Honey M. Barc is a comedian, performance artist and provocateur who lives in Los Angeles.
The Reluctant Hipster: Lust, Love or A.D.D.? (Part I)
I'd just been rejected for a full-time post at a prestigious international photo agency. This place is known for its "art-meets-journalistic integrity" snapshots and portraiture. Its employees are the kind of chic and elegant 25-40-year-olds who used to make a splash at art schools the world over, but now collectively lend their aesthetic to making crappy Web sites look upscale and high-brow. The position for which I was being considered (photo editor) was perfect for me: the hours were from 5 p.m.-12 midnight (which meant I'd be working alone, without distraction). The office was centrally located along L.A.'s Miracle Mile and the job would've afforded me the chance to work in Entertainment, while utilizing my existing skill set. It was a real bummer to be passed over for the gig. Still, the senior photo editor was kind enough to throw some freelance work my way. I would spend two days at the tents during IMG Fashion Week 2008 at Smashbox Studios in Culver City, CA. I received my map and other information pertaining to my assignment via email. I would report to the credentials area at 3 p.m. sharp and phone my contact. The initial instructions also encouraged all freelance editors and photographers to "whip out those old designer duds" and dress to impress. An opportunity to rock my fiercest wares? Why not… Everything was buzzing when I arrived. It was so intimidating. I was nearly struck by a Bentley that I can only imagine belonged to some clueless scenester like Paris Hilton or a Kardashian sister. Teems of dapper homeboys sized me up and decided that I was cute enough to be checked out, but not quite hot enough to make "baby mama." Drag queens sashayed past me like I was street décor. I entered the credentials booth and asked for information about where I should go. The staff had no idea. What's more, I'd left my cell phone at my apartment in a mad dash to get across town on time. Luckily, as I launched into a tirade about needing further assistance, a very attractive man overheard and came to my rescue. "Hey, you're Honey?" he asked. I looked up at him, eyes wide and replied, "Yes?" He smiled, grabbed my shoulder and said, "You're with me." Without missing a beat, he snatched up a handful of passes and asked me to wait outside while he chatted up a couple of publicist girls with obvious boob jobs. As I stood there, relieved, I thought how fortunate I was to have landed a cool gig like this. I was so pleased with myself. I—I lost my train of thought because at that very moment, six-foot-two inches of the hottest piece of man candy I'd laid eyes on in a long while walked up and stood less than a foot away from me. He had a Canon Mark III strapped around his neck. His jeans hung like perfection from his waist and legs. He wore a black, crew neck t-shirt and black Chuck Taylors. Not only that, but dude was the spitting image of Jonathan Rhys-Meyers. I could smell him as the cool ocean breeze wafted his scent of Tide detergent and leather in my direction. Mmmm… I could sense him the way animals sense each other in the wild. Yeah. Even better, when I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, he was already staring at me and smiling back in my direction. I didn't know who he was but I was certainly going to find out... ¤
