“I’ve sworn off caffeine, Reed. I’m teaching myself how to relax by deep-sea visualization. I’m avoiding the urge to check my voice mail on a half-hourly basis. I’m hugging people left and right. And look.” I reach under my CK T-shirt. “My new tranquility beads.”
“Far out, baby,” Reed wails, clapping his hands together.
Looking into the camera, I say, “I’ve been to Radu and Pasquale Manocchia-that’s Madonna’s personal trainer, by the way, baby – and Reed is definitely the first name in celebrity training.”
“I have an obsession with biceps and tricepts, with forearm flexors,” Reed admits sheepishly. “I have a major sinewy-arm fetish.”
“I have the endurance of a horse but my blood sugar’s low and I need a Jolly Rancher badly.”
“After the next song,” Reed says, clapping endlessly. “Powerbar time, I promise.”
Suddenly Primal Scream’s “Come Together” blares out over the sound system. “Oh god,” I moan. “This song is eight minutes and four seconds long.”
“How do you know things like that?” the Details girl asks.
“The better you look, baby, the more you see,” I pant. “Dat’s my motto, homegirl.”
-Bret Easton Ellis, Glamorama
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No. 2, the cat’s (eye-)balls, has my vote for WIN. Some of the others remind me of that iconic scene in Un Chien Andalou. Though I’m feeling a little queasy I can’t stop looking…