Another two weeks, another chapter of Modelland.
This thing, it’s taking me so long to get through a chapter. I pick it up, I mean to read like a hundred pages, and then I can’t go three pages without saying, “Okay, that’s just fucking stupid.” And then I have to put the book down and eat an entire Freschetta pizza by myself and use the diarrhea time to think about my life and what it’s become.
Anyway, this chapter sees the reappearance of one of my favorite characters, Wingtip.
Yes, Wingtip is a character who is a magical black man bum. At least, I’m pretty sure he’s black, but if he’s not, then he’s a white magical black man.
You all know about the magical black man, right?
Originally called the Magical Negro, this is a character who has a lower social status of some kind, shows up, helps a white character, and has some kind of magical power and dispenses a whole lotta homespun wisdom. Your Baggers Vance, if you will.
I suppose the one way in which Wingtip falls short is that he’s advising Tookie, who I assume is black because I assume that Tyra is too out of it to create this whole different world and then make different races and stuff.
This is always something that bothers me in fictions about other worlds. Like Gears of War. Your best friend is Dom, who is clearly Hispanic. And yet this game takes place on an Earth with countries that are not analogous to our own. Am I to understand that this totally other world developed a Mexico of sorts, from which Mexican people came, and those Mexican people developed almost exactly parallel to those we know? How does that make any sense? I mean, sure, the sombrero makes sense because you have to keep the near-equatorial sun off your body. But the language? The name “Maria”? How does that work?
Modelland is supposed to be this crazy-ass world, but it seems like black and white people are pretty much black and white people. Am I to understand this an Earth of the far future where technology has gone backwards and isn’t even up to its current level? Where is Modelland, time-and-space-wise?
ANYWAY, Wingtip. Wingtip is a homeless dude that gives Tookie some advice. And she calls him Wingtip because he wears wingtip shoes.
Remember, Tookie’s a creative type.
Wingtip had some VERY wise words for Tookie earlier: Dream big. Even you.
Wow. Bravo. It’s baffling that you’re homeless with a wit like that. What size would you advise people to dream, in general? Small? Moderate? Ah, big. Brilliant. I am learning much of things from your wise words, Wingtip.
That’s Wingtip. I suspect we haven’t seen the last of Wingtip.
Hopefully we’ve seen the last of Tookie’s parents, however, as the scout takes Tookie away to Modelland. Yes, the scout scoops up Tookie in what I can only describe as a cross between Santa’s bag and an enormous, gossamer scrotum. Destination: Modelland.
Or at least, Destination: Modelland: Eventually.
Because first we have to stop and pick up some other girls.
Which brings us to Bou-Big-Tique Nation.
Seriously, stop reading this and just type that name. Everything in this book, the hardest shit to type.
BBT Nation is a place where it appears the country is a giant store. Like a huge mall. Like my dreams as a 14 year-old, a mall you could live in instead of just sleazing around a few hours every weekend, playing Captain America & The Avengers when you had enough quarters to maybe finish it.
BBT Nation is a giant store, and some tossed-off dialogue makes it sound like the babies are raised on wombat milk because why the hell not. Just spin a wheel that has animals on it and that’s the kind of milk the babies will be raised on. Because it’s a giant mall, so it only makes sense that wombat milk plays a part. Jesus fucking christ.
We meet Dylan. Dylan’s notable features are a big ass and the sass to match (by which I mean “a lot of it.” My apologies to mousy people who have big asses). Her other distinguishing feature is that she has an accent that goes in and out worse than Heather Graham’s in O’ Pioneers. One minute Dylan sounds like maybe a southern belle(?), the next a sassy aunt from a UPN sitcom(?), and the next there appears to be no accent at all.
Oh, and Dylan DOES have a catch phrase she uses twice in the first two pages we see her: Cuh-ray-zee.
Good one. That’s right up there with Joey Lawrence’s “Whoa” in terms of craft. I’ll never forget Dylan’s cuh-ray-zie and the way she said it her in SouthernBelle/SassyAunt/None accent.
Dylan is like Tookie in one significant way, which is that she seemingly does not give a fuck about Modelland. She’s not actually parading around for The Day of Discovery, just stopping a fight between some other girls. I strongly suspect we’re going to be subjected to a message of some kind here. About what’s REALLY important being inside. Or more accurately, that what’s really important is inside, but it’s also very helpful if what it’s inside of is a curvaceous butt.
Which ends this next section, thank fuck.
It didn’t really hit me before, but there’s something fundamentally stupid about Modelland that we haven’t discussed.
It seems that we’re learning a lesson about inner, non-traditional beauty. There are many ways in which this could be discussed and elaborated upon, especially considering that we’ve got an entire fictional world. And the way we’re learning about inner, non-traditional beauty in this book is through the lens of outer, traditional beauty.
I guess I don’t get it. I don’t get why girls who don’t aspire to model are going to learn the value of their inner beauty through the medium of modeling, an industry that’s 100% about outer beauty. I don’t understand the value of having a stuck-up, overall shitty industry accept your looks as being something valuable.
It’s sort of this thing about how beauty comes in all shapes and sizes. Which it totally does, and I don’t know why we’re looking to the fashion industry to validate that fact.
The fashion industry brings us shit like this, Scorpion From Mortal Kombat:
Or this, First Orthodontic Appointment Where I Can See Your Wang Chic:
Or this, Accordion To Jim’s Pants:
When you look up a plus-size model, you see this:
I mean, she’s not a waif, but she’s a pretty goddamn long way from CHUD status.
Hell, she’s not even John Goodman in CHUD.
The point is, the fashion industry is based on insane, bizarre, and unrealistic beauty standards. And I’m kind of the opinion that we let the crazies have it. Let those weirdos do their dumb shit, and those of us who spend less than $1000 on a pair of jeans will find our own fashion icons, thanks.
I mean, look at this fucker! Is this who I’m supposed to take advice from when it comes to looking good? Techno Dracula?
Look, if you enter a chili cookoff, it’s like a fashion show. But with farts. Actually, I bet fashion shows have farts too, so just kidding.
Enter a chili cookoff, and there’s plenty of room for different taste, but in the end there’s a chili that’s selected as being the best. And we pick it and move on, and it does’t matter if the lady who brought Chili X is a good person inside. If her chili isn’t great, it’s not great, and she’s also not a bad person. Sure, she could have spent more time on the name instead of calling it Chili X. That was pretty lazy. But when you’re not first place in an unimportant ranking, who gives a shit?
Let me try and more succintly summarize what’s going on in Modelland and how chili farts relate.
Tookie is learning that she is beautiful too even though she doesn’t conform to traditional beauty standards, which, I guess, are shared between the world of this book and our own. But the thing is, she’s ACTUALLY, OBJECTIVELY beautiful. So rather than conveying the message that beauty can look different or that inner beauty is important, what we’re getting from this book is the message that hopefully you’re beautiful and you just weren’t really aware of it. Which is not something I’m sure exists. I don’t know how many super-attractive people out there are unaware of their attractiveness. Yes, sometimes they don’t FEEL attractive, but for the most part, I think they notice that OTHERS find them attractive.
So I guess the secondary message for uggos out there is…sorry you’re not hot? I mean, check and make sure you’re not secretly hot, but you probably aren’t? If you’re wearing overalls and a ponytail and weird glasses, maybe have a mean-spirited boy make a bet with his friends as to whether he can make you prom queen, and then he’ll transform you as much as possible, and then when you go to the prom you’ll know whether or not you’re hot based on whether someone dumps gallons of pig’s blood on you?
And who knows, maybe it’ll turn out you were hot all along and just needed to be convinced. Maybe you’ll be whisked away to a far-off land in a gossamer ballsack, at which point you’ll figure out just how hot you are.