These chicks are in right now. Like #MonaLisa, #CarrieMulligan, #Louvre, #Drive, trending right now. Maybe Mona’s always trending, like Lady Gaga or weight loss secrets. Carrie on the other hand, I think she’ll have a rich future of trending until she’s at least twenty-nine. Maybe even thirty if she ages well. There’s something to be said for aging well. Look at Mona! Still in the limelight after all of these centuries!
I’ll admit it—Mona Lisa—I don’t get it. I never have. In my youth, I took a class on the subject and all I walked away with was the definition of ubiquitous eyes. Sure, she’s got those. Big deal. Nothing personal Mona, but you just don’t do much for me.
I’ve even seen you a couple times. Granted I didn’t get that close. I couldn’t. Between us there were a lot of Asians. Asians who were heavily armed with long lenses and wanted nothing more in the whole world than two hundred photos of you.
What’s the deal with that anyway? Why would anyone swarm like paparazzi to get a photo of a widely accessible painting? What’s the advantage? Mona wears the same shit everyday. The day you tote your camera to the Louvre isn’t going to miraculously be the day Mona shows up in a bathing suit. You’re not going to catch a “wardrobe malfunction.” And she’s not sliding out of a limo, so if you were hoping for a crotch-shot, your odds are slim.
I hate to disappoint you, but day in, day out, it’s the same drab Mona. She’s not a song and dance girl. No sir. What you see is what you get. Take it or leave it. A lot of people have taken it. I left it.
I didn’t get it so I split, but I’ve since returned. I elbowed through a sea of amateur photogs with phallic like lenses, which were seemingly attached to their faces. And these men, mostly men, they stop, stare. They gawk. We’ve all been there before—stopping and staring.
While were on the subject of gawking…
I saw Carey Mulligan last night—what do you think I was doing? Minding my own business? Checking my email? Listening to my friend’s story about getting a Boston Terrier? Hell no. I was drooling on myself in a dark bar on the corner of Selma and Wilcox.
Do I wish I had whipped out my phone and snapped a quick picture of her? Um, no. Why? Because the world wide web is full of images where she looks better than she did last night. And say for some reason, I was really into low quality pictures of hot chicks—why take one myself when surely there’s some half-night vision, half-POV sex tape of Carey Mulligan and a Portuguese Tuna Canning heir. Which no doubt, is readily available on the vast wasteland I’ve come to know as the internet.
This was the second time in a week Carey and I had been in this situation. Yours truly, drooling on myself, and her, blissfully unaware of my presence. Of course, the first time I was reclined at the Arclight and she was about sixteen feet tall. On the screen, she didn’t look that great. They put a lot of work into making her look shitty, which I’m sure was no easy task. They went with the obvious: ethnically ambiguous son, a criminal husband, a minimum wage job and an oily face.
As I do, I was in the theatre furiously taking notes. Be forewarned, I’m big into the suspension of disbelief. Naturally, I was deep in thought. My prompt: How does one convince Carey Mulligan that we should drive down the LA River whilst listening to synthy jams?
First, the obvious, get a toothpick. Second, get a thrift store jacket with a reptile on the back. After steps one and two, it becomes more complicated. You need to be handy. Under the hood, under the sink, Stanley Kowalski sweating-in-a-wifebeater-handy.
Grease is good. It’ll break down the physical barrier between the two of you when, inevitably after a long day of fixing something arcane, Carey Mulligan has to walk over to thank you. She’ll bring an ice-cold beer, which you’ll thank her for. You’ll take a long pull because you deserve it. Then she’ll laugh and you’ll smile, but you won’t know why. She’ll reach out to wipe the grease, which is perfectly smudged beneath your eye like some sort of relic of your handiwork. Shortly after you share this moment, you’ll consummate the relationship in the thinned-walled room next to where another man’s son sleeps. She’ll tell you to be quiet, but she won’t mean it. The kid will wake up to some greasy stranger nailing his mom through the headboard, but really—who cares?
I will admit Mulligan has certain advantages over La Gioconda. First and foremost, she has eyebrows. Mona, the eyebrowless wonder, looks like a cholita who left her Sharpie at home. Secondly, the hands. My god, have you seen Mona’s hands? They’re meaty and pallid, like two big dead fish slapped across her waist. Lastly, they say there’s something enigmatic about Mona’s look. I usually dig that, but when pitted against Carey Mulligan it becomes complicated. Why? On screen there’s almost nothing complicated about Mulligan. She plays the damsel in distress. She’s a throwback to an era before Beyonce’s anthems of independence. And as Irene, Mulligan is one misogynist’s loving portrayal of the perfect imperfect woman. Bravo, Nicholas. Bravo.
Carey Mulligan 1
Mona Lisa 0