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Two months ago, for no reason other than extreme vanity, I decided I wanted some professional portraits taken. I have virtually no flattering photos of myself and figured it was high time. Plus, they'd look good next to my work when it got published, and they'd look even better on my Facebook page next to the snapshots of my former high-school classmates who'd spent the last decade having it their way at BK and shitting out kids. After perusing the work of so-called professionals at several photography studios, I realized that when it comes to photographers, studios offer the cream of the crap — and expensive crap at that. I didn't blame them, mind you. I guess years of styling cheesy family portraits where everyone dressed in white oxfords had dulled their creative edge. In a flash of genius I decided to seek out photographers — artistic glamour photographers — who wanted to develop their portfolios. It would be win-win: the photographer gets a free model and I get free professional photos. After checking ModelMayhem.com with no luck, I figured I'd try the poor man's ModelMayhem.com, and it turned out the "Creative" section of Craigslist was loaded with photographers eager for this exact arrangement. After asking to see some of their work, I settled on a photographer we'll call Joe. He asked me to meet him the following day. The whole scenario was perfect! What could possibly go wrong? I was immediately able to formulate at least two dozen answers to this question when I showed up at Joe's house and was led down to his dank basement-cum-studio. Joe was a short, stocky guy in his forties who mentioned repeatedly — nay, incessantly — that he was an amateur Mixed Martial Arts fighter. I feigned enthusiasm but found this dubious at best since his NASCAR t-shirt with the sleeves cut off revealed only a roadmap of stretch marks circumventing pasty, flabby arms. Still, the sample pictures he'd sent me were good — really good — and besides, the shots were going to be of me, not of him and his Miami Vice haircut. Post introductions, Joe's wife slinked into the basement and informed me that she'd be staying to watch the shoot after she styled my hair and applied my makeup. Pockmarked and yellow-haired, she was a vision in pink elastic-waistband pants, and as talented at doing her own hair and makeup as any five-year-old with Barbie dolls. While I acknowledged (silently) that the setup was unglamorous, I reassured myself that what really mattered was the end result. When all was said and done, I was going to have photographs, stunningly beautiful photographs, portraits worthy of any fashion-magazine cover (or self-absorbed braggart's Facebook profile). That's when Joe uttered seven words I wasn't expecting: "How do you feel about Glenn Danzig?" Joe thrust a musty leather jacket into my crossed arms. "I found this at a garage sale. Isn't it perfect? Now take off your top. Glenn Danzig doesn't wear shirts." I didn't know what was worse: that my "stunningly beautiful" photo was going to be me channeling a middle-aged, unattractive has-been rock star or that my skin was actually going to be rubbing against this guy's filthy leather jacket. This was not what I had come for, and I was about to protest, but then I began to size up the situation. I am five feet tall and weigh ninety-three pounds soaking wet. Joe and Wifey easily had three-hundred pounds on me, and there was that whole MMA thing, which I began to perceive as a threat. I could demand a different concept, but why risk pissing them off? I figured if I played nice, it would be over pretty soon. CM commented on 11/09 DHL commented on 11/09 SG commented on 11/09 DS commented on 11/09 Ind commented on 11/09 ON commented on 11/09 HD commented on 11/09 MJF commented on 11/09 dre commented on 11/10 STJ commented on 11/10 LT commented on 11/10 ja commented on 11/10 CF commented on 11/10 gsl commented on 11/11 FJG commented on 11/11 SM commented on 11/11 YH commented on 11/11 MJG commented on 11/12 StM commented on 11/12 TF commented on 11/12 BEE commented on 11/19 Leave a Comment
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