by Ellen Von Unwerth

It is the most innately natural thing. We need an adult to explain to the teeny versions of ourselves why we’re supposed to keep our clothes ON, after all. I even remember the first time I felt humiliated by my own immodesty.

My mom bought me these brand new underwear. They were the most magnificent kind a little girl could own: five layers of Easter pink ruffles, right on the bum. I was beyond thrilled to show my dad the amazing new item and down to the basement I ran to do so. At the time my dad was an electronics expert (well, still is) and his work lair was under the house.  I knew a handful of his grown up friends were over, but so what? I leapt down the stairs and couldn’t even contain my excitment past the final step. “Daddy! Look!” I turned around, lifted my dress, and bent over. 

I spun around with a enormous smile until his swift steps and angry glare rapidly approached me. He grabbed my arm and angrily whispered, “Don’t you EVER do that again. Get back upstairs!” My eyes swelled with tears as I ascended to the kitchen. Although it was absurdly confusing back then, the bird’s eye view is quite clear. Most fathers must have a helluva time watching their daughters sprout into adulthood; it must be terrifying, poor guys.  

When a girl is old enough to understand the root of a father’s horror, it becomes an entangled game of discovery. I’m sure we all recall the first confusing, unwavering gaze of a man far too old or a boy in class or a guy at the beach. The exhilaration causes some of us to act like crazy people, fluctuating between teeny shorts and tube tops to a sophisticated dress because Cosmopolitan assured us it was sexy. Suddenly we’re meant to be something certain or emulate something we believe will draw in what we desire: all eyes on us! Thinking of it now, because I really was so stinkin’ innocent, it was quite a sweet process, and I believe it is generally meant to be. 

by Michael Thompson

The unfortunate aspect of the discovery is the fear sexuality breeds in people. I know that is hardly a worldwide fact, some nations far better or far worse in one way or the other, but as an American I definitely feel it, the fear.

The honest truth about me is that I have a very difficult time remembering/forcing myself to be modest. I went from ballerina to cellist so, when seated, I feel at ease legs open. One of my life’s greatest joys is to live those first days of summer, when I’m emancipated from the drudgery of layers and layers of clothing; the less I’m wearing, the happier I am. I’m sure it hasn’t helped to grow up in theater, making quick backstage changes in front of whoever. And same for modeling. I know I am blessed, and unfortunately a rare case, to have never been taken advantage of but that being said there is also a complete ignorance to the fact anyone could take it in the wrong way. If my shirt ever falls down or skirt comes up, no matter what, I can’t even feign embarrassment. This is the primary reason I have such a hard time standing for “no nudity on film.”

I suppose I am trying to say, I know there is a “time and place” for nudity in our culture, and it bores me. I don’t even want attention, uh, which would probably be the unfortunate way acting out on this would totally backfire on me. It’s just, sometimes I see a hipster swimming naked in front of everyone at the Roosevelt pool and wonder why can’t I? I know my heart didn’t teach me to hold back, and sometimes I’m afraid I lose out for not following my instincts (in more ways than just this, please know). Because the more I learn about myself the less my motivations are impure and crazy. I just desire to live life to the fullest. 

I wonder if I’ll grow up and be a crazy naked mom… oh, no. I think I’ll settle for a summer of naked camping adventures with all the people I know who wouldn’t care. Whatcha think, Drew? ;) 

Vogue

Today was one of those rare days when nothing intensely notable occurred, therefore, I present to you: beautiful (albeit too skinny) girls in animal ears.

Drew made me pony ears for my Halloween costume last year, and I just wished I could wear them everyday. Enjoy!

A couple months ago I received a delightful letter informing me that I would be losing my health insurance. I’m young, I’m healthy, I pray a lot, and nowadays that’s what’s going for me. 

However, every lady, young and old, still needs checkups and maintenance for her most sensitive parts. Therefore, I cried (or more, whined) when received the news. I am obsessively, passionately, and whole-heartedly in love with YAZ birth control. I eat that for breakfast! Child-free sex, clear skin, and lost weight- hooray!

So I made an appointment for the Planned Parenthood and walked in the office a bit frazzled and afraid they wouldn’t have it, or wouldn’t give it to me for free. I was prepared to provide my and Drew’s monthly income, which could never sustain insurance,  but instantly felt like an jerk. You see, I only own like 6 pieces of fancy, designer clothing and accessories and I seemed to be wearing nearly all of them at once. The stressed faces of 15 year olds in converse, likely pining for Plan B, stared up at my Ferragamo sunglass-donned head, $250 jeans, Wildfox Couture tee shirt, and fur Roberto Cavalli bomber as I held a bronze Blackberry in one hand and a new Macbook in the other.

Suddenly it occurred to me: this is the story of my life. A entire half of my life is fine-dining, lavish parties, expensive free clothes, influential people, and movie studios. The other half is meals of Apple Jacks, trips to the DMV, constant work, a broken car, and Goodwill digging. Someone residing on only one side of that spectrum must imagine it’s impossible to fully live both. But it’s actually quite a blessing for my confidence and creativity to do so, indeed. 

P.S. They gave me a year’s worth of YAZ prescription… breathe in, breathe out, thank you PP.

As many know by now, I like having complete transparency in my writing. When I’m up, it’s known, when I’m down, it’s clear. That being said, I’ve been struggling with the idea of “success” for a while…uh, I mean forever. And lately, it’s rearing its ugly six headed being in a more full force. It would seem that, as honored as I may be to work for successful people, my supposed lack of accomplishment keeps nawing at my feet, begging the question, “Brenda, are you really on the right path? Are you actually walking in the right direction?” For some clarity, here is my story.

In elementary school I was exceedingly quiet. I don’t recall being shy, but more so, observant. I used to sing, loudly and proudly, in the privacy of my bedroom constantly so when the teacher announced auditions for the “head ringmaster” of our circus concert, it seemed natural that I audition. It never occurred to me how astonished Mrs. Dash and her class would be when I opened my mouth and allowed that loud, belty voice to escape. All my classmates’ teeny mouths lay agape as Mrs. Dash uttered several surprised adjectives, staccato.

I remember just how I felt to this day. There was a flush in my cheeks and a gentle roll butterflies breaking through their cocoons in my tummy. I gazed out into the bleachers ahead and knew I had stumbled upon something incredible. The passion I uncovered that day has never left.

In the beginning, I did all I could to move forward. I auditioned for plays in middle school and in between seasons I sought opportunities in the paper for community theater. Not long after I educated myself on local talent agencies and decided to meet with the only “bigwig” I could find: Edie Rob of Talentworks, renown for discovering the 3 Lawrence brothers.

My rejection letter from Edie Robb.

As you can see, it was a disaster. Well, she didn’t type “humiliating failure” in the letter but, believe, it was! My lack of confidence held me back worse than a bouncer would in a bar fight. I couldn’t deliver amidst my fear. Thankfully, local theater kept up my resolve and an understanding that I was talented, just lacking a strong sense of self with the New York or Philadelphia types of industry folk.

However, I never ceased to dream. I spent countless hours in my room creating monologues, rearranging my furniture to resemble a set, teaching myself to cry in the mirror, and staring in awe at the huge screens in local movie theaters. I imagined my life as a pint-sized starlett and even cried in misery over Anna Chlumsky’s role in My Girl. “Why wasn’t I in that movie,” I begged my mom, “Why didn’t I audition?” After I wiped my tears I just imagined myself as her instead, with pretend cameras capturing my Oscar-worthy reaction to Macaulay’s bee death in the back yard.

by Bruce Weber

Fast-forward to today and it’s hard to figure out who I’m “supposed” to be. I have friends my age with Oscar nods, others with starring roles in motion pictures, more who audition constantly, and a few who appear on TV now and again. If I had a dollar every time I heard, “Oh geez, I just was modeling and thought acting would maybe be kinda fun, ya know? And boom! Haha, isn’t that so funny?!” … Yeah. Hilarious. Plainly, it has been confusing, and sometimes disheartening or lonely, to be in a category all my own. I hardly feel like delving into all my supposed woes and instead would prefer to highlight my many blessings.

Honestly, everything I’ve accomplished came so naturally, it just flowed like sweet honey. Those blessings are uncomplicated and lovely. I moved to Los Angeles in short notice after being encouraged by an acting coach. From there every home in which I resided flowed from one to the next. My relationship with Drew was easy from the start and the way we met was never forced. I fell into celebrity styling without even trying, then into PA extraordinaire from there, and have written for magazines simply thanks to word of mouth. None of that is glamorous, but the moments within it all have been cinematic and beautiful; a huge adventure, for sure. But, those were the things I never pined over and exhausted myself towards. It’s all been more like eating a piece of cake I was simply offered- then kicking butt at gobbling it all up.

So, perhaps the lesson is: relax… I am creating- with my Creator- everything I desire. I need to just enjoy the ride.

Enjoy life!!

Kim and I were talking the other night and confessed to each other that we could still play Barbies. At least, we’re pretty sure we’d still find it to be awesome.  She went as far as to admit that she searched ebay until she realized, “What’s wrong with me? What am I gonna do with a bunch of naked Barbies?!” 

However, we sat in her driveway staring at each other, wondering if this is something we should move ahead with. I resolved that we would actually, really play dolls well together and that fact would make us giant freaks.

This begs the question, are there closet-case Barbie owners and “players” out there in the world? Are they our friends? Our coworkers? Because I can tell you one thing, if I was sure I’d never get caught, or could at the very least talk my way around Drew when he discovered them under our bed, I would buy them tomorrow!

I mean, really, I only stopped because I was supposed to!

OK, enough. I’m going to be calm and clearheaded about this… No Barbies.

from here

One of my friends is nominated for an Oscar this year. I’ve been thinking about how nervous and thrilled she must be. (Thrilled can’t be a strong enough word, but language limits me). Dreams coming true; so gorgeous.

Anyway, there’s no assurance she’s got it in the bag because her competition is freakin’ out of control. I mean, if I sat at a dinner table with half those women I’d be honored enough, let alone being in some sort of category with them. (Please, Lord someday!)

Suddenly it occurred to me, Three Six Mafia has an Oscar. Have you ever sat down and thought about that?

Jennika, Three Six Mafia, and me. Yes, I've cropped my face because I think I've never seen a stupider picture of myself. And it's my blog, darn it.

Last night I went out to the strip clubs with Treasures (a non-profit support group for women in the sex industry). Once a month we shuttle to a whole area of clubs to give the girls gift bags, with something like lip gloss and jewelry and our contact info in case they ever need anything.

We take turns going in, only 3 girls at a time and out of 13 clubs, we got into 12. The club that turned us away was one my group approached. Because our founder Harmony Dust has become a bit of celebrity in the stripper community (being in Glamour, on Tyra, and generally rocking) the bouncer knew who we were. To our requests to leave the bags he firmly repeated, “No, no, no, no,” with arms heavily crossed.  This didn’t bother me, but something did.

This adorable Asian girl ran to the door with a huge smile on her face, “You brought us presents!?” Immediately the bouncer snapped his fingers and demanded, “Back inside!” Immediately the girl’s face fell and she scurried away. 

The thing is, usually the bouncers are the girls’ protectors. I mean, that is their entire purpose and the women acknowledge them as fatherly or brotherly figures with their safety at heart.

It was disarming to see a man who was their intimidator instead.

My beloved Trya, commenting on 200 buck pimple cream

I just had a totally unsolicited flashback. I mean, truly random.

I recalled being in this acting workshop back in Philly around 14 years old. There was this swarmy, overly confident Italian dude imparting his wealth of knowledge on Hollywood and its “real deal.” He’d been in a bunch of local commercials and had a couple guest spots on TV, and was therefore the Philadelphian authority on “the biz.”

He flailed his arms around the whole time yelling about “reality,” “gumshun,” and “beefing up your skills.” He handed out some sort of color chart which supposedly defined one’s emotions and equated them to one’s ability to succeed, which explained why we should take his 8 week course…or something. 

In my experience, every “teacher”  in Philly made Hollywood sound like a death pit full of grizzly bears who just wanted your soul. It was awesome.

As if I didn’t always feel awkward 100% of the time, this guy approaches me before the entire group, places his pointer finger on my forehead, presses down hard and says, “You wanna be an actress? You really need to start hiding those. Ever hear of coverup?”

What a grizzly bear!

I’ve taken a second job (or millionth job, depending on the week) as a nanny for a director and his art director wife. They have an adorable 3 year old and live in such a lovely cabin-like home in the Laurel Canyon hills. 

The other day I took the little one to a local park in Beverly Hills to play. I’ve seen paparazzi antics many times (I live in Los Angeles, after all.) As a matter of fact, before we got to the park I stopped to grab lunch munchies on Rodeo and found Lindsay Lohan walking by with a trail of these guys ahead of her, flashing their bulbs. A large crowd of young tourist chicks were having separate panic attacks and participating in the chase. My little one starting running until I stopped her. “But those big girls are running,” she protested. 

“That’s because those big girls are silly,” I explained, “No running please.” 

When we got to the park there were several paparazzi lurking and I discovered the Beckham kids nearby (I know, I’m so humiliated to know this much. I’m just as bad as the next overly-educated Hollywood chick.) 

This was no big deal until, much like seagulls, the word got out among the birds and there were, literally around 35 guys (excuse me, and one lady) surrounding the park. I mean, a full circle around the perimeter. It turned out that Jeff Gordon (the Nascar driver) and Chris Cornell also showed up and went to opposite ends of the teeny park. I mean, children and minor celebs drew that many paps; part of me was assuming I’d see I overlooked Kate Winslet or Denzel in the sandbox, but no. 

I never thought twice about the Lindsay thing, I mean she’s ON Rodeo, SHOPPING, and looking PISSED. It’s an open invitation. But swarming children?! Isn’t that what your telescopic lenses are for? Hide in the bushes at least- a little decent stalking. If there would ever be such a thing.  

The most interesting thing to me was how barely any of the kids even noticed. I mean, they’ve got no attachments or understanding to the “Hollywood” in their lives at 5 and below. Although, big ups to the little boy that broke away from his nanny, ran up to a crowd of the guys and screamed, with an accusingly pointed finger, “I hate you!”

Suddenly, this video makes a lot of sense…well besides the fact that Bjork really can never be in the wrong. Ever.

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