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No one must know my terrible secret...

House of Noh!

Friday, March 18, 2005

I guess there’s some sort of new Wonderbra out now. I don’t usually follow these kinds of things, but I inadvertently caught the new Wonderbra product roll-out parade a few weeks ago in the lobby of the Hilton downtown.

And, BTW, it’s crazy what sort of swanky places even a doofus reeking of that military surplus mildewy smell and dressed in a ratty sweater, chain-lube-stained jeans, and ill-fitting self-knitted cap can just walk into around the downtown area. There’s that architectural center by millennium park, which is really cool and last time I went was exhibiting paintings by these awesome Chinese painting brothers named Tomax and Zamot who I guess throw crazy wild parties at their secret painting loft lair. And you can even check out the Monets and shit in the art museum downtown if you can withstand the withering glare of the admissions person as you take a downward departure from the “suggested donation” admission price of $20 and slide your penny across the counter – index finger on top if it, like you’re moving the slide switch on one of those music mixing boards. Oh, and also, it’s extremely important that you announce your $.01 donation as “one peppercorn!” I’m not sure this is technically correct, but any nerd who’s been to lawschool (and that’s like everybody) will think it’s HILARIOUS and forgive you your snide un-support of the arts. I mean, a penny! You can find a penny on the sidewalk if you just walk around looking for one.

Please allow me to set the stage: Here I am stinking up the Hilton lobby with its elaborately painted ceiling and gilded whatnots and fainting couches and stuff, me blemishing countless photograph backgrounds of the pictures tourists are taking of the building and decoration, when the Wonderbra parade comes marching through.

First there was an alpha model dressed in some sort of fancy ball gown. She was clearly the dominant model and she led the lesser models, who were each dressed in swanky ball gowns of their own. Then came some buffed-up guys wearing really tight t-shirts that said “wonderbra” across the front. (I think the t-shirts on the guys had to be really tight so that people could see the guys weren’t wearing bras – just so there wouldn’t be any confusion.) The buffed-up guys each carried some sort of bosom-supporting device before them in gold framed glass boxes.

I watched the parade pass, it was full of confidence and hip-swinging swagger. But when they came back through the hotel lobby again I thought they looked a little shaken for whatever reason. And then a few minutes later they appeared in the lobby again. This time they were visibly disturbed and their formation wasn’t as tight as before - the t-shirt guys weren’t holding their display boxes as high and the models’ shoulders were starting to droop. I think that they were there to show off their new, miracle accentuated bosoms, but something had gone terribly wrong. Maybe the people they were supposed to model for weren’t there yet, maybe it was just poor planning on the part of some model coordinator. They were desperate. Their glances fell upon me, then, appropriately, passed along. But there weren’t many people to choose from. In the lobby there was a cluster of old, white-haired women, a bunch of people rushing around too busy to check out models, and one guy with a mustache and a ball cap on. But the mustache guy was asleep. Clearly, it was a self-esteem lessening experience for the models. With no better options, they sort of straggled back over to me and started doing some half-assed modeling moves or whatever. I wasn’t sure really how to act. I mean, I almost always smell like peanut butter. What’s worse, I am (as I’m constantly reminded of during job interviews) a hick. And besides small shows, like in bars and stuff, the only real concert I’ve ever been to was when Weird Al Yankovich stopped in Kalamazoo, Mi. Further, my hair looks increasingly like Jim Carrie’s villain character in Lemony Snickets, and just last night I was sitting in my filthy kitchen on my sutra desk and picked a slimy booger out of my nose. I rolled it up into a ball between my pickin’ (index) finger and thumb. Then I tried to feed it to my cat. I think the models could sense that about me too, but they had to present their bosoms to somebody! It was very awkward and EVERYBODY was embarrassed. I guess that’s the modeling / bosom-accentuating-undergarmet industry for you.