Compelled By Melete I
Ilsa the Pirate
12/18/05 - Spent the morning on a closed off section of Bondi doing the SI shoot with Ilsa, using Aussie lifeguards as props, blah, blah, blah, typical stuff. Cloudless sky, hot as winter Down Under. "Hot enough to boil a monkey's bum" the Monty Pythoners once quipped. Hot enough to burst a saline implant in our case. Thank God that didn't happen.
Things went well all morning and we broke for lunch around 11. Ilsa had the usual - a smoke and a handful of paint chips plucked from the base of a lifeguard stand. You think I kid, but she spent her down time slumped on the sand in the tower's shadow, and she was eating something when she came back over to the car, and she didn't have any food with her at all. Most models don't bring food to a shoot on principle. Always with the health, this crowd. I tend to bring at least a bag Doritos and a Yoo Hoo, but then my flabby ass never makes it around to the other side of the lens.
Whatever it was, we had to wait an extra half hour for her to come down from the energy rush that a body unused to calories experiences after food is taken in. She had uncontrollable giggling outbursts that spoiled a couple of shots. After that we had about an hour of productive shooting, and then another incident that I say confirms my paint chip theory: we decided to do a series of shots of Ilsa clenching a disgusting old sabre in her teeth "pirate style" (her idea) and the rusty goodness of the blade put her back into spazz mode. That pretty much canned the shoot, but I think we got enough for the spread.
A few hours later we met the rest of the crews at Mal's winter retreat for a soirée, including the iconic barbecued shrimp and Fosters, which none of the models would touch. Except for Jenna of course, but she's got some sort of farmgirl genetic thing that doesn't let her accumulate body fat and so she eats like a horse. A carnivorous horse. Bitch.
I had no idea that Ilsa was political. Apparently she joined P(large 'e')TA a few years ago, which led to a brief flirtation with Chomsky. (I'm made to believe that most flirtations with Chomsky are brief, but that's a totally different story.) Then a few tentative Google searches led her to Kos and the DU, and now she does the occasional post on Huffington's blog. She started riffing on Bush, and then the war, but Mal cut her off. Having spent something like a hundred grand to get Howard re-elected, I guess you could say he's for the war. The conversation changed abruptly to gardening for some reason, and Ilsa had nothing more to say. Indeed, she spent the rest of the night in petulant silence, and returned to the States the next morning without her usual goodbye call.
(Addendum: I saw her again a week later in New York and it was business as usual - she was all hugs and kisses. Coincidentally, she had just come out of an Ethan Allen.)
[Ed. I know, it's blasé to write parodies about the supermodel lifestyle, but what the hell. I was compelled by Melete, upon awaking from a dream.]
12/18/05 - Spent the morning on a closed off section of Bondi doing the SI shoot with Ilsa, using Aussie lifeguards as props, blah, blah, blah, typical stuff. Cloudless sky, hot as winter Down Under. "Hot enough to boil a monkey's bum" the Monty Pythoners once quipped. Hot enough to burst a saline implant in our case. Thank God that didn't happen.
Things went well all morning and we broke for lunch around 11. Ilsa had the usual - a smoke and a handful of paint chips plucked from the base of a lifeguard stand. You think I kid, but she spent her down time slumped on the sand in the tower's shadow, and she was eating something when she came back over to the car, and she didn't have any food with her at all. Most models don't bring food to a shoot on principle. Always with the health, this crowd. I tend to bring at least a bag Doritos and a Yoo Hoo, but then my flabby ass never makes it around to the other side of the lens.
Whatever it was, we had to wait an extra half hour for her to come down from the energy rush that a body unused to calories experiences after food is taken in. She had uncontrollable giggling outbursts that spoiled a couple of shots. After that we had about an hour of productive shooting, and then another incident that I say confirms my paint chip theory: we decided to do a series of shots of Ilsa clenching a disgusting old sabre in her teeth "pirate style" (her idea) and the rusty goodness of the blade put her back into spazz mode. That pretty much canned the shoot, but I think we got enough for the spread.
A few hours later we met the rest of the crews at Mal's winter retreat for a soirée, including the iconic barbecued shrimp and Fosters, which none of the models would touch. Except for Jenna of course, but she's got some sort of farmgirl genetic thing that doesn't let her accumulate body fat and so she eats like a horse. A carnivorous horse. Bitch.
I had no idea that Ilsa was political. Apparently she joined P(large 'e')TA a few years ago, which led to a brief flirtation with Chomsky. (I'm made to believe that most flirtations with Chomsky are brief, but that's a totally different story.) Then a few tentative Google searches led her to Kos and the DU, and now she does the occasional post on Huffington's blog. She started riffing on Bush, and then the war, but Mal cut her off. Having spent something like a hundred grand to get Howard re-elected, I guess you could say he's for the war. The conversation changed abruptly to gardening for some reason, and Ilsa had nothing more to say. Indeed, she spent the rest of the night in petulant silence, and returned to the States the next morning without her usual goodbye call.
(Addendum: I saw her again a week later in New York and it was business as usual - she was all hugs and kisses. Coincidentally, she had just come out of an Ethan Allen.)
[Ed. I know, it's blasé to write parodies about the supermodel lifestyle, but what the hell. I was compelled by Melete, upon awaking from a dream.]
posted by Marty at 10:53 PM
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