Giraffe Neck Equals Model Offer

*Photo by Steven Meisel

What: A Model Offer

Where: Grand Central

Who: Steven Meisel, Lara, Myself

A couple Monday’s ago I went to meet my friend Lara in the constantly bustling Grand Central terminal. Upon arriving I remembered how much I despised this chaotic gathering place of comings and goings.

Not a minute into waiting at the end of the appropriate platform a woman came up to me and asked the time. After giving it to her we awkwardly stood together waiting for our arrivals.

Another minute passed and a man came up to me and barked:

Man: Do you have pen?

Me: No.

While I probably did have a pen I get nervous when yelled at by strangers and thought I would be furthered yelled at if I had to rifle through my bag.

Man: Well take down this number.

At this point, the woman turned and studied the well-groomed 50 something man in a beige knee-length peacoat.

Man: 212

Me: Hold on! I snapped back as an incoming text message took over my screen.

Man: 212-***-****....Call me on Monday.

Me: What?

Man: Whoever you’re working for now, you’ll be happier working for me.

While probably true, I was still skeptical of the man.

Me: What?

Man: Who do you work for? Next? I love your neck.

Me: What?

At this point I hopelessly gazed for my friend Lara to avoid the crazy next to me while the woman continued to be intrigued by the crazy.

Man: You really don’t know what I’m not talking about, do you?

Me: Not in the slightest.

Man: I’m legitimate, I’m a photographer. I want to shoot your neck, it’s long.

Me: Yeah, I used to get called a giraffe a lot.

Finally Lara arrived and I hugged her and whispered that I did not know the strangers next to me and she began to steer me away.

Man: I’m Steven Meisel, call me on Monday.

The name was lost on me until I googled later to find out that he is one of the most successful and famous fashion photographers in the world. He shoots every cover of Italian Vogue, many of the American Vogue’s, Madonna’s Sex Book and the list continues.

I was slightly excited at the prospect of being photographed by someone with more street cred than Kanye West has among douche bags and delighted to be one of the only people in the world who has told Steven Meisel to “hold on.” I contacted him two weeks later and his assistant, Ruk (the name of a chess piece...spelled incorrectly), asked me to send a photo and he would talk to Steven.

After sending the photo I received a reply in which Ruk asked me to describe the man in Grand Central because Steven did not remember approaching me. I then described the man and was told that it was not Steven and no one at the office matched my description.

Mortified I said that I was not an aspiring model by any means and apologized for the waste of time to which Ruk responded that he was more taken aback and amused at the impersonator who is giving out the right number.

With my model dreams crushed in only 3 lines of an email I resorted to going back to the office the next day my head a little lower...if only to hide the length of my neck.

Goals Accomplished:
1) First fake offer

2) Uncomfortable when I learned it was not legitimate

3) That even I can succumb to dreams of being a model

Admission: A Fist Pump

What: Pacha
Where: Pacha, Hell's Kitchen
Who: Justin, Jon, Myself

If you have ever been to Pacha and thoroughly enjoyed yourself then you should probably stop reading here.

“Come to Pacha,” Justin encouraged me.

Having worked in a night club for years, being over busy with work and only trying to new things for the sake of this blog/my sanity, I have become less of a “club” person and more of a “sit at home and eat bad food” person. A fact that I have no qualms with, but friends tend to think otherwise.

So not too long ago I decided to venture out and see the now infamous night club, Pacha, an offshoot of the famous club in Ibiza. With the likes of Snooki and the Kardashians recently attending I was apprehensive about what I was getting myself into.

Upon entering the club with Justin and Jon I found myself immersed in a stampede of hundreds of people bumping their way like ping pong balls around the room to get to the bar, the dance floor or the bathroom. Many of these drunk wonders would be referred to by Manhattanites as ‘bridge and tunnel’ or ‘strong islanders.’ Something I was assured does not always happen. More frequently, the club attracts hardcore music lovers that praise unity through music rather than unity through hair gel.

Spanning two floors Pacha is a large night club in Hell’s Kitchen that attracts famous DJs (Cosmic Gate, Bob Sinclair, etc.) and other celebrities alike. The dance floor, located on the lower level, can be viewed from the second floor, probably your best bet if you dislike being charged into repeatedly.

The music was a mix of trance and techno with a top 40 remix thrown in every so often. I found myself on the dance floor in a sea of fist pumping, lights flashing, dirty grinding, glove show mania that could only be subdued by the drink in my hand.

One girl took it upon herself to pin me against a wall while she danced (read: rubbed up against me) in front of me. Slightly scared by her lack of coherence due to the drugs she was on I searched around for someone to save me. When she finally turned her back to me I frantically texted Justin for a rescue, of which he gladly obliged.

After this I realized I had to throw away all of the things I usually found fun and fist pump with the best of them while dancing with no one in particular. (The trick I learned for fist pumping is to start low and bring it up slow…in case you ever find yourself in a similar situation.)

I called it a night at 1:30 AM, early by Pacha standards since you can stay well past 4 AM. And while this did not turn me into a ‘club kid’ it did make me appreciate the fist pumping, hair blown out, strobe light flashing action that I got to be a part of.

Goals Accomplished:
1) First big time NYC night club

2) Uncomfortable being assaulted by that many people

3) That fist pumping can be fun...if you don't take yourself seriously