I’m Not Ready for My Close-Up, Mr. De Mille By Whitney Farmer – Un Pop Culture

December 16, 2010 Whitney Farmer 20 Comments

Whitney runs a rock music venue on the beach in L.A.  She has an M.B.A., and recently received a gift card for a shopping spree.

I thought we all agreed that it was a good idea to use Lieutenant Uhura and Yeoman Janice Rand as style inspirations. Didn’t I hear right that black cat-eye Ray Bans and matching motorcycle boots looked classy while being protective armor? And that wearing a fake ponytail that kept me from getting my real hair pulled out during a fight also looked cool?

Then why did a producer from a reality show ask me to come in to talk about being one of their before/after makeovers?

Will the Star Trek prejudice ever be seen for what it is? It is jealousy over a tribe able to ignore the faintest whiff of marketable coolness in favor of the power of being comfortably alone at a crowded party, maybe even switching gears and pretending that one is in the Cantina on Tatooine waiting for Han Solo to arrive…

It occurred to me that I have been dealt the perfect hand of poker: If the producers decide that my style is completely heinous, they will give me thousands of dollars to remediate my fashion crimes. If they decide that my style isn’t that bad, then…it isn’t that bad. Either way, I win.

At first when the producer spoke with me during the show, I categorized her conversation as either a put-on or a come-on. And since one of my security guards had unexpectedly called in sick and I was doing double duty on two intense shows (one in each venue), I had no opportunity to think more about it as I did what I could to keep the swirling beginnings of a mosh pit on one side and whiskey-fueled Irish high jinks on the other staying within manageable levels.

The Irish band – Young Dubliners – were doing their Christmas set. In honor of that, I wore one of my family’s Scottish tartans (all Celts are kin) with my fishnets and jump boots. I also wore a crushed red velvet/white marabou Mrs. Claus jacket with matching cap in honor of the season.  I did not wear the matching g-string that came as part of the set. The creation of such an item was illogical as well as gross.  I shoved it is my purse, not wanting to put it in the office trash can where 5 people work and having to explain anything. Someone found out about it anyway. I told her that it was just part of a pre-packaged Mrs. Claus costume – and since she and Mr. Claus were married and therefore had a license for such things – it was okay. When mommies and daddies really love each other, they wear uncomfortable props for about 15 seconds.

I thought I looked good. But I got mauled a lot. So, perhaps later in the night, I wasn’t looking as good as I did when the show started. Cue reality television show producer entrance. Annnd…action!

A card was exchanged when I exhibited confusion over her saying I had great style but that she wanted to put me on her show which was notorious for verbal vivisection over vestments. I saw her a few times throughout the night, taking pics with Fishbone’s lead singer Angelo and maneuvering through the crowd, grooving to the music. She didn’t seem crazy, but you never know.

On Monday, she contacted me, all business.  She asked me to come by their offices on Wilshire and bring a sample of my best – or is it worst? – outfits. I stifled the impulse to defend myself and say that I don’t always wear fishnets or boots held together with duct tape, and that if you looked at exactly how much skin I was showing, it was in reality only my neck and hands. If I succeeded in persuading her that Star-Trek-style rules, my adventure could end. Perhaps more importantly, what if I have fallen into the pothole that is common to man: self-deception.  What if I truly need to do an inventory of my choices and the messages I am sending out? Humility can be a powerful tool if you want a better life. There are too many times when we will have an altercation at the club that starts with offending an arrogant or prideful person. Then the puffing up starts, and posturing, and then the mutual nuclear annihilation.

I set my appointment and began to dream a bit about what I might look like – what I might be like – with different clothes.  I don’t really know how to dress feminine, unless I‘m in character.  On my off days, I dress in baggy jeans, boots, band t-shirts, and a hoody.  My latest attempt at dressing womanly created a string of Amish jokes. I now own what has been called an Amish party dress ‘…Baby got-eth back…’ and a floor length skirt that makes me walk like a foot-bound Chinese Empress. When my pastor saw my dress, he said, “That’s…some dress.” He didn’t like it, and he’s 84 and from Wisconsin.

I went to the bank on Monday to do the deposits from over the weekend, wearing my signature hoody and baggy boy jeans. As I reached into my purse for the bank bag, the crushed velvet and marabou g-string popped out in front of the teller. If I said I had put it in my purse so that I would never wear it, or that I carried it around because I didn’t want it, it would only make things worse. Or better. I still can’t figure it out. Without a word, I put it back in my purse and completed the transactions.

Maybe my fashion choices will always be public domain.

Quote of the Blog, from “God Gave Me Style” by 50 Cent:

God gave me style
God gave me grace
God gave me style
God gave me grace
God put a smile on my face,

Ha Ha, God put this smile on my face
God made me shine like the sun
God make me shine like the sun
Sometimes I feel like I’m the one
Sometimes I feel like I’m the one