I made plans to meet my new model bud Karen from Queens at 2 p.m. at the beach. (Six hours, for a test, I thought was generous.) The reality: My feet didn’t touch my doorstep again until 7:30 that night.

The sunset was really beautiful that night, however.

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Naturally, thwarted in our beach-bum desires, Karen from Queens and I decided to go out to some cheesy club where the doormen were snotty and everyone wore too many sequins (in our defense, they had an open bar). We crossed the street to a much better party once we were sufficiently soused, and immediately KfQ clapped eyes on a hot DJ and spent the rest of the night laughing at his jokes while I danced with my friend Mark and this dude who does web design development. We also talked RSS feeds and domain names.

The next day, despite the successful shoot and great night out, I was pining, pining badly, for some beach action. My agency called to inform me that my Friday job had been postponed — the foreign magazine I booked an editorial with has all its clothing stuck in customs, and they won’t be able to shoot me until next Tuesday.

I had one of those clouds-parting, ethereal music, lightbulb-in-a-thought-bubble moments: Three Friday morning castings + no afternoon job = Jenna’s butt on some sand with lots of SPF 45 and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly or maybe The White Album (’cause it is LA, you know. Last week I read Miami in Miami. I’m starting to like this match-my-Didion-to-my-city thing. On a related local lit note: I picked up a copy of Less Than Zero at a friend’s place yesterday and tore through the first fifteen pages and am currently wondering what happens to Clay and what the deal is with Muriel. Peter: Everything silly I’ve ever said about Bret Easton Ellis based on what I thought I thought about him is wrong. No further explanation for the freakish fandom which enabled you to slog through even Lunar Park is needed).

Problem: Transportation. Solution: Bikes! I rode the 10 miles to Santa Monica on a borrowed lipstick-red beast courtesy of my friend Mark. He didn’t think I could do it. And, now, from the safety of this blog, I will admit that I was pretty demoralised when we pulled up to a stop after having been riding for what seemed like ages, and he informed me we were perhaps 45% of the way there. My crest fell a little just then. But I tried not to let on, and we made it in the end. My camera was tucked into the folds of my beach towel, inside my tote, in Mark’s bike basket, so I’m afraid I have no action pics of our odyssey. But it was intense and fun and well worth it.

We arrived just as the sun was setting, so all we did was splash around and dig our tired, crampy feet into the sand. Bliss.

Since I was supposed to be in LA’s incomparable, two-zip-code Koreatown for some BBQ and kimchi at 7:30, and it was already 6, we immediately made for a deli to grab some water. Mark decided to sabotage my dinner by buying three kinds of candy, the cheeky bugger.

We staggered onto the bus in a tired fug, the sugar just beginning to kick in while the lactic acid still buzzed towards our extremities. The woman diagonally across from me was slumped over her armrest, dead to the world, which was what I (and my aching thighs) most truly desired at that moment. Check my dazed expression.

(This photo by Mark Hunter.)

I made it to dinner, in a little hole-in-the-wall tucked around the back end of a shady-looking strip mall, and even though I’ve showered, I think garlic stench is still emanating from my pores. (Which is to say, the meal was excellent.) I could barely keep up with the conversation, I was so beat, but I think I made plans to go to the Rose Bowl flea market in Pasadena and to tag along with a new friend on an afternoon thrifting trip later this week, if I’m not working.

How tired was I, exactly, after restive sleep, a night of partying, long work hours, and a 16 km bike ride? There’s a kind of Korean beer called Hite. There were several forties of Hite on our table at the hole-in-the-wall behind the shady strip mall. I gathered that we were sharing the Hite. Unsure whether the Hite was soju, or something else that would put me to forehead-on-table, drooling, snoring, unshakable, blissed-out sleep if I got within striking distance of it, I asked my stylist friend Gabriel what Hite was.

Gabriel said, deadpan, “That’s Shere Hite’s new beer. Hite Beer. It’s delicious. Have some.”

I nodded vaguely and said, “Oh, really? That’s cool.”

Gabriel gave me a funny look. That’s how tired I was: I was willing to believe Shere Hite had a namesake beverage, popular in Korean restaurants.

Later, after much Hite and lettuce-wrapped beanpasted beef was consumed by the table, Gabriel and his assistant sang songs from The Sound of Music. Something about liking to stay but it being time to go to bed, and 16-year-olds going on 17 needing someone older and wiser, telling them what to do. I nodded along like a zombie.

I should have gone home to bed myself at that point, but I went to meet some friends at a bar instead, and fulfill my longest-standing LA commitment, the very first gathering I scheduled after I booked my flight. I set out from my apartment and walked to the nearest major road, expecting to catch a cab there. It took me 1.5 miles to hail one, and he wouldn’t take my credit card. So I walked the rest of the way. Only two of my friends were still at the bar by the time I arrived, and I was glad I had already bailed on the double-booked party I thought I might also go to.

The friends drank, I tried to think energetic thoughts and perk up with refreshing LA water, and then I went home and got my first decent night’s sleep in the model’s apartment.