As a Yale sophomore, I am constantly wading knee-deep through nagging self-doubt and maddeningly difficult questions. “Do I really want to major in art history?” “What am I doing with my life?” “What does it all mean?” And of course, the most obvious and important of all, “Am I, Bradley Bailey, model material?”
In my opinion, the answer to that last question is yes, a resounding yes, an orgasmically screamed YES. Ever since childhood, I have known that my true destiny was something exceedingly glamorous. I mean, for God’s sake, I was eating glitter and singing Blondie songs practically seconds after I emerged from the womb! Luckily for me, unlike some of those around us who somehow know that they are ridiculously and nauseatingly intelligent, I have factual proof of my brilliance. A published work? A Nobel Prize? Hardly! I possess something way better than any of those: a score of 54 out of 70 on the Barbizon modeling school online quiz! (Sample question: People tell me that I am a hottie:ÊA) Always, B) Sometimes, C) Not as often as I would like, D) Rarely — or my response, E) To the point where it’s almost annoying.)
Let’s be honest here, people are passing out Nobels like Flintstones vitamins. The Oslo Accord’s nothing next to making Joan and Melissa’s best-dressed list. Arafat, call me when you are model material (though I love the whole headscarf thing, very Lacroix).
“Well, jumping Jesus, Bradley, what the hell does it take then?” I can hear your anguished cries now. Sadly, there’s really no easy answer to this question, but thankfully, you have come to the right place. It takes unfaltering dedication to constantly critique yourself. How many of you are concerned about exfoliation during and in between classes? My educated guess, from much scientific observance of all of your pores (yes, I am constantly watching), is about the same number of you who could pull off a snakeskin cat suit on top of the bar at Bungalow 8 with Naomi Campbell — in other words, very, very few. I have learned that to be a veritable walking Vanity Fair cover you have to be resourceful. Learning French is a must, ma cherie — but in the interests of time management, a liberal sprinkling of French into any conversation (example: “Moi loves those Blahniks beaucoup — tres Gwyneth at the Oscars in that nipple dress!”) should do the trick. Always have a bountiful supply of rice cakes and cigarettes on hand, and, if at any time during the day you notice that your “Uma Quotient” (and if you can’t figure that term out, then stop reading now, there is no hope for you in the fashion world — try Middle Eastern politics or something) is lower than it should be, simply press your face against the “Emergency Exfoliation Scratching Post” (more commonly known as “the A&A building”) and you’re good to go, honey! Anyone who’s anyone knows about this architectural marvel — why, just the other day I saw the one and only Vincent Scully, one of the most brilliant minds of our day (and apparently superb model material), giving his epidermis the shakedown on York Street!
I bet you all think that since I have at least this much figured out, it’s all gravy! I’m just a Bulgari’s throw from a Park Avenue penthouse and pillow fights with Madonna, right? Well, you couldn’t be more wrong! Let’s think here, people — I still have to graduate, a fact which creates scores of other problems. For instance, under which distributional group would the Barbizon class “Wardrobe Planning and Accessorizing” fall? How can I tell? Accessorizing is both a science and an art. Will it count for Group IV? And of course, most importantly, can I accelerate? Lord only knows. All I can say is that I had better get on the (disco) ball. I mean, really, I’m not getting any younger here! My “WB Eligibility Quotient” has all but expired!
Bradley Bailey’s cellie rings “99 Luftballoons.” He’ll sing it for you sometime.