I’m Gonna Be A Supermodel

Why I came to Japan is a frequently asked question. Self-promotion is an unspoken response. I wanted to try modeling. Only in Tokyo does any Western geek off the street have the potential to grace subway advertisements for suits or sports drinks. Western actors pop up in Japanese commercials and as extras on game shows, as objects of desire in the former, and of ridicule in the latter.

With a proper visa, fame was mine for the making. Here, my looks have been likened to Tom Cruise, Keanu Reeves, Ross from “Friends,” Brandon from “90210,” and Formula One’s Michael Schumacher. Then again, until recently the Japanese didn’t have a word for green, and continue to say blue traffic light and blue apple. Thus, their visual assessments are to be taken with a grain of shio and some sake.

Eager to test the market, I registered with casting and modeling agencies for television, film, commercials, and print work. Agency names ranged from insipid (Japan Fashion Model Center) to nonsensical (Ooh Planning) to tawdry (Hot Kicks Dance Agency & Tu Tu Telegram) to mysterious (Prestige Inc., Creamy Division) to mysteriously threatening (Land Mazi).

Registration required planning on the level of a military invasion. Some agencies only processed new talent during certain hours of certain days. Others required advance appointments. All were scattered around town, hidden on nameless side streets or alleyways. Even the most prominent agencies had offices smaller and more unassuming than a New York pizza parlor. To locate them, I struggled with typically vague Tokyo directions.

I was nervous. I didn’t have a portfolio. Would I be shown the door before I could pay the registration fee? Prior experience was limited to a sportswear shoot for a Korean magazine while in Guam. I also claimed fame to gracing the cover of a leading automotive magazine. In reality, however, the free promotional Jeep picture (below) was taken while on a lunch break in New York City. Can you spot the brown bag?

I geared up for my first two agencies, Excite and Apex. Aware that snapshots would be taken, I wore a blue and white striped Abercrombie polo and tight Diesel jeans. For footwear, it had to be the Pumas. I strode off with one white on blue sneaker, and one blue on white sneaker, perfectly matching my polo.

No more second-guessing myself – it was show time. Outside humidity cooked up beads of sweat that soaked my back. I shrugged off subway stares, all of which landed at my fashionably mixed feet.

On a tiny street lined with expensive cars, I located Excite’s office in the Maison de Rose building. I rang the bell. “Hai!” echoed from inside. Huh? Barge in, or wait for someone to open the door? I rang again. “HAIIII!” I barged in. My experiment in footwear design was immediately neutralized. I checked my Pumas at the door, and slid into oversized slippers. Four young workers hacked away silently in the one-room office. I filled out a form and left in search of Apex.

Other agencies proved more receptive. I walked into Hollywood Models, and Jun stared as if I had walked out of an Esquire spread. Such awe rarely occurs, but when it does I can spot it in the focused eyes and suppressed grin. I smiled back at her exotic looks, which I judged to be a Japanese mix. While she took my measurements, we argued about the color of her brown hair. Jun discredited herself by also calling my brown hair black. I wanted to ask if I could have a bite of her blue apple.

Carrie, while not in awe, was friendly and fluent. She studied music at Northern Texas University. She added that she was not a fan of Bush, nor were her “dope-smoking” college friends. We found further common ground in our love for baseball, and talked about A-Rod, a former Texas Ranger. I invited her to a Yakult Swallows game for which I had just purchased a ticket at Jingu Stadium down the road.

That gave me the idea to invite Jun, too, but she only followed MLB. Unable to recall her favorite team, she admitted to only liking one player. On the Mets…he’s black. I dropped names until outfielder Mike Cameron struck a cord: “he’s very attractive.”

At Future Talent, the atmosphere was electric. Manager Marilyn waived me inside. She mothered talents through a headset. “If you get the job, it’s more than ¥200,000 ($1,900)…try honey, try. If you don’t try, you won’t get anything.” To another she encouraged, “Oh honey, I just know you are going to get the job.” She ended one call with, “Stay out of the sun – it’s hot today. Love you, bye-bye.”

Business was booming. Marilyn fused three languages during a single call. In demand were a young father type, “wild girls,” and sporty looks – athletic skill not required. “Audition October one. Shooting six, seven. Please call me back if you can make it.” Marilyn was glued to the headset the whole time; an assistant fed me orange juice and took my measurements. I learned I have nice round hips (100 cm.).

Over two humid August weeks I registered with 13 agencies. I’ve since memorized my bust size, trouser inseam, and sleeve length in centimeters. Would the running around pay off? It took less than a week to get my first audition call…[to be continued].