Bob and I went to see William Gibson at Powell’s this week. We’ve been to lots of popular readings here so we know the drill. We get there at least an hour early and take turns browsing while one of us saves the seats.
The crowd was total Portlandia and Bob wanted to take a picture of me writing in my notebook with a guy in a kilt in the background.
He took one and showed me the shot and said, “This turned out pretty good.”
Me: (as you read imagine the shrillest voice possible) OMIGOD! I have ten chins in that photo! Look at all those chins! Delete! Delete! Delete!
Him: Sheesh. I’m deleting. Relax already.
He then had to retry several variations while I casually posed with my chin(s) jutted out to minimize their numbers. This one is still a tad chinny but not bad.
You look fine, dear. It’s the cliché in the kilt who should be screaming “deletedeletedelete!”
I’ve learned the trick is to tilt your head up while keeping your mouth closed. It’s a great covert shot.
Hey, Ballard Avenue, don’t be too hard on the kilt. I dress like that! And, Pamela, your photo is lovely. You inherited some fine genes.
Hannah dear, don’t let the cold winds of my disapproval swirl up under those laboriously ironed pleats. Kilts Я Kool! But living breathing 3-D Portlandia clichés? Not so much. However, I will note to his credit that he does not yet sport the ultimate Portlandia kilt accessory—the microbrewed maxi beer gut. With timely intervention, there may still be hope for him.
I see three chins, and only one of them is on you. No worries.
Awesome photo. And I don’t even know what Portlandia is because I am out of it, but not so out of it that I don’t recognize a great shot when I see one.