FrejArizona: Gun Control
(Photo compliments of Vogue UK January 2014)
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Another makeup shoot.
Behind the camera, instead of in front of it.
Behind the photographer, instead of in front of him.
Arizona booked the campaign. Freja was briefly considered, but once again, they said, “She’s a little too… androgynous for this campaign,” or maybe they went with, “She’s a little too… punk rock for this campaign. Freja is Iggy Pop and we’re looking for, well, ya know, something more in the neighborhood of the female Macklemore.
So they went with Arizona, and Freja went with Arizona to the shoot after a quiet demand, “You haveto be there.”
The reasons why Freja wasn’t supposed to be on the set were so varying and loud that they echoed off every arched ceiling. The piercing assault surround Freja became suffocating. Freja looked over at Arizona and made a hand motion to indicate that she was going to smoke a cigarette out on the deck. Arizona nodded, then went back to listening to the photographer who was instructing her to apply the makeup like “a Native American preparing for battle, except without the genocidal implications.”
Freja knew exactly where everything was on “set” because he had been there before, so many nights. A year into the new decade, Freja had decided she needed something more permanent. She decided this with Abbey. This house that the stupid fucking makeup people chose was the house that FrejAbbey also chose. Freja didn’t feel like her return was a coincidence, but instead a demand made by the universe to close gaps and dispel hypothetical situations that had been reappearing with a troubling frequency lately.
Innumerable nights ended out on this deck, under the moon, under a blanket, with Abbey. As intense as the memories of these nights were for Freja, it was the last time that she was out on this porch with Abbey that she could not escape. That day was stuck in Freja’s mind like a song whose every lyric reminded Freja of the mistake she made.
Time fixed nothing and distance was impossible with Abbey because both she and Freja lived such a nomadic existence the potential to cross paths was always there. Freja never felt safe from the moment she needed and feared.
The man they rented the house from kept the long glass table that Freja last saw Abbey at. It was still on the deck, and Freja sat down, ashing her cigarette on the clear glass. Freja had left so many things behind in this house, and the landlord had kept them, almost like the house was waiting for her return. How easy it would be to step back into this life. No one lives here. They were renting the house out to anyone who had the money. Freja had the money.
The world that Freja and Abbey created together was now being rented for photoshoots. How could two people who looked so good together decide one day that all of this no longer looks right?
Freja looked at her reflection in her phone and felt she looked the same she did the last time she was on this deck. Even the girls that Abbey deemed “the three little pigs” had changed, but Freja hadn’t. Crystal Renn, no longer a pig, was now skinny. Her cheekbones in the right light, reminded Freja of her own. Meanwhile, Tyra was Tyra and there were rumors of Gemma being pregnant so the weight could be blamed on “Kardasianing out” for the pregnancy. Yet it was Abbey who lost the most weight since the last time she was on this deck. Weight that Abbey did not have to spare.
Since leaving this house, everyone had figured it out, besides Freja and Abbey. New mansion. New model. Same regrets. Same model.
Freja flicked her burnt out cigarette butt across the table and instantly triggered a B-horror movie moment. From seemingly nowhere, a white cat dashed onto the table and caught the butt between her paws. It was not the sudden jump that sent a jolt through Freja, it was the fact that this white cat was the same cat that Abbey alleged “followed her home” from Rome.
Abbey’s white cat made the trek from Rome and America, but it didn’t follow Abbey when she moved out. The cat seemed to have agreed with everyone else. This was the perfect home.
Freja reached over and touched Abbey’s pussy for the first time in years.
“What’s the theme?” Abbey asked, pacing her filthy Brooklyn apartment, as Karmen Pedaru absently leafed through a foreign Vogue to see what her friends were up to.
”Punk. The theme. Is punk,” Karmen Pedaru said, a little annoyed because the bitch who played Jen from Dawnsons Creek got the Hedi S. dress so everyone else will have to settle for what some old rich dude thinks ‘punk’ is.
Abbey stopped pacing. “Wait, punk or pink?”
“Punk,” Karmen Pedaru said, then stared down Abbey because she wasn’t sure if Abbey was being bitchy about her accent.
The Met Gala theme… is PUNK.
It was an over used and vague term in the industry.
Even the music industry wasn’t sure who, or what, punk actually was. When something was called ’punk’ someone in the YouTube comments was quick to point out, “YOU STUPID FUCK. THIS IS NOT PUNK THIS IS (Post-Hardcore, Pop-Punk, Screamo, No-Wave, Hardcore, etc…).
Abbey had her band. Bands are punk.
Abbey played the tambourine. Tambourines are not punk.
There was the idea that Abbey was the “most punk tambourine player” but it oddly felt like being the pornstar with the kindest father. There was no sense of accomplishment to it. It felt like an accidental happenstance resulting from the remainder of the sample set being so seriously fucked that it was almost unfair.
”Who are you going with?” Abbey asked, hoping that they would have “punk” dates so the girls could just “Nancy it.”
Karmen Pedaru sighed heavily then said, “Some director guy who made some movie about, I don’t know, something unfair that people passionately agreed was unfair, so I guess the actor in the movie is going to get Leo’s Oscar.”
“That seems unfair to Leo,” Abbey said in a quiet voice.
”Maybe my date will make the movie about it,” Karmen Pedaru said, seemingly unexcited to see this possible movie.
“I’m going to text my agent to see who I have to go with,” Abbey said, picking up her iphone off the coffee table, then texting, “Send me a pic of my date.”
A silent moment passed, then the phone vibrated. Abbey, with a shaking hand, looked at the screen. As though the battery in the phone exploded, Abbey threw the phone onto the sofa next to Karmen Pedaru.
”They set me up with fucking Percy Jackson: The Lightning Thief. No girl has ever said, ‘You know who I wish I could go to a superficial and increasingly hate burdened gala with? Percy Jackson, thief of lightning.’”
Karmen Pedaru picked up the phone, not believing Abbey could be so lucky, and she was right. “Abbey. This is not the lightning thief.”
“Oh!” Abbey said, “Thank God.”
“This is Jack the Giant Slayer,” Karmen Pedaru corrected.
“Kill me,” Abbey begged.
Karmen Pedaru reviewed Abbey then informed her, “He wouldn’t, you’re not tall enough.”
“What did I do to get stuck with such a loser?” Abbey whined.
Deathly serious, Karmen Pedaru told Abbey, “Jack The Giant Slayer is the number 2 movie in box office history in Estonia, right behind John Carter From Mars.”
Abbey crumpled onto the couch and moaned, “This is the shittiest thing to happen to me since that time that I thought I was dating Percy Jackson: Lightning Thief.”
“That was two minutes ago,” Karmen Pedaru reminded her.
2 minutes on the couch turned into 2 hours.
2 hours on the couch turned into 2 days.
After being forced to try on very un-punk gray dresses, Abbey found herself wandering around Chelsea trying to find “punk.”
How could an industry so oblivious to what punk means, actively choose to celebrate it?
Abbey decided that she would be the one to bring punk to the Met Gala. She wanted people to take pictures of her, then add snapchat titles like “we found punk in a punkless place.”
Chelsea populated with women in yoga pants and men with strollers and businessmen with shaved heads, not because they wanted to scare “the man” but instead because they were the man, with male pattern baldness.
Without warning, in this cluster of sheep, punk pushed her way toward Abbey, creating a rift in the ease of the afternoon.
Abbey finally understood what punk was when she saw Freja again, finally.
- It was a woman with a hair cut exactly how she wanted it, even if it cost her jobs.
- It was a woman, her body, a canvas, exactly how she wanted it, even if it cost her jobs.
- It was a woman, her clothes exactly how she wanted them, even if it cost her jobs.
- It was a woman, alone. Like she wanted? Without a job?
Everyone took note of Freja with a curious mix of offense, intrigue, and fear. Freja walked 23rd street the same way she walked a runway and this is how she commanded both locals. This is why Freja repeated in Abbey’s heart like the same three punk cords played aggressively as possible.
Freja didn’t notice Abbey on that street, passing by the frozen and frail girl without so much as a glance. It was then Abbey began to despise her angel white hair that she modeled after that cat on the balcony.
Before the Met Gala, Abbey decided she would dye her hair brown- like it was when Freja knew her so well.
Breaking out of the freeze of hurt, Abbey scurried to the fleeing Freja.
She grabbed Freja’s left bicep while letting out a perky “Hi!” Abbey’s thumb pressed down on the gun on Freja’s arm, and Freja turned to her- not alarmed, but ready.
Or maybe not ready.
Freja’s mouth fell open and Abbey tried to say something, but she was embarrassed at her bubblegum pop voice.
Abbey stared at that face that was so similar to the one that used to lay on the pillow next to hers at night. The image slowly blurred as Abbey held in her tears.
Instead of the song ending abruptly, like a punk song, it merely faded out.
“Oh my gosh, your date banged Jennifer Lawrence!” Wixson cawed at Abbey Lee at the after party for the Met Gala.
”Ew,” was all Abbey could muster. She had failed at bringing punk to the Met Gala, simple because Freja was not there.
Then it hit her. As Abbey was going through her purse, looking for her black eyeliner pencil, Wixon continued talking. ”Jennifer Lawrence is so Middle America that she makes me look like Spike Lee!” Wixson said, pleased that she might be able to snag a big star who is the lead in the single most promising Hollywood franchise about slaying giants.
“Sorry Wix, I’m going to go to the bathroom,” Abbey said, getting up.
“Don’t worry!” Wixson called to the escaping Abbey, “I’m going to go talk to your boyfriend Jack and suggest that in his next movie he slays Karlie.”
When Abbey returned from the bathroom, she was sure that she finally understood the theme of the night. She was ready to steal everyone’s lightning.
Abbey, after only glimpsing Freja, realized what no one else at the after party got.
Punk was about repeating your mistakes, loudly.
Punk was about rallying against the way things are, while offering no solution.
Punk was as much about the envelope as it was about the message inside.
Punk was about turning up the sheer volume of it all until everyone had no choice but to listen.
Abbey could not be silenced, even as she put her gray dress in her mouth.
Repeating the past like a screamed chorus, Abbey reached for Freja’s gun again.
***NOTE: All this was fictional. None of it ever happened, at all. This is all made up and the fact I have to state this makes me hate everyone***
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FrejArizona- Tropico Coming Soon
Arizona opened the door and felt immediate disappointment.
Lana Del Rey had returned.
“Hi Lana,” Arizona said begrudgingly.
“Hello. I, ah, was wondering if Freja was here?” Lana said nervously.
“She’s busy,” Arizona responded. She had been holding a grudge ever since Lana abducted Freja and forced her to tour America in a classic convertible.
“Busy doin’ what?” Lana asked in her airy voice.
“Freja is busy sitting topless in the window, eating fruit,” Arizona said, making it clear that there would not be another kidnapping.
“That certainly does sound like Freja,” Lana responded with a little giggle.
After a short beat, Arizona said, “I’ll tell her you stopped by.”
Lana nodded solemnly, then said, “Before I go, I have a question.”
“I really should be getting this top off so I can go feed Freja strawberries,” Arizona said, pointing back towards the bedroom.
“Arizona, have you ever put your heart into something beautiful, then it becomes so perfect that you refuse to share it with the world?” Lana asked.
The question caught Arizona off guard, but she instantly knew the answer, “Yes. I have,” Arizona said.
“What did you do about it?” Lana asked.
“I think… I hid her. Maybe it was wrong, but it was something I had to do, so, I guess… I didn’t care if it was wrong,” Arizona said, averting her eyes to a fixed point, past Lana.
“You wanted to protect her, right?”
“No,” Arizona said, moving her head back and forth. “No, that’s not it. I think, in the end, I tarnished that beautiful thing by not sharing it. That’s not protection. That’s… something else.”
“So you’re telling me I should release Tropico and I’ll feel better?” Lana asked.
“Hm,” Arizona pondered, “I saw paparazzi pics from the set and you look kinda fat in the so you probably won’t feel better if you release it.”
Lana nodded at this. It’s hard to be called fat, but it helps when the critique comes from a beautiful bisexual fashion model, and not another fat person. “It takes one to know one,” Lana thought. Arizona isn’t fat. She’s not even Daphne G. in late 2012 “alleged” fat. Arizona is skinny, so fat to her is like sex tape Kim Kardashian instead of most people’s standard of fat- present day Kim Kardasian.
Despite the critique, Lana pressed on. “Tropico is just everything I wanted and-“
“-it doesn’t have one of those fucking ten minute interludes where you just say a bunch of shit that sounds like a mix between Native American proverbs, a high school senior’s tumblr text posts, and Haruki Murakami’s retarded cousin’s livejournal does it?”
Lana became immediately silent, “Of course not,” Lana cooed.
“How long is Tropico?” Arizona asked.
“About 40 minutes.”
“Oh fuck off, you’re telling me that there are no monologues in there?” Arizona said, calling Lana out, unwilling to sit and watch another self indulgent fartfest like the “Ride” video.
Lana had to think fast. She was already scheduling re-shoots so that she could eliminate the 15 monologues in Tropico.
“I thought so,” Arizona said, interrupting Lana’s silence.
“There aren’t any!” Lana squeaked. “No monologues. Promise.”
“Then what takes up the forty minutes?” Arizona asked, then arched a perfect eyebrow.
Lana took a deep breath then started listing things, “Albinos. Strippers. Angels. Wizards. Dwarves. Little people who find the term ‘dwarf’ offensive, but are friends with the self-identifying dwarves. Oh, and some of it might take place in the garden of Eden… and South Central LA.”
“At no time did I feel any of those thing you just listed are justified or necessary for the type of video your music demands,” Arizona said, almost impressed at how off course Lana had gotten.
“Oh,” Lana responded, then touched her lips to calm herself. She tried to explain, “When I was writing it-“
“-Oh no,” Arizona sighed, then rested her head on the door frame.
Lana continued, “I was girl far away, yet so close. Home was always mutating, the walls changing colors, and the doorway was a kind stranger’s open arms. The camera was my eyes, the script was my lips, the film was my heart. Some of the film was unusable- too full with holes. Pieces were missing. The editing process was me paring everything down and slicing away at my very being until all that was left is Tropico.”
“Lana you just went into into a pointless monologue about how there are no pointless monologues in Tropico.”
“I was… getting it out of my system?” Lana said. Arizona stared at her. “Like an engine being suffocated by water I attempted to push out the poison from my iro-“
“-Lana! Stop it. Stop. Stop. Stop. You’re like Ginsberg if he was interested in press on nails instead of little boys.”
All of the yelling made Freja leave her post at the window and she walked into the room, holding a plate of strawberries.
Lana realized that this was a sign she had to go. “You’re right, it’s useless. Tropico is going to stay hidden.”
“No,” Freja said, and the room went silent.
Freja let the silence hang, then finally said, “Don’t give up your art. Take it from someone who is constantly revolting against their God given purpose in life, once you start hiding pieces of yourself, you start forgetting where you left them.”
Arizona and Lana stared at Freja for a long time.
The grunge girl princess had paused for a moment and wondered what life would have been like if she never gave up her crown.
“Know what?” Lana responded, “You’re right.”
“You’re going to release Tropico?” Freja asked.
Lana pressed her puffy lips together and nodded.
“When?” Arizona asked.
“Soon,” Lana said, then Arizona slammed the door in her face.
***LEGAL NOTICE: THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. NONE OF THIS SHIT REALLY HAPPENED. LANA HAS PROBABLY SAID THAT STUFF BEFORE, BUT MAYBE SHE DIDN’T, WHO KNOWS. CERTAINLY NOT ME, NOR DO I CLAIM TO KNOW****
If you liked this piece please buy my book Famous For Nothing by T/James Reagan.
FrejArizona: Cat & Mouse
(Authors Note) Sorry I pulled a “total Freja” and disappeared completely for a while. I was working on my novel, but now that it’s been released I can resume chronicling the HIGHLY FICTITIOUS story of fashion’s favorite ”Are they/aren’t they touching each other’s butts?” couple, FrejArizona.
Karl L. summoned Freja to an emergency meeting at the CHANEL Compound (location:classified) (but they sent Freja some Mapquest directions to get there).
Freja agreed to meet on such short notice because Karl had been a wreck ever since his short film “Once Upon A Time" was (harshly) reviewed by YouTube user Brij Mohan. Brij had this to say about Karl’s short film, "This is , so breathe stopping, u feel lost in it.” Karl told Freja that he didn’t eat for days after he read Brij’s review. He also told Freja the review bothered him. “I didn’t want my film to be breathe stopping,” Karl said solemnly, “The film is 18 minutes long, even master magician, Chriss Angel, cannot breathe-stop for 18 minutes. Everyone who has seen my film is probably dead,” Karl lamented. It was almost as though “Once Upon a Time” somehow ended up as a French remake of “The Ring”, or, as the Japanese call it, “Ringu,” or, as that annoying girl in Urban Outfitters calls it, “A movie was actually based on a book you stupid assholes. It was a book. It was a series of books. And mangas. Fuck, you’re all idiots.”
Freja came to Karl’s aid and was immediately greeted by the image of Karl, on a white rug, in a white room. He purred, “Welcome to casa de CHANEL.”
”Aren’t you German?” Freja asked, then just stood there because Karl did not offer her a carpet to get down on. Freja briefly, yet fondly, thought of Arizona.
”I am still German,” Karl said proudly, then immediately added, “But Choupette’s nanny speaks Spanish so I obviously I learned Spanish to make sure she wasn’t saying damaging things to Choupette in a foreign tongue.”
“Is Choupette your new boytoy?” Freja asked, “What happened to Baptiste?”
“I had a life-sized chocolate statue of Baptiste made and I forgot to tell him about it, so when he woke up that morning and he saw the chocolate statue, he thought he was looking in a mirror. Immediately, he was convinced he had been turned to chocolate, and he couldn’t even enjoy eating his arm off because ‘…chocolate will make it impossible to fit in my cutoff jeanshorts,’ he told me. He was right, so I had to put him down,” Karl said regretfully.
“Baptiste is definitely still alive,” Freja said, as she remembered avoiding him at a party Arizona had dragged her along to one breezy summer night.
“Of course he is,” Karl said, then he pressed a gloved fist to his heart, and said, “He’s alive… here.”
“Did you eat chocolate Baptiste after Baptiste convinced you he was made of chocolate?” Freja asked, piecing it together.
Karl swallowed, fixed his sunglasses, then bellowed, "Choupette!"
A white cat that had previously blended into the all white surroundings trotted over happily to Karl.
”Your cat is Choupette?” Freja asked, “Didn’t you mention Choupette has a maid?”
”Yes, only a maid, singular, because we had to let the other maid go. She spoke Russian and I couldn’t find a Russian boytoy to teach me the language so I couldn’t ever been sure what the Russian one was saying about Choupette.”
”Russian boytoys are hard to come by,” Freja confirmed, merely because it was the least ridiculous of statements Karl had made.
“Not only just boytoys, good help is hard to find,” Karl said, probably looking Freja in the eye- Freja couldn’t be sure because Karl’s glasses were so tinted. “I have called you here to help me, Freja,” Karl finally said.
Freja was about to tell Karl she didn’t model anymore, but she was interrupted as Karl proudly proclaimed, “Choupette is a top model.”
Freja wondered how modeling could change so much since she left. Had models been replaced by cats?
Karl, reading the confusion on Freja’s face, continued to explain, “CatFancy teamed up with Models.com to create the MDC Top 50 Cat Models. “Choupette…” Karl said, then briefly choked up, “… was number two on the list. Do you know who was number one?”
Freja considered what she was being told. Was this some sort of list of models… that look like cats… “K-Mitt?” Freja guessed.
“No,” Karl said, “Grumpy Cat beat precious Choupette!”
“What the fuck is Grumpy Cat?” Freja asked.
“My reaction exactly,” Karl said. “I googled Grumpy Cat and he is so ugly he could have walked Marc Jacobs SS14.”
”Why is the cat popular?” Freja asked, confused again.
”Because of his blogworthniess,” Karl said.
”You called me here so I could make your cat a blog?” Freja asked. It seemed like a task better suited for someone with tons of free time and some web design experience, like Coco Rocha.
”No, that is silly, Freja,” Karl said, laughing, “Of course Choupette has a blog already. Her intern runs it.”
”Karl!” Freja said forcefully. “Why the fuck am I here?”
”Together,” Karl said dramatically, “You and I will turn Choupette into a cat burglar.”
”You mean like Oscar winning Halle Berry in Catwoman?”
”Precisely like Oscar winning Halle Berry in Catwoman,” Karl said, excited Freja shared his vision.
”How will Choupette burglarize stuff with no thumbs?” Freja asked. “Oscar winning Halle Berry was so good as Catwoman because she had thumbs.”
”Here’s where you are wrong,” Karl said, then he held up Choupette’s paw. “Her manicurist showed me that she does, in fact, have thumbs.”
Freja visually confirmed that, yes, Choupette did have thumbs like Oscar winning actress Halle Berry.
“What’s our target for the burglary? The fingerless gloves store?” Freja asked sarcastically.
“Those motherfuckers at the “Gloves With Fingers” store put the fingerless glove store out of business,” Karl yelled spitefully, but calmed himself by petting Choupette then saying, "Our target… is The Sunglass Hut."
“How are we breaking in there?” Freja asked. Arizona had been telling Freja how bright the sun had been lately so maybe a gift of some new sunglasses would earn Freja some extra minutes watching Arizona do yoga in the morning.
“We are breaking in, by, I don’t know… taking one of the walls off,” Karl said, simply, “A hut is super easy to break into. It’s like in the top 5 easiest places to break into right after Paris Hilton’s house.”
Freja began to worry about the plan. “You know the Sunglass Hut isn’t a literally hut right?”
Karl looked off into the corner of the room, saying nothing, embarassed.
”It’s sort of like how Amazon doesn’t sell pieces of rainforest or MTV doesn’t play music or John Galliano doesn’t actually design the clothing line John Galliano anymore,” Freja said.
“We will rob the Sunglass Hut no matter how poorly named it is,” Karl decided, and that was that. Moving onto the next topic, Karl said, “You will wear this.”
Freja looked around. “Wear what?” she asked.
Karl snapped his fingers and a distinctly not-German boytoy walked in the room and handed Karl a carefully folded outfit.
Freja’s eyes got wide. “Is that the original costume used in Oscar winning Halle Berry’s film Catwoman?” she asked excitedly.
“No. Better,” Karl said, presenting the garment to his model.
“That’s a rat costume,” Freja said.
Karl nodded at this. “You will be the rat that convinces the cat burglar to enter in the Sunglass Hut.”
Freja looked at Choupette. Freja knew what it felt like to be put on a list, while being judged for the work she did, or, recently, the work she didn’t do.
“Fine,” Freja said, taking the mouse costume, then sliding it on her perfect body.
Karl squealed with glee and produced a camera from out of thin air like he was master magician Chriss Angel. Immediately, Karl started taking pictures of Freja and, instantly, Freja’s instincts returned. Freja’s entire body tingled, and not just because the rat costume was made out of uncomfortable material. In front of the camera again, Freja found a part of herself that she thought had been stolen long ago.
Freja decided that she would do whatever it takes to make Choupette a cat burgler because, in a way, Choupette helped Freja become a model again.
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