the map of when

WHEN THERE IS NOTHING BUT LINE

Today at the grocery store, I had just gotten in line to check out and this man (my age) was looking at gossip magazines and turned to me.

Man : “Oh, hi there!”
Me : [I have no idea who you are] “Hello.”
Man : “I used to see you with my dog.”
Me : [Oh, that ONE PERSON I’ve seen with a dog was you?] “Oh. Right.”
Man : “How is your little beagle?”
Me : [Thinking that could be the worst come-on line ever.] “She’s good. And how is your, um, dog?”
Man : “He died.”
Me : [CRAP. Say something nice.] “Well… he was happy.”
Man : “Yeah, dropped dead. Right on our walk.”
Me : [Please let there be an earthquake right now.] “I’m sorry. Well, I’m sure you’ll get another one.”
Man : “Not for a while. Too soon.”
Me : [Please don’t cry. Please don’t cry.] “Well it was good seeing you.”
Man : “You too. Say hello to your dog.”

Then he reached over and touched my shoulder.

I’m lucky enough to have gotten a copy of Daft Punk’s new (upcoming) album, Random Access Memories, and it’s pretty awesome.

It’s not Deep Thoughts or heavy at all but it’s so so transcendent. Disco, house, acid jazz, neo soul. It’s like an elevator to the past (if your past was like that. If not, sorry. Sucks to be you).

I think people are going to freak when they hear the whole thing a lot. I don’t think it’s what anyone expected at ALL. Mostly instrumental, sometimes like a jazz record (this morning I thought of George Benson). It’s absolutely nothing like other current popular music and sometimes it’s like Cocktail Lounge music for Robots. I think there’s going to be a lot of “I liked this kind of music before it was cool” talk (which, HA) or people will hate it.

WHEN POLLY BECAME A MOVIE STAR

A friend took this picture of my sweet beagle Polly:

So I made these :

WHEN I FOUND MYSELF OVER MY HEAD

When I’d just started out as a fashion stylist, I naturally began as an assistant to established people in the field. While I did eventually work on a regular basis with several stylists, I was also connected with an agency so that I could be hired by people they represented as needed.

This agency represented a stylist named Jackson who was actually a props stylist for sets. He was around twenty-eight and roguishly handsome and, shock of shocks, he was straight. In fact, he began in the industry as a model working for Bruce Weber before deciding he really preferred to be behind the camera. Today Jackson would probably be seen as the penultimate hipster. He dressed and acted with a rather James Dean attitude, all tight straight-legged jeans and rugged scowl. While he wasn’t really my type I wasn’t dead and certainly not immune to such calculated handsomeness. Whenever I was at the agency, all of us there would suddenly become quiet and hushed.

In fact, I ended up being hired as Jackson’s assistant for a Christmas catalogue which we were naturally shooting in June. He and I went out prepping for the job briefly but I remember he did most of his own advance work until we eventually trekked out to some vaguely Colonial looking mansion on Long Island to shoot. Needless to say, Jackson stood out. The photographer and his assistants were nice enough and the fashion stylist was competent but they held no candle to the glamour Jackson brought to the shoot. Even the models were intimidated by him.

As his assistant, I naturally I felt some pressure to represent him. I didn’t usually act particularly butch or sullen on photoshoots but I tried to turn it all down a notch in light of my circumstances. The other workers were apparently terrified of him and would humbly approach me with a question or problem first before going to Jackson so I could ask him directly and relate the results.

Finally lunch time arrived and as this was a rather upscale shoot, the food was pretty awesome and plentiful. I was always hungry and anxious to eat but Jackson said we should wait and let everyone go first. Um..ok. We eventually made plates from the buffet and I prepared to sit with everyone else and socialize like one always did.

But just as I had zeroed into my spot, I looked up to see Jackson standing by the french doors leading to the patio. “Hugh!” he called to me. “C’mon, let’s go eat outside.”

Everyone froze and looked to me with big questions all over their faces. I think they’d actually been burning to sit and eat with Jackson, watch how he chewed his food, be in Jackson presence. But I had no idea and was no help. I quickly stood from the comfortable overstuffed chair I’d reserved and walked outside where the two of us sat on a stone bench. The M.O. was to eat regretfully and full of angst but I still remember looking longingly inside where everyone else was wide-eyed observing us.