Twelve Days of Christmas: 1.1



People fall asleep over Kindles and Macy’s bags filled with Christmas presents. I’m using the big luggage — the sporty one a friend of a friend left at his apartment two years ago, filled with size 43 golf pants and men’s dress socks. He chucked the clothes and gave me the bag. I aired it out for two weeks. Just in case.

I’m sweating in my coat. It’s always the same thing – leaving twenty minutes late and running for the train, standing in front of my luggage, back aching under the weight of iPads, iPods, copies of The New Yorker. L Train to E Train to Air Train. JFK to LAX.

Waiting on the platform, I had this random flash, a thought that heated up and spread through every cell like wildfire, a feeling of this parallel reality, something that could have been had I not made a certain choice a few years ago, standing on a street in the middle of frozen February. And in that thought, I wasn’t going home to Los Angeles for Christmas; I was going to London. I felt everything within seconds: the tired familiarity of inconvenience, the dulled enthusiasm knowing that whatever was waiting for me at the other end was going to take me eight hours to get to, the realities of some long distance relationship that never happened.

Five dollars for an AirTrain card and I’m sitting next to two traveling salesmen in their late 30s, talking about their holiday plans. “Chillaxin’” the one guy says. Twice. He talks loud enough for me to hear. I turn sideways, praying to not be somehow invited into this conversation. We slides through Brooklyn neighborhoods with their thinned out trees, traffic on the highway cut into immovable veins of red and white. My reflection is an opaque thing on the glass in front of me, wrinkleless and ethereal, reality minus ten or fifteen years.

“When’d you get married?” the one guy asks the other.


“See, I got married at twenty-five and it was a real eye-opener. The bills started coming in. I mean… that was reality.”

There is a pause here, where the other guy – the one sitting next to me who says things like “chillax” – does not know what to say, how to empathize or contribute or generally make his friend feel as though he’s not the only one in the world who has ever felt this way. After six seconds of silence, he simply fills the void with “What was your first sales job?”

It must be hard being a man sometimes, running towards and away from feelings, in denial of things that are clearly there. Or maybe they’re not there. Who knows. I’m not a man, and after dating in New York for three years, I’m vaguely convinced they have no feelings, no heart. That’s the bitterness creeping in.

The airport isn’t busy yet because I’m leaving a week earlier than everyone else. One of the TSA employees talks to me while I pull back on my jackets and boots on the other end of the security screening. “So tell me,” he asks, “are you still modeling?” Yeah yeah yeah, I say, and then I mention my writing. “Good for you,” he says. Then he says how he can spot the girls – these models – a mile away. “They’re like unicorns,” he says. They’re always the same: tall, happily disheveled, little to no makeup. It’s good to know there are other people wandering around the airport looking like genetically gifted homeless people.

“None of that stuff matters anyway,” he says. “When you get to be my age, all you want is a girl who can make you a good cup of coffee. You understand what I mean?”

I do, sort of. The part of me that sort of doesn’t makes a joke about putting my French press in the fridge overnight.

“You come to just want a friend,” he says.

“When does that happen?” I ask.

“Around forty… fifty years old.”

“Oh, good,” I joke. “I only have to wait ten to twenty more years.”

And then I jam my laptop into my carry-on, wish him happy holidays, and head towards my gate. I feel like I am always having these conversations in airports or with cab drivers — pulling my shoes on, wiping sleep out of my eyes, juggling baggage, saying “uh huh, uh huh” while someone tries to kindly impress upon me some meaning of life.

(Photo: Courtesy of Tandem Research)


2 Illegit 2 Quit: Part II

The show is happening, apparently. I get an email from my booker confirming a fitting on Friday and a show on Saturday. Based off past experiences, I ask how much the rate is, prepared to drop out if it’s paying $20, per my expectations.

It’s not horrible.

I confirm.

Through a maze of absolutely appalling bridal gowns, I find the stage where the show will be. One hundred dresses, eighteen designers — some of whom are threatening to back out because there were only supposed to be ten. Now the show is oversaturated, complicated, and, as everyone is quickly starting to find out, run by an insane person.

“They don’t care,” I hear one complain, “they got the money already, didn’t they?”

I don’t like the feeling that I am a part of some sort of fashion scam, taking the hard-earned cash of small designers who probably can’t afford the expense to begin with. My second thought is that they’ll sue afterward, and I won’t be getting my money. Oh, well. One day out of my reasonably short life. Worse things have happened. Like that time I had to stand in a window on Rodeo Drive and model dresses for twelve hours while Japanese tourists took pictures and shopped for the holidays. The owner of the store wanted to wire Christmas lights through my hair (and plug them in). I declined.

Mr. Lunatic Producer is here, running around like a person who doesn’t know what he’s doing. His voice rasps when he calls out the names of all the models.

“How many girls we gawt?” he says, his mouth filled with giant chunks of teeth, hair swinging in front of his face. He looks like part of the road crew for Led Zeppelin.

I check myself into hair and makeup. Two women curl my hair from behind, talking and chatting and making jokes. They’re new.

Next is makeup, where I sit down in front of a woman who alternates between dragging her finger against the smudged surface of her Samsung Smartphone to check Facebook and dragging it against my closed eyelid. I want to express my general concern for my health and well being – maybe even mention how I don’t care so much for pink eye – but I say nothing, even as she double dips her mascara wand into its tube, collecting black gunk and the bacteria from a thousand eyeballs and jamming it next to my own. I’m shocked I haven’t gone blind yet.


Mr. Lunatic rounds the corner, exasperated that half of us are in hair and makeup and half of us are waiting to rehearse. He’s got some “diamond shape” thing he needs to work out – meaning, it’s not working but he’s going to have us rehearse it for a whole hour we don’t have.

Twenty-five of us stand in a disorganized row, our hair and makeup in various stages of completion.


Mr. Lunatic is looking in our direction. He could be screaming at one of three of us.



The girl in front of me points to her chest.


Out of rubbernecking curiosity, I look in the corner myself. There’s nothing going on there; interns are organizing shoes.

As of this moment, we have not been instructed as to what the hell is going on; we’ve just been told to get near the entrance of the runway. For most of us, this directive has never been accompanied by the assumption that we are only to look in front of us, at the back of some girl’s head, military style.


“I got my eye on you, Mimi,” he says, a creepy smiling twisting into life on his face and then walking away.

“I’m not Mimi,” the girl whispers to us.

“Yeah, I know. I’m Mimi,” says another, annoyed she’s been sucked into this bullshit.

He returns, and for a long, confusing stretch of time he opens and closes his mouth and words come out.

“The first girl goes there and the second girl goes there and then the third and you only go when the fourth one comes out and then she moves to the left and you to the right and then you come back over on this side and exit and then she moves to the center and you stand there for three seconds. It’s like baseball. You girls every heard of baseball?”

My brain can’t handle this.

We run rehearsal for an hour. Nobody is getting it. He’s angry and yelling. A lot.


Yeah, buddy. I’m listening to it, and it fucking sucks. He goes on to tell us that this isn’t your normal bridal show; it’s a kick ass, rock-and-roll fashion show, as indicated by the use of Lady Gaga’s 2009 hit, “Paparazzi.”

I look around the line at the rest of the models. I’m sorry, I meant “models.” Out of 25, there are probably 5 that should actually be working. The rest of the girls have butts, boobs, and big arms – three fashion no-nos. Their bodies are soft like puddy, marred by an unprofessional doughiness. At least three of them look like cast members from Glee or Real Housewives.

The girl in front of me, an avian thing with bleached blonde hair and a prominent nose (one of the six who looks like a model), goes off on her theory about how there is no work for the in between girl. “You either size two or size ten, zat’s it,” she says. “If you a four, forget about it.”

That theory does not apply here. This show is like the United Nations of cup sizes and cellulite.

If I sound like a bitch, it’s because I’ve been subjected to the critical appraisal of others for the better part of ten years. Oh, Jenny! Did you eat cookies this weekend? Jenny, I hate to ask you this, but did you put on weight? Don’t worry; we’ll put this on someone smaller. In turn, I’ve become as harshly judgmental as the people who hire me. It’s a ruthless way of looking at the world, one measured by the surface and nothing else.

These standards do not apply to normal people; these standards only apply to models, who are paid to be abnormal. Abnormally beautiful, abnormally tall, abnormally thin. A bunch of Avatar-looking freaks.


Lunatic Producer is back to model-specific screaming, having singled out the avian girl.


I’m pretty sure this all qualifies as harassment. Then again, we’re just a bunch of non-unionized idiots.

“Yes, I speak English, sir. And I’m not looking at you because there is a big light behind you and it burns my eyes when I look up.”

Score 1: Team Tall People.

I duck out of rehearsal to finish my makeup with Sticky Fingers. She works a brush filled with thick foundation over my face, filling in the skin like spackle. With a smaller one, I feel her painting between the inner corners of my eyes and down the side of my nose.

“So how long have you been modeling?”

Ugh. This conversation again.

“Ten years.”

“Do you love it?”

She mixes a lethal combination of pink and coral on the side of her hand and mashes it into my lips. I can do nothing more than making an unenthusiastic creaking noise with my mouth, something amounting to a combination of “Errrrrr” and “Meeehhhhh.” I can feel my impatience for modeling becoming a dangerous liability.

“Alright, you’re all set,” she says. I feel like I’m wearing one of those Nixon Halloween masks with the cutout eyes and a slit for a mouth. My pores aren’t breathing. I look the mirror. She’s contoured my face into a bronze bust of some Greek dude.

The rest of the evening goes by about as horribly as I would imagine. The show is by and large a total disaster. They’ve changed their minds so many times that no one knows what’s going on. Girls keep shouting “straight down” or “diamond” and half the time we end up on the runway looking like brainless, bug-eyed morons. It goes on for a whole hour. By the end of it, the room is cooking with high-powered lights and too many bodies.

The music ends and the people clap, tired and eager to get out of the room. I rush towards my heap of real-girl clothes, throwing on pants and shoes and running away, quick as I can, past more bad bridal gowns – a nightmare of cheap beads and bad satin.

Story of my life.


2 Illegit 2 Quit

The email for the casting says specifically “do not be late.” I imagine my booker sitting on the other side of the computer writing this, wagging her finger and squinting her eyes menacingly. Must be important, I think.

I wake up at 7 and wait til 9:30 to get ready for the casting at 11, which I’ll have to leave my apartment for at 10. I spend the morning incapable of getting anything done. That’s how it goes; when I’m modeling, everything else falls to the wayside, as though my brain has to prepare itself for not being used, has to start the slow process of stifling the frequencies. Flight attendants, please prepare the cabin for landing.

From about 8 til 9, I watch Radiohead’s “Lotus Flower” about twelve times and crawl around the floor of my bedroom, wondering if the neighbors beneath me have any idea what I do with my spare time.

When I arrive, there are already three girls ahead of me on the list. The client isn’t here yet. So much for that previously mentioned urgency.

I stand in the hallway.

I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I squat against a wall, talking to a girl who has obviously been modeling for a handful of months not yet amounting to a year. She still has that dumb, fruitful excitement that I recognize in myself as being three or four years dead. She’s babbling about some test shoot she has that afternoon, about modeling in Miami, about getting into a row with her mother agency and redoing her book. God, I hate these conversations.

Music from the late nineties is playing overhead. Soul For Real “Candy Rain.” Mariah Carey “Fantasy.” I’d say something to the tune of “This song reminds me of 3rd grade!” but I’d be dating myself. Most of the girls in here were still crawling when all these songs came out. They have no vivid memories of Mariah Carey rollerblading on a boardwalk wearing denim cut-offs and wrist protectors, singing into the camera with lips painted brown, her eyebrows tweezed into insignificance, cheeks covered in matte, shine resistant powder.

Shoo do do do do do do do yeah…

The client arrives. Twenty minutes late. By now, there are thirty of us flanking the walls, waiting patiently because that’s part of our job. Waiting. Waiting and looking pretty and being thin. That’s about it.

The first girl goes. Ten minutes later, the next one follows. It’s 11:40 and we’re only on the third model. I look around the corner to see what’s going on. The client, a man, is talking with a model wearing gray jeans. I can tell immediately, without even hearing him, that he is insane. He’s talking too close and too much. No one talks with a model this much at a casting. In fact, you are hardly spoken to at all. She stands there nodding her head, not having the foggiest idea as to what is going on.

“I think this guy is a lunatic,” I say to Betina, the model sitting next to me. “Just look.” Betina crawls over my legs, stretching her long pale neck to catch a glimpse.

Eleven minutes of straight talking later, the victim emerges, bewildered.

I walk in and place my book down on the table, trying to convey a sense of urgency because I’ve decided to wear heels all day and I don’t feel like standing here for fifteen minutes.

“Tell me who you are?” he says.

“Jenny Bahn.”

He scrolls down a list on his smart phone, telling me he needs to see who he has written down and who he doesn’t.

“I’m assuming you know about this job,” he starts, “which is to say, you know nothing.”

I resist the urge to tell him that’s pretty much how it always is. Show up now, find out later. I don’t give a shit about what I’m doing; I just care about the money. You could have me dancing around with three hundred monkeys in a trailer park wearing fur and carrying an assault rifle and you wouldn’t have to tell me what I was doing ahead of time. If you pay me, I’ll do it. This is where the line between modeling and prostitution becomes a gray area.

“So the show is on Saturday. We’ll have a rehearsal on Friday from 6:30 to 9. It’s 100 dresses,” he continues. “Have you ever done runway?”

“Yes,” I say.

“For who?”

I list off a handful of designers.

“Okay, you don’t have to say anything else,” he responds, my answers somehow validating my career. “So ordinarily, there are only 30, 40 dresses in a show,” he continues. “And we’re going to have, like I said, 100. To keep people from getting bored…”

He starts drawing out the staging formations he has planned for the show with a bejeweled pen, moving his hand over the table like he’s making up football plays. Part I is this. Part II is this. Part III is this. He says something about a hair change.

By now, I am highly disturbed, because everything that’s happened over the last four minutes indicates that this person is not professional and has never casted anything in his life. And yet here he is, standing in my agency, meeting models, taking their names, shaking their hands. There should be background checks before we go on these things, some sort of security procedure to keep us away from psychopaths and pedophiles.

But there’s not.

He explains to me that he’s a press photographer during fashion week. Indeed, a laminated press pass hangs around his neck. But it’s not fashion week anymore, and I find this highly strange.

I look at his hands to see if there is any evidence of his possibly being homeless. He’s a rumpled thing, this man, and anything’s possible. He reminds me of this other photographer who stands outside the Starbucks on Prince and Spring, waiting for pretty girls to walk past so he can say, “Hey, you’re a model. Can I take your picture?” No matter how many times you’ve seen him, he never remembers you, only asks the same question and hands you a business card that takes you to a bizarre beta site with unedited thumbnails of countless strangers.

While he’s talking, I assess him further. His hair is unnaturally brown, given his age, and hangs around his face in bluntly chopped streams, everything contained by a white baseball cap. He reminds me of Iggy Pop dressed up like Anthony Kiedis for Halloween, wearing clothes two sizes too big and a brown wig. Each of his teeth is hugged by the blackened lines of inattentive hygiene. And his eyes, indeed, are those of a crazy person.

He’s still talking, telling me that they have money in place for the show, that the agency will invoice him on Monday and everyone will get their money right away. “I’m a freelancer, too,” he says, “I know how it goes.”

Each sentence that comes out of his mouth further diminishes the legitimacy of this job. In fact, I’m fairly sure there isn’t a job at all. All this time, my book has been sitting on the table, completely ignored. He hasn’t stood back from me at a distance to assess my body type, looked at my measurements, judged me in any useful way. Real casting directors exact with the ruthless precision of a newly sharpened scythe. This guy cuts through the task like a dull and rusty butter knife.

He’s wrapped up his spiel. “So,” he starts. “Do you want to do it?”


Alone at the Edge of the World

“My name is Desmond. What is your name?”

My South African cab driver is looking in the rearview mirror towards me in the backseat.

“I’m Jenny.”

“Jenny,” he starts, “can I tell you something? You will come back to Cape Town. It doesn’t matter if it takes years; you will come back. There something magnetic about this place, and you will come back.”

Desmond hands me his card before dropping me off in front of Table Mountain and tells me to call him if I need to be picked up when I’m done. I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t have a cell phone or that calling him will be an impossible task. “Thanks for the ride,” I say.

It’s funny, really. I had been so nervous getting a cab by myself in Cape Town, having heard so many stories and warnings. Don’t travel alone as a girl. Don’t wander off by yourself. But there are no alternatives; I’m solo in South Africa. But here’s Desmond, my new friend.

I purchase a roundtrip ticket up the mountain and wait in line wearing overly ambitious layers: jeans, boots, sweater, coat. It’s been horrible and gray the last four days; I expected more of the same up here. Instead, I cook under the sun, holding my black jacket in between two crossed arms while I listen to the painful couple behind me talk in the type of German that makes people hate Germans. The man’s got a chinstrap beard and an eyebrow piercing. The woman’s got whatever the female equivalent to that would be. She looks like an aggressive volleyball player and heavy consumer of cheap beer.

“Ma’am, is it just you?”

Some Table Mountain employee is standing in front of me in a Table Mountain shirt.

“Oh, yeah,” I say.

“Just stand against the green,” he says, “for a photograph.”

First offense: Being called ma’am. Second offense: Being forced to stand alone and get a picture taken by myself while the horrible German couple behind me watches on.

I move towards a green wall and stand on green carpet. “Big smile!” he says. I would cringe at the whole ordeal if I actually gave a shit.

We inch towards the entrance and eventually board one of two cable cars bearing the word VISA nestled amongst painted flora and fauna. Seventeen people pile inside. I stand near the edge, facing outward, sandwiched between an elderly couple and a Plexiglas window.

Slowly, the car pulls back and the interior begins to rotate, giving everyone inside a chance to see the views of sprawling Cape Town as we ascend. It moves quickly and suddenly and the man in front of me holds onto the stationary railing until I begin to push into him dangerously. “Let go!” I want to scream, but he’s old and foreign and people don’t yell at grandpas. Still, I imagine a duck pile of tourists and the unfortunate ones spilling out of the open windows.

We quicken our pace, speedily racing up the cliff, defying gravity and our collective weight. The steep fractured walls of Table Mountain come into view and quickly change, the car casting shadows on the felt below.

Within minutes, we’ve already reached the top. I’m the first one out the gates. I don’t have to organize or wait for anyone; that’s the beauty and the tragedy of traveling alone.

My boots clack against the ancient stone and I turn around to see the view.

From above, Cape Town is a basin filled with gray skyscrapers and the terracotta roofs of private residences. A charcoal marine layer lays in wait on the horizon line. Water sluggishly pools in the bay areas, frothing against the shoreline like freshly poured beer. Here I am, standing at the edge of the world, by myself.

I lean against a wall of sorts, something that prevents you from spilling out and over the edge. The surface of the protruding rocks is warm and smoother than I thought it would be, imbued with a slight callousness, like holding the hand of a very old man. You feel the solidity of this place, an ancient density.

To the left, light bounces off of roofs along Camps Bay. That is where the rich people live, huddled in between green mountains. The poor people are sprawled out en masse elsewhere, in shacks that look like the crumpled contents of a recycling bin.

Next to me, a group of young Kiwi boys argue, each of them wearing some variation of the same short shorts.

“It was clear hyperbole, Dave. Concede,” one demands.

These short, simple sentences make me question the entirety of the American education system. All I ever hear on the New York subways during the post-school rush hour is “Damn girl” and shrill, unnecessary “What the fucks?”

“No concession,” Dave rebuts. “There is not anything for which one can concede.”

I feel like I’m in an episode of Flight of the Concords.

There are other kids here, too – many, in fact. Herds of them cluster together, both boys and girls in tidy white and black pullovers with button-up shirts and black tennis shoes.

When I’ve tired of wandering around by myself, as one tends to do, I stand in line to go down, behind a mother and daughter, both of whom spend the better part of thirty minutes loudly slurping on their respective ice cream cones, talking only every five minutes or so, mostly about negotiating how to get every last bit out of the bottom of the cone. It’s funny that we spend all this time meeting people, and talking to people, and dating people, and marrying people, just to end up standing next to someone, not saying anything at all.


South African Lemons

It’s my last day. Erin asks me what I want to do before my flight and lists off some sights. “Frankschhoek,” I say. “I could see Franschhoek.” The weather outside is gray and miserable, and between the two of us, we’ve seen enough wineries and tasted enough swill to hold us over until Armageddon. Still, I don’t want to stay in the hotel. Anything but staying in one place for the whole day before I stay in place for the whole flight back to the USA, caged like a circus animal.

Erin looks just as pained at the response as I do at my request. “We can do that, yeah,” she says, the epitome of an agreeable host. I’m sure the both of us would rather sit in the corner rocking back and forth like two silent lunatics. It’s been a long week.

We meet at 10:30 on a sidewalk in Stellenbosch until the car comes round. Erin just has to drop of laundry at a friend’s house. Apparently the washing service at the hotel didn’t so much wash her clothes as fluff and fold them, sans soap and water. “It all still smelled like campfire smoke,” Erin tells me. Fanny said she could borrow her washing machine.

Fanny’s house is on the collegiate part of town, near the university. Stellenbosch reminds me very much of Santa Barbara in that way, only a few hundred years older. On one side, it’s bleachy white and green and lush, a wine drinker’s utopia. On the other, it’s boozing, sexing, and partying. All under one beautiful roof.

Erin points at the lot opposite of Fanny’s house. It’s empty and weed-ridden. The only clues that there might have been anything there are the walkways that snake into the grass, leading nowhere. Erin tells me that the government bulldozed the houses because they had been empty and abandoned and then some Nigerians started squatting there.

Three dogs greet us at a yellow gate: one small, one medium, one large. As it turns out, the puppy, which Fanny and her boyfriend adopted two weeks ago, was saved from a truck transporting stolen dogs from Cape Town to a country north of here. They steal the puppies from South Africa for dogfights, using them to bait the older, bigger dogs. They throw them into the ring before the fights and the real fighter dogs rip them to pieces, at which point they’re amped and blood thirsty for the real thing.

I watch him run away down the side of the house, light as a leaf on a breeze.

Africa is a feral, wicked place. A whole history of mistrust and bad blood sits just beneath the surface, waiting for the precise moment of vindication, as though the entire continent just needs one excuse to completely incinerate. It is a feeling I get walking through the aisles of the local supermarket in Stellenbosch. The people are jittery and watchful, even when purchasing their shrink-wrapped meats, their boxes of biscuits.

Still, I could be wrong. But I very much want to go back and read Heart of Darkness to validate my suspicions, my instinctual weariness of this place.

Erin walks towards the back of the house and Fanny lets us in through a screen door, leading us through a washroom filled with drying clothing and into a damp living room with very high ceilings and walls covered in art: a series of sketched pistols, a few real pistols, geometric butterflies.

Fanny gets us tea. Rooibos.

Tom comes in. That’s Fanny’s boyfriend. He’s an artist and a musician and he’s got graying hair and a ruddy complexion. Fanny comes back with four mugs tea and a side of milk. Tom starts a fire. Erin makes a comment in Afrikaans about the fire being worthless, as it smolders without burning.

So far, I like South Africans. They’re strange people, comedic realists. If life hands you lemons, you bite down hard on the rind and let your tongue steep in its bitterness, then you make a joke about it. This is perhaps what happens when your ancestors decide to leave the western comforts of Europe and make the trek all the way down to the edge of civilization, realizing that this is the end of the road and you’d be mad to turn back. You exist for hundreds of years in what is essentially a massive island, separated from the world, accountable to no one.

We drink our tea, wash Erin’s clothes, have a good laugh and listen to music. When it’s time to leave, Fanny walks us around the side, petting the top of the medium sized dog’s head as we walk. This one, she says, had been stabbed in the head not too long ago during what South Africans call a “home invasion.” I think they use the phrase “home invasion” because it takes into account a greater life threatening danger than just your run-of-the-mill robbery. In a robbery, your TV is getting stolen, your pearls get snagged. In a “home invasion,” you might get raped.

Luckily for Fanny, she wasn’t home when it happened, but her neighbors called her that day. “Hey, Fanny. Sorry, but your dog is wandering around the street with a knife in its head.” Erin tells me they usually just toss the dogs poisoned sausages.

“To kill or to sedate,” I ask, imagining that comedic scene in Something About Mary with the mutt and the giant tabs of Oxycontin.

“Oh, to kill,” she says, with a frankness that everyone here seems obligated to possess, a survival tactic for acceptance of the status quo.



Sixteen Hours to Africa

7:00 a.m. – I eat breakfast, brush my teeth, throw out the trash. My bags are packed, I’ve got my passport, my snacks are accounted for. South Africa, here I come!

9:02 a.m. – After an hour-long train ride to the airport, I take the elevator to the ticketing counters. I’m in a new, unfamiliar terminal. I look a screen displaying arrivals and departures: Flight SA203 11:15 a.m. DELAYED 9:50 p.m. Ohhhhh, really. That’s, like, awesome.

9:25 a.m. – The woman behind the counter passes me a sheet of paper that says something like, “Blah blah blah, flight last night from Johannesburg blah blah medical emergency blah blah blah deepest apologies blah blah blah.” She hands two (rather generous) vouchers for lunch and a snack, $25 and $15, respectively. I tell her I think I’m just going to go home. She tells me to hold onto my receipts. Free cab rides? Yes, please!

10 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. – I sit on my couch, get some work done. Per my mother’s suggestion, I go for a run. That’s only after she spoils my good time by telling me just how long it will take for me to get to South Africa, since I hadn’t bothered to look. She Googles the flight while on the phone with me. “Here it is,” she says. “Ten Worst Flights in the World.” We laugh now, but I’ll be crying later.

5:31 p.m. – My cab driver arrives (second one of the day!) and I feel quite posh and luxurious.

6:15 p.m. – Because my cab driver is a badass, we make it to the airport in record time: 45 minutes during rush hour. Red lights were run, side streets were taken.

7:10 p.m. – Though I feel like I’m taking advantage, I use my lunch voucher for a dinner snack: a water, crudités sampling platter, and cut up fruit all for the bargain price of $14.99. God, I love spending other people’s money.

9:45 p.m. – There appears to be no sign of our plane, nor any announcements regarding when it will magically appear.

10:10 p.m. – More of the same. The people across from me start bitching about South African Airways, sharing horror stories about lost luggage and extreme flight delays. I am unfortunately dragged into a conversation about how one woman got on a plane after the previous riders had disembarked and, apparently, the turbulence had been so bad for them, she could see head marks or blood or something on the ceiling. Thanks, lady. That’s, like, just what I want to hear before I get on a 15 hour flight over the Atlantic Ocean and across the massive continent of Africa.

10:25 p.m. – Our missing plane arrives and the poor bastards on it get off, not soon enough, it seems. Me and my annoyed comrades have pieced together the story in our hours together: at some point during this plane’s initial journey from Johannesburg to New York yesterday, someone had to go and have a real bad time of it (medical emergency) and they turned back, only to have to wait some hours after for the crew to rest. Then they had to get back on and start all over again. No f’ing thank you.

11:15 p.m. – I’m seated somewhere far far in the back of this massive plane, next to a young boy who later tells me he’s heading to Africa to help poor people. He seems to like me in the beginning, until about hour 8 when I start getting up to pee a lot.

11:18 p.m. – The pilot comes on and makes one of about twenty-two lengthy, ingratiating announcements about how they’re terribly sorry about the flight being delayed half a day, how we’re all in this together, how he hopes we focus on the next 15 hours of “hos-pee-tal-ah-teeeee” we’re about to receive. He sounds like my mom’s friend, John Spass from Durban, circa 1989.

12:10 a.m. – The plane is up and away and the flight attendants are walking around starting the “midnight dinner service” our pilot has joked about. “Excuse me, you ordered a special dinner, yes?” She places in front of me what must be the worst decision I have ever made, ranking up there with about five of the assholes I dated in 2011. I am nearly brought to tears. There, on my plastic tray table in the downward position, is a platter of vegetables: an entrée portion of cut up vegetables, a side portion of the same cut up vegetables, a salad with lettuce and three slices of tomato, and a saltine cracker.

12:12 a.m. – I beg the flight attendant for the chicken.

12:23 a.m. – After making sure everyone has their first, second, or third choice, my flight attendant (who is none too happy about this) hands me a tin full of hot chicken and rice with greasy potatoes. Oh, sweet sustenance, fortify me for this journey.

12:41 a.m. – I fall asleep watching Snow White and the Huntsman for the second time. All I’ve garnered from both viewings is that Charlize Theron plays a massive bitch that takes whole milk baths, white and thick as Elmer’s glue.

12:42 a.m. onward – Time becomes a slippery, irrelevant thing. I will eventually wake up some eight hours later with an unfortunate amount of time left, something to the tune of seven hours. I alternate between feeling extremely uncomfortable and extremely claustrophobic. Outside, it’s daylight, but everyone keeps their shades drawn, choosing instead to ride out the duration of this journey in a darkened tube. My feet swell, my mouth rids itself of any bothersome moisture, my lips chap. When it’s about 10 a.m. my body time, my head begins to throb with the dulled ache of a caffeine addict. It doesn’t get any worse, I swear to God.



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The Social Vampire Diaries: That Night I Spent an Hour Waiting to Get Into the Alexander Wang After Party


A light rain falls on my new shirt, a silver leather thing with black lapels and a zipper up the back. I look like the inside of a very fashionable lunchbox. I change out of a pair of black horsehair loafers and into my new Balenciaga heels. They’ve been sitting in a box for the last month and a half since purchasing them, and if it weren’t for Lief supporting the idea of me being 6’4 and fancy tonight, it’d probably have been another year before they saw the outside of my closet.

“It’s a shit show,” he texts.

I walk down the street attempting a grace that I am strangely capable of in showrooms, modeling pants for international buyers who don’t give a shit about me. In real life it’s harder; no one’s paying me to look elegant or capable. The fact that I don’t fall over all night is a success story in itself.

A hovering mass of people wearing black encroaches upon the entrance, attacking from all angles. Everyone who’s anyone and everyone who’s no one is here, myself included. I’m freely willing to admit I have absolutely no business trying to get in. If it weren’t for Lief, I’d be at home, likely writing about the underground boxing match we went to last night and watching The Daily Show.

Lief’s standing outside, wearing a shredded denim Acne jacket and a baseball hat. He drank a 32-ounce margarita before he got here and I can tell he’s feeling rowdy already.

“What’s it looking like?”

“Not good.”

Apparently the five people who were supposed to get us in tonight have all but vanished. So-and-so and this person and that person who does this and said that. Lief keeps looking at the shattered surface of his iPhone. “This is so annoying,” he says.

“I might have to get grimy to make this happen. I don’t want to get grimy,” he says.

“We’re here,” I insist. “Get fucking grimy.”

Fashion week after parties are designed to make you feel like a loser unless you’re actually supposed to be there. The whole act of trying to get into one seems sort of strange. For instance, I don’t try to crash random people’s birthday parties or weddings. And if anyone took issue with it and told me to fuck off, I’d totally understand. But at fashion week, you take your inflated sense of self-worth and imagine that’s currency. That and a pair of really expensive shoes and some good hair. Yes, you think, I might not have a ticket, and I might not be on the guest list, but I am list transcendental.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

Lief and I stand in between two parked cars and assume the affectations of people who think they’re important but clearly are not. If you’re important, you’re inside. Lief groans. I cross my arms. We’re like personified eye-rolls and ho-hums. Lief starts launching into mini tirades about hookups and favors and “Don’t ask me for anything anymores.” I’ve never seen him this annoyed. I think it’s the margarita.

“If you’re on the list, get in the line,” some guy in a black suit repeats from the door. There’s a stronghold of resisters standing on the sidewalk. To get in the line, to barricade oneself between the venue and those horrible silver bars is an admission of defeat, a sacrifice of the little crumbs of ego we have left. On the sidewalk, we are still humans. In between parked cars, we still have power.

I can’t imagine what this whole scene looks like to the security detail. To them, it’s all very black and white: you’re on the list or you’re not, you have a ticket or you don’t. Still, they’re surrounded by cool kids with glittery pants and half-shaved heads, praying to the party gods for a sign of the gray, a glimmer of hope, a breaking of resistance.

The creative director of J.Crew walks past and per the dictates of their corporate culture – the way they interacted with the models like they were human beings, asked our names, looked us in the eyes when they spoke to us when we worked together last week – I say hello and kiss her on both cheeks. She’s with Garance Dore. They both disappear soon after because, well, they’re supposed to be here.

I feel like I’m on Titanic and someone keeps shouting “Women and children first! Women and children first!” and I’m the 75 year old man left to perish on the listing promenade.

Models come up and out of nowhere and slide straight through the crowd like eels, all bones and thin wisps of hair.

“They’ve got a ticket for us,” Lief says, still looking at his phone.

One ticket means one entrance. Lief instructs me to pretend I’m his girlfriend and we’ll probably be okay. Twenty minutes later, our ticket is delivered by Jake. And just as we move off of the sidewalk and into the line for hard tickets, they close down admission. Everything grinds to a halt.

We stand. And wait. And feel a little less loser-y, but we’re still not inside. We’ve been waiting for over an hour.

I’m standing next to some emaciated, French male model version of Robert Pattison and his entourage of cigarette-smoking hip kids when a bass line thuds from inside.

“Is that…” Lief’s ears perk up. White light flickers from the windows of the building onto the façade of the one across the street. “Is that Die Antwoord?”

Now I’m starting to get annoyed. I can hear Yolandi rap on the mic, her voice screeching through the air like a rat caught in a trap. This is just salt in the wound. Everything about this is getting embarrassing – this need to get into a party and dance around strangers, this need to get dressed up and wear shoes that are now making my calves numb. The problem is that when it works, it’s fun. You’ve won some sweet, stupid, superficial victory based on nothing.

The line starts moving again, two by two. They’re only taking hard tickets now, no guest list. Finally Lief and I arrive at a man in a gray suit. “One ticket, one entrance,” he reminds us. We tell him we’ve got a name on the guest list, one we’d been given along with the hard ticket so we could get in. “Sorry,” he says, “we’re not taking the guest list anymore.”

Only one of us is getting in right now. This is like Guest List Gladiator. The man watches on, his eyes relaying zero sympathy or heartfelt desire to keep the team together. Rules are rules. Hard tickets only.

Lief says he’ll wait.

I push the ticket in his hand.

“Don’t do this to me,” he says. “I’m not going to go in.”

“I’m not going to go in either.”

The man continues to watch us argue over who is going to sacrifice the last hour and a half of their life for zero reward and lots of wasted dignity. This is like Sophie’s Fucking Choice right now.

I push the ticket into Lief’s jean jacket. “I’m leaving. You stay.”

And then I walk away, down the street in my Balenciaga heels and my silver shirt, the rain falling lightly again but not enough for an umbrella. There I am, alone in the Financial District: Jenny Bahn, party martyr.


Berlin: Night 3.1


“Are you going to wear your matching jumper?” I ask, standing next to Jonas in my black and white leopard onesie, a patent leather belt wrenched between my ribs and my hipbones.  He laughs and comes back in the room wearing black jeans and a snakeskin tee shirt, a pair of sneakers.

“It’s the best I can do.”

Brannon is waiting outside on the corner while his gas-conscious car idles efficiently.  I sit in the backseat next to Battina in her black pants and her black shirt and her curly blonde hair, a beautiful pair of stingray sandals on her feet.

“Who makes those?”



Our animal print collective walks through the lobby of the SoHo House, passing a spray-painted image of a gnashy-toothed shark with a large signature in the right-hand corner.  Damien Hirst, it reads.  And at first I think they’re just taking a piss and it’s meant to be funny and of course it’s not Damien Hirst, but – upon a little accidental research – it’s apparently real, which is kind of like Damien Hirst taking a piss on everyone else.

Like most everything in Berlin, the building has a storied past.  Originally a Jewish-owned department store, it then became headquarters for the Hitler Youth (of course!).  Later, the Communist Party moved their offices here, where they typed up memos and did communist-y stuff like recite Marxist principles and come up with slogans for the Cold War.

I suppose this whole historical city thing will never fail to impress me because the most iconic buildings in Los Angeles, where I grew up, are places were celebrities have overdosed since the turn of the last century.

And here we have the bungalow where Marilyn Monroe decided life wasn’t worth living anymore…


To the right you’ll see the sidewalk where River Phoenix collapsed from drug-induced heart failure.  Yes, that’s the Viper Room.

We sit on big green sofas, too deep and wide to be comfortable.  I perch on the edge, elbows on knees, trying to talk to the people five feet away from me on the other side of the table.  Vanilla Ice takes my order.  “I’ll have the mint and pea salad,” I say, admiring the way Vanilla Ice has not aged one bit since I was in elementary school and understanding that the music industry is a pretty tough racket and that I’d probably have to return to the restaurant industry while the young kids pirate my music.  Oh wait, that’s not Vanilla Ice, that’s my German server who is sporting a hi-top fade like it’s 1991.

2 Legit 2 Quit!

All of Berlin drowns in the Midas touch as the sun creeps south.  My food arrives, as does the iced coffee I ordered.  This attempt is technically more successful, being as the SoHo House has both ice and soymilk, but I think Vanilla Ice has spiked my beverage with 100 packets of refined sugar.  My tongue recoils with the unfamiliar tang of excessive calories.

“How is it?” Vanilla Ice asks.  He is attentive and dutiful in a way that likely means he would like to have sex with me given the opportunity.

“Really good!”

It’s one of those A-For-Effort situations.  Were I in the US, I’d likely complain, but you can’t complain in a country you don’t speak the language of.  Rules are rules.  You can only be an entitled bitch in the land of your origin.

The plates are cleared and the bill is paid and we walk upstairs to the roof where all of Berlin pools around us, each building illuminated from below like a vaudeville stage act.  Bilious clouds cling to the purple and pink of sunset while everything else succumbs to the bluishness of night.  In the middle of it all, the TV tower senselessly rising out of nowhere.

Jonas’ friends from last night are here.  There’s a newbie here, sitting quiet and stone-faced until I stick out my hand.

“Hi, I’m Jenny.”

“I’m Sugar.”

Sugar’s got a shawl around her broad shoulders, her hair shiny and auburn and wholly immovable.  She just moved here from New York this morning, literally.  She probably just dropped her bags off at her new apartment and came right to the SoHo House.

“How long did you live in New York?” I ask.

“Forever,” she says with that bored, plastic look reserved for socialites and drag queens – a comical, exaggerated flatness.

Both camps pile into the elevators and we take them down the mezzanine where there are ping-pong tables and a foosball something-or-other and a bunch of giant glaring lights that make you feel like you’re playing on an airport tarmac.  Ten of us run around the same table, some using paddles and some just their open palms.  Smack and run and smack and run and then someone fucks up.  Everyone laughs and groans and starts again.  Smack and run.  More laughter under the garish lighting and some of us are clearly better than others, myself not included.




And then someone comes upstairs and tells us we have to be quiet and behaved, which frankly very fun at all.

The only man capable of a Berlin Buzzkill.