Apparently she was at an opening and Justin Timberlake was there along with Cameron Diaz, or was it Naomi Watts? You can tell how much I gave a shit.
Afterwards, I reminded Camille that not everyone is discreet about who they meet. She was three Porto sheets to the wind, so I’m not sure she even heard me, but it got me thinking.
Models do run in those circles, but it’s not all glamorously based. Girls are flagrantly used like parsley on a plate to garnish and liven up a room. On many occasion we’re nothing more than live props no more important than the rented tables and stemware. And remember, for every Kate Moss, there are two-hundred of us you’ve never heard of.
So what if Bradley Cooper is across the room. Unless you’re twelve with legs you’ll let him climb like Mount Everest on his way out, you’re not even a thought.
You’re more a light fixture that moves.
I’ve never thought of myself as the dumb model, though I’m sure others have. The term, model, alone channels stupidity. Tabitha, poor thing, has the brain of a ladybug so it’s no wonder she boasts and brags. The upside of being brainless is that when Brad Pit walks right by without so much as a look, you don’t remotely notice absorbed in your powder puff.
I’m almost embarrassed to mention who I’ve met in my travels. Camille too. In her case she’s famous for treating the famous like they’re blue-collar workers.
“They love abuse, it’s so foreign to them,” she likes to say. “They’re just men remember, whose private parts happen to have private planes.”
Gotta love her.
It’s a myth to think the fashion world is an enviable one to be in. Not true. Yes, it has its perks like when you’re invited to a Stones concert or opening of a hot play, and there is the money that you didn’t bother saving. But for the most part it’s like any other business, just with a few familiar faces you can idiotically talk about at dinner.