Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Call Me Morbid, Call Me Pale...

I'm distressed about my skin tone.

I've always been "fair." One of the hereditical highlights of being of decidely Northern European ancestry is the pallor of the moors/fjords. My dad is very black Irish, so he tans, but my base skin tone is more of a sort of light furniture beige color, so that doesn't do anything when I go out in the sun. I've noticed that three years in the California sunshine has made me look like Cloris Leachman after a bender. Not so good. How do we solve? Aggressive moisturizing? Scraping? Dermablend? Dermabrasion? I long for the smooth skin of my youth. Would I care about this if I lived anywhere else? Yes, but only if it was NYC. Everywhere else it is a little more acceptable for men to look like their age. Heck, some people even like a man to look his age.

Los Angeles is wonderful, and is not the real world. I'm sure it can be the real world if you do not work in the entertainment industries. The bad rep that the movie industry enjoys - of being a hermetically sealed world of solipsistic assholes - is somewhat warranted, but since we all work 12 hours a day, a little removal from La Vie Quotdienne is to be expected. Where else are colonics lunch conversattion? And a serious conversation at that? There's a Decemberists song about LA, called Los Angleles, I'm Yours. It sums up the constant contradiction of living here with a desire for "real life" while not being able to lose sight of the essential cotton candy of it all.

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