Geek Weekly #9

a neatly organized and perfectly designed spectacle of cash.) Hollywood, on the other hand, has never ceased to bring me joy. I think I should move here. I think I will.

Thursday, January 25, 2001 AM This is what California does to you: This morning, Washington from Welcome Back Kotter, wearing roller skates and a denim jumpsuit while smoking filter-less cigarettes, was the person in my wet dream

Thursday, February 8, 2001 PM (Jackie, silly)

The day started out normally. I went to work and about two hours into it, I checked my messages at home and heard from my agent. Another print job audition was scheduled for today. This time it was just blocks away, so I scooted there in my 1996 Green Geo Metro (another great way I get to thumb my nose at car-crazy California!) The line of "girls" (as they are called in the modeling industry) was bulging down the hall, filling up most of the check-in area of the hotel. All the big hair product people are in town (Paul Mitchell, Matrix, etc - not "big hair" people like...Aqua Net) this week for the hair shows. I was in line for Matrix. I listened as the "girls" ahead and behind me spoke amongst themselves. "How tall are you?" "How old are you,...if you don't mind my asking?" "Are you represented by anyone?" "Here's my card. I own a modeling agency although I am still a working model. Call me." And my all-time favorite..."I see so many gorgeous, skinny, tall girls without representation...it just breaks my heart." It breaks her heart. I shudder to think what would happen to this "girl's" heart if she glanced up from her toes clicking on the concrete and noticed the droves of homeless people (many of them tall and skinny as well) leaning up against the buildings as she passes. The next fifty "girls" who are willing to cut their hair are called in. I am at the front of the pack. I find a seat. They come around with a book just like the books strewn on the floor of every hair salon in

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the country. They point to a horrid picture of a woman whose her haircut is best described as Dorothy Hamill at a rave. So, the very hip Asian woman half- heartedly asks if this is a haircut I would like to have. "You are kidding, right?" is written all over my face. I say, "That would be fine (for $1000 for four days worth of work I am thinking I can just get it fixed after the show). "She says "Great!" and asks me to go sit on the other side of the room with the other girls they have chosen for the show. They will only choose 10 out of these 200 or so "girls." Not to worry, tomorrow Paul Mitchell will choose 125 (over a thousand hopefuls will not likely show up for that call - I won't be there though and you will soon know why.) I sit on the other side. The guy in charge walks around with a book of notes. Then he asks me to stand up right after he asks what size I am. I answer, while standing, "4 to 6." He sees my munchkin-like stature of 5'4" and frowns at how much I have let myself go. he asks me to turn around and as I do, he lifts my jacket up and takes a long look-see at my ass. For those of you who don't know me, may I say now that this baby's got back - just voluptuous enough to be called voluptuous and not, well, soft. After 25 years, I am very happy with my ass. It's mine. It's been with me for a quarter of a century now; it has seniority over every single person who was (had the privelege) of touching it. He sees ll this cross my face (against my will) and asks me to sit down again right after he explains that "it's just the wardrobe. It's leather and denim and doesn't give." I think, "You are actually blaming this debacle on inanimate objects! BEcause you see, I blame you, bossman. I blame the person who has decided that there will be one size of pants for every 'girl' there- be she 5'4" and

Jackie and LaSuprema Spring 2001 47

120 pounds or 5'9" and 120 pounds." I could wring his neck. I could cry. I could throw something. I want to throw something. I want to...leave. And so I do. I leave. I leave and my phone rings - damn it! Oh. It's Helen. Helllllleeeennnn. Thank God it's Helllleeennn. I sigh. I pick up. She launches into good news from Austin. I wait for a moment and tell her my ass didn't make the cut for the hair show. She feels awful for me - as a best friend should. We decide to talk later as I must race to a casting director workshop now so that I can meet someone who might one day remember me, out of the thousands of people they see everyday, for a walk-on role on a sitcom. Yeaaaaaaa, I am feeling goooooood. Downtown LA leers down at me and I stop in my tracks - and flip it the bird.

Ahhhhhh. that was nice. Now, off to the car.

I get to the casting director workshop. I act for her. She gives direction and I act for her again. She thinks I'm great. She laughs. The whole damn class laughs. This laughter I inhale. I leave feeling that the truth is, no matter how mean and snide and spiteful and shallow and insecure and plastice and hopeful and melancholy and sunny and warm and drug induced LA is, I am right where I need to be. This woman will remember me. I feel it. She will remember me and her client w will hire me - to act. And I will. And at the end of the day, even after the end of this day, that's all that matters. LA, bring it on - I dare ya.

Friday, February 9, 2001 PM So I am at work today on this beautiful gray California day. It looked lik e impending rain all day but no dice. Just cozy gray weather - weather that makes you want to stand in the middle of the street and twirl around with your head back and mouth open (letting the acid rain break up the mucus on your vocal cords) then run in the house, change into your robe and curl up under the covers with a good movie or book...and doze on and off...with a cat on your lap...and a hot toddy. BUT no rain, just daydreams of rain. When I get home tonight I shall drink Mint Juleps 'til I can't see straight, watch movies and eat junk food...and probably talk on the phone to Helly.

Tomorrow night I have a date so tonight is "me" night and Mint Juleps have been on my mind all day. Mint juleps, humid air, paper fnas on the front porch behind full-length screens surrounding the house, housedresses and dusting powder. Cigarettes and mint juleps. Laughter. Sweat wiped off with the back of the fan-less hand. Southwest Louisiana any day of the year. Home. History. One half of home, one half of history. Austin Texas fills the other half. And I guess I can make some room in there for Southern California- "if I have to," I think with a half smile and a warm heart.

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It's getting gusty in here

Julius Knipl, Real Estate Photographer: The Beauty Supply District

Ben Katchor constructs a fragmented view of metropolis life in his 108-page glance at industry, product placement and obsession.

Knipl gives the reader a glimpse into the rise and fall of obscure storefronts, the oddball goods and products they sell, and urban-dwellers who love them. Ornamental Avenue, the Beauty Supply District, the Misspent Youth Center and Burger Pyre are among the locations visited by Knipl during his day-to-day business.

Katchor opens with the tale of a publisher who overestimates the marketability of a prestigious avenue composed of unusual and absurd establishments. The publisher stocks a warehouse with postcard sets that memorialize Ornamental Avenue. The postcards display photographs (presumably shot by Knipl) of places like the Municipal Birthmark Registry, the Heating Pad Institute and the National Rectal Thermometer Observatory. In Knipl's world these places are not bizarre. While these places might arouse the curiosity of the reader, they are of no interest to the publisher's customers. "I oversetimated the picturesque quality of the location," the publisher says.

This sets

the tone for the stories that follow. As in the real world, trends dominate the culture, but in this odd metropolis, the trends are downright weird.

In a piece titled "Moving Man Monthly", an accountant fantasizes about becoming a furniture mover and subscribes to a magazine devoted to moving men, but he is sickened by the site of a crew of movers. "Middle-aged men killing themselves hauling worthless chipboard furnitre," he says in disgust.

"The Prestige Address" tells how small businesses purchase addresses in a prestigious office building downtown in order to create the illusion of wealth. Operators at the building recieve the mail and ship it to the owner's real address. The suite number reveals the history and hierarchical position of each business. "I'm on the third tier, sixth from the left, above Johnson's GiveYourself-A-Trophy Co. and next door to the Illob at Corporation of Amercia," one entrepreneur boasts.

Katchor uses a skethy pen and ink style with simple scenery and characters. Forgoing the process of giving the characters distinct features, he instead gives them universal, indistinguishable qualities. In some stories, Knipl is the narrator, but in others he makes quick, easy-to-miss cameo appearances.

The tone of the comic is similar to the cool simple, style of Seth's Palookaville. Many of the story lines about forgotten products and washed-up salesmen in the Beauty Supply District are similar to the elderly electric fan salesmen in the latest Palookaville series.

Overall, the book is unusual, endearing and smart. In the eight or so frames Katchor uses, he tells a story with great thought and depth.

Like other great comic artists of the day -- Dan Clowes, Chris Ware, Joe Sacco -- Katchor casts off the impending reputation comics have maintained since they first came into existence about a hunderd years ago. It's 2001 and it's not comics anymore, it's art.

-- Tim Inklebarger

Robert Silverberg, The World Inside

Just finished R. Silverberg's The World Inside about the giant apartment communistic/yet caste ridden complex (the floors are divided up according to job "importance"), and thought this is the straight bullet shot to the future. Population goes flippo so the powers that be make a huge ass 1000 floor apt. complex where everyone is supposed to just keep on poppin' pills and outslotting babies while holding down comfy jobs. Sex is free with anyone, the apts. are always unlocked for the 'nightwalking' sexplorer. The jargon in this book is really infectious and carries the story for a quick read. A rambunctious psychedelic "Brave New World" in that it holds up if you turn the structure upside down and kick it. The monuments of the world are ground up after being well documented for home viewing so no one needs to go outside. If you flip out you get shoved into the chute/furnace. All the characters have some kind of beef