The year is 2004, 2005, or 2006, and it is some month that ends with a letter from the alphabet, probably an “r” or a “y” given probability and statistics. I could try to furnish you with a more specific timeframe, but Los Angeles, with its painfully weatherless void and ever-sunny disposition, has robbed my memory of signposts, of welcome signifiers that are imperative to detailed storytelling. While the time might be a blur and the window during which it happened wide, I have clarity of a few arguably more pertinent details:
One, it happened in a parking lot.
Two, he was a massively painful douche.
I was standing outside of my modeling agency, a modern and boxy building off of Sunset Boulevard, minding my own business, which probably involved being bored and fondling a stack of checks, when one of the younger girls came running up to me from a white SUV idling on the street, filled with two male models. She had dark eyes and white teeth and I don’t know how it came up but she told me in passing that one of the boys in the SUV—let’s call him Major Nash, because that’s close enough—told her that we had slept together. Vaguely irritated, I considered telling her that I couldn’t possibly have slept with Major Nash, given every part of his being—from his his piercing blue eyes with nothing behind them, to his cheekbones that were sharper than any thought he had ever cobbled together in that little brain, to his ripped body that was the result of unattractively girlish starvation tactics—effectively served to sew my vagina shut, with no hopes of ever entering. Instead, I spared us both the diatribe and responded simply, “HAHAHAHAHA.”
It has been nearly ten years since Major Nash lied about putting his penis inside of me, and much has changed. I knew he had “gotten into the acting thing,” as most typically attractive people in Los Angles are convinced they should do, with varying degrees of success (most of which could be described with the prefix “un”). The knowledge of his newfound calling was procured by myself, via a pained interaction two years after he allegedly hit it (vagina) and quit it (me), standing next to, unfortunately, another male-model-turned-actor, talking to Major about his first NEW AND EXCITING under-five cameo on The O.C. Far from classically trained, Major was a self-professed savant, and shared with us the secret of his newfound success: “Fuck, man. I just drank a bottle of champagne and went out there and CRUSHED IT.”
I wished him luck through the side of my mouth, though apparently he didn’t need it. Cut to 7 years later: MAJOR NASH IS A SEMI-FAMOUS ACTOR WITH 140k FOLLOWERS ON INSTAGRAM!!!!! (For those who like a limited vocabulary and grammatically incorrect updates about trips to Vegas and what other people eat for lunch, you might be interested in his 124k-strong Twitter account.) His little square boxes are visual gems, artfully taken pictures of him chugging magnums of champers, shots of food that put Martha Stewart’s skills to shame, and features his doting girlfriend, who I’m assuming he actually has sex with and doesn’t have to lie about it. Oh, and did I mention his inspirational quotes? Allow yourself to step back in time, back when you were a developing prepubescent who used to live by inspiring adages like “The true mark of maturity is when somebody hurts you and you try to understand their situation instead of trying to hurt them back.” Now, that’s ironic considering the nature of this piece! Guess I should read more Hallmark cards written for teenage girls before I sit down to write from now on.
What’s disheartening is not that Major Nash is semi-famous. There are, after all, more horrible things going on in the world, like Argentina wallowing in their World Cup failure, albums still being made by Pink, my local subway being shut down all summer. What I find most disheartening, however, is that 140k people have mistaken this person as being interesting enough to bring into their phones on a daily basis, to double-tap pictures of him holding a puppy with one hand (4.1k likes!), rows of Better Made chips procured from an internet ad (1.2k likes!), him sleeping off a hangover next to a can of coke and some Pringles (2.5k likes!!!!). Like! Like! Like! What is wrong with all you people? Is this what life is supposed to look like? Is this what you want your life to look like?
“Don’t you see?” I want to tell them. “Don’t you know? This guy is not your idol! He’s a lying turd with a high school diploma and an IMDB page! Look up to someone that matters!” But, again, I keep my mouth shut, contented with the private knowledge that Major Nash and his Instagram account are proof that the Internet is a lie. Only this time we’re all getting fucked.