Model Citizen? Part 2

Some people were born to be models. Some were born to be writers. Some were born to write about the time they discovered that they would never be a model. If you're reading this and fit into the first category...piss off. This entry is for those of us with crooked noses and lazy eyes who want to make fun of your high cheekbones and perfect abs. Pretty people: don't waste your time here. Go look at GQ's website. I think they have a feature about how Josh Duhamel's sweat can cure leprosy. Now for the rest of us...please make sure all beautiful people have left the room...are they gone...good. I hate them.

But, what I hate even more are the talent agency parasites that feed on parents (of normal looking kids) who think their child will be the next Iman because they took that "one great photo at last year's family reunion." Luckily for me, I was able to observe all of these species in their natural environment at my talent callback last week.

I was ready. Fully prepared with my hip/young-looking shirt from Target, two fancy photos (see Model Citizen Part 1) and best Derek Zoolander blue steel face. I'll also mention that I spent considerable time primping: my face was shaved, nose hairs trimmed, hair freshly cut and teeth whitened. And, yes, my ear fuzz had been perfectly plucked. All of this, even though I put my name in as a voice over performer. Still, I thought, there's always a chance that they'd see "something" and my modeling career would skyrocket. I was wrong.

One thing I can quickly identify based on my past as a sales manager is a bait and switch. I could smell it the minute I stepped foot in the talent agency. A young college student took my "head shots" and motioned me to the waiting area where I was now corralled with a group of out-of-shape and nervous 13-17 year-old's and their even more out-of shape and nervous parents. Now, I'm no Jake Gyllenhaal, but in this room I could easily have convinced anyone that I had been an underwear model on one of those huge screens in Time Square.

A sixty-something woman, clad in black suit and Joan Rivers mask made her way to the runway. (Did I mention we were in a room surrounded with mirrors and a runway in the middle of it - we were). For the next 45 minutes we were told all about her time in "the business" and how hard "the business" is if you don't have help from someone who has been in...you guessed it..."the business". She dropped big names like Cindy Crawford, Joan Crawford, Joan Collins, Phil Collins (ok, not the last one) and told us that although "not many newcomers make it," her school has a 72% success rate. Apparently her idea of "success" is measured by simply graduating from this institution of higher leeching, even though no high-profile models working today are actually graduates.

Now that we'd be sufficiently intimidated, we were given some pricing options for their school and told that unless we had a passion for modeling registering an 8, 9 or 10 (on a scale of 10) we shouldn't waste their time. At which point I gathered my water bottle and new-found humility and walked out. You see, I had already figured myself to be a 7 out of 10 on the passion scale. In the end, I guess I'd rather be a modeling school drop-out than a John Casablancas graduate taught by the Darth Vader of "the business". I can't believe I shaved my ears.