Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Brad Pitt Examines The Perfection Of His Naked Body

Brad Pitt stepped out of the 300 square-foot room that was constructed of pink and yellow crystal granite rocks jutting out from the sides, the flooring made of one large piece of blue slate. The room had four shower heads, and was a work in progress in Brad's Santa Barbara house perched on an ocean-front hill north of the city. The house was small, and Brad used it to hide out and read screenplays. He found that getting out of Los Angeles and away from the hub bub of the entertainment business was essential for him to analyze scripts. His agent, of course, winnowed down the number of submissions received, maybe a few hundred a month, to maybe a dozen scripts. But still, a dozen screenplays was over a thousand pages of reading, and Brad Pitt needed the isolation of his little house north of Santa Barbara.

The large window in the very large bathroom that included the very very large shower faced the Pacific Ocean. The window was irregular, sort of like a contorted porthole, and the glass was hand-cut to fit the unusual opening formed by the same pink and yellow granite that walled the shower Brad just stepped out of. It was not even 7:00 AM, and the morning light turned the quiet Pacific water into a deep blue. There were a few fishing boats with their long stationary angled-up rods on the water, one motor yacht, maybe 90 feet in length, and some early morning joggers on the thin beach below.
Brad grabbed a white towel and started to dry himself when he caught his image in the full-length mirror on the wall. Many assume that Brad Pitt was like most male movie stars: short. But Brad Pitt was not short. He was a tad over six feet, and this came as a surprise to people when they first met him. He was tall and lean and muscular. Not too muscular, just right, thought Brad Pitt as he examined his naked body in the full-length mirror. Damn, he looked good. And at his age; over forty years. It was like time had stopped. He worked hard at his body, but he played hard too, which made him work even harder. But all this hard work and hard play paid off with big paychecks and a nearly perfect body.
Brad thought 'nearly' perfect, but he really could not find a single flaw, not one thing wrong with his body. So he placed 'nearly' in front of 'perfect' as a tip of his hat to humility. His humility, Brad thought, was all part of his perfection.

That was the problem with women. Women always had imperfections. And even when Brad couldn't necessarily articulate what the imperfections were, they were there, in plain site. His ex-wife, Jennifer Aniston, was imperfect in so many ways, but at the moment he couldn't think of what they were. Actually, Brad Pitt was missing Jennifer, and the news of her relationship with Vince Vaughn made Brad miss Jennifer that much more. Jennifer was perfectly — perfectly—? Perfectly plain. That was her imperfection.

But perfectly plain at the moment was something Brad wanted. He was exhausted from the African trip, the whole baby thing was like this weird dream. Spending a month on the West African coast with the woman everyone thought was the sexiest and most beautiful woman on the planet Earth was one long whacked-out experience. In fact, he had started to grow tired of the whirl of intensity that surrounded Angelina Jolie, and how the African birth circus was orchestrated, orchestrated entirely by Angelina even though she made Brad feel that he was totally involved. Yeah right.

But he wasn't involved. But he didn’t know it until he was stuck in Africa. And of course, once there, he had to stay. The woman he got pregnant was giving birth. he had to stay. If he had left, it would have stained his reputation. A small one, he figured, but still a stain.

Africa was too surreal to even be remotely real. Jennifer was real. Jennifer was so real, that Brad hungered to hold her hands and give her a hug. With Angelina, Brad always felt that the physical contact was staged for and by some master director inside Angelina's brain. Brad felt that there was someone else in the room when Brad and Angelina made love. When Brad told an old friend these thoughts, his friend told Brad that it was God in the room: "Angelina was made by God, and so God wants to see his creations in action," Brad's friend said.

Brad finished toweling himself down and stood straight in front of the mirror. He imagined Jennifer with him, standing next to his naked body, Jennifer wearing a sun dress with her perfect legs, her feet bare, her arms crossed in front of her not so large but not so small breasts, her beautiful hands, and fingers wrapped around her biceps. And Jennifer's hair; Brad imagined Jennifer's hair a mess, like they had just made love and Jenn tossed the sun dress on fast and they were going to start their day together.
Brad blinked and Jennifer disappeared. He was alone. With his perfect body and over a thousand pages to read.

Jennifer Aniston Examines Her Naked Body

Jennifer Aniston stood in front of the full-length mirror in her white marble bathroom that had a commanding view of Lake Michigan through the 44th floor window of her Chicago condominium. The building was mostly glass, or appeared that way, and was along Lake Shore Drive. There were a few small sailboats on the lake and a freight-container ship on the horizon. It was morning, not 7:00 AM yet, and the light made the Lake water almost aqua. Upon entering the bathroom, one immediately noticed the Lake view through the large window. But if one entered at this moment, they would also notice the naked Jennifer Aniston standing at a mirror examining her body.

Jennifer was alone. The mirror was along the west wall of the white marble room that contained two under-mounted oval sinks with chrome fixtures. The white toilet was along the east wall. The full length mirror which was occupying Angelina's attention was nestled between sink counter and the wall that faced the Lake.

Jennifer did not like this view of herself. Indeed, naked views were always the most revealing. Jennifer looked good in clothes, even in street nothings she looked good, with her hair and that smile. But the mirror reflecting her naked body screamed plain. Plain. Just plain. Nothing special. Nothing spectacular. Two arms, two breasts, a waist, hips and legs. Not like Brad Pitt's new woman, Angelina Jolie.

Jennifer kept flashing Angelina Jolie's image in her mind. Angelina was a woman, a full-bodied gorgeous creature who was graced by god with perfection, a kind of beauty that pulled attention to it without effort. It had apparently pulled Jennifer's husband away as well.

But here in front of Jennifer was the image of Jennifer’s body that pulled no attention. Jennifer Aniston could almost understand Brad's plight. He had no control. Brad was married to the epitome of plain, a woman with a body that was assembled on an assembly line with union labor with no attention to detail, a Chevrolet or Ford, the garden variety type; but Brad Pitt did not see himself inside a Chevy or a Ford. He wanted to be inside a Bugatti or a Maybach. Jennifer the Chevy. Angelina the Bugatti. What man wouldn't have made the decision that Brad made.

Jennifer Aniston looked back at her body in the mirror and thought of a New York Times critic who called her acting 'one note.' So there you go. Her body is plain, her acting is one note; she had even somehow found herself in what she considered a small apartment in the middle of America, which this morning seemed ordinary. Of course, Jennifer knew that this was a special place, an expensive apartment with an outstanding view, a residence that almost anyone but Saudi royalty would consider special.

Jennifer knew this, on some level. But one has to go with their feelings, and at this moment, at this early morning moment with the morning light hitting the clean Lake water of Michigan, the tiny water ripples reflecting ever-changing sparkles, the air conditioning blowing cool air with a hum out of the ceiling vent, the white marble under her freshly showered feet, Jennifer Aniston was feeling, deeply feeling nowhere, almost like all the money and all the attention was compensation for a big lie. Jennifer was nothing special, deserving of nothing more than the paychecks of the team of union workers who assembled her Chevy body.

And then it hit her. She looked up and saw her body, glanced out at the Lake, took a deep breath of the cool conditioned air, grabbed her round breasts and thought that she was lucky. Afterall, what plain girl has as much as her. She was where she was because despite the Chevy beginnings she was living a Bugatti life.

Luck. It was luck, and it felt good. There is a god. Well, maybe there's a god, she hoped. But there was certainly a lucky girl standing in front of that mirror. Jennifer was going to get dressed and make herself a pot of coffee. A new day. She winked. At herself. Jennifer Aniston decided she preferred Chevys. Chevys were American. Jennifer was American. And she was in Chicago. You can't get any more American than that.

Angelina Jolie Examines The Flaws Of Her Naked Body

Angelina Jolie stood in front of the full-length mirror in her black granite bathroom that had a commanding view of the Pacific Ocean through the wall that was entirely made of bullet-proof glass. The stone house was perched high on a cliff, and the vista though the wall of glass included a few distant sailboats and one oil tanker on the horizon. It was morning, not 7:00 AM yet, and the light made the Pacific water look almost purple. To enter the bathroom is to absorb a sense of awe at the glass wall, the great expanse of the Earth's largest body of water. But if one entered at this moment, they would also absorb a sense of awe at the naked Angelina Jolie standing at a mirror examining her body.

Angelina was alone. The mirror was along the north wall of the black granite room that contained four under-mounted rectangular sinks with brushed nickel fixtures. The black toilet and adjacent black bidet were along the south wall. The full length mirror which was occupying Angelina's attention was nestled between the two counters, each containing two of the four sinks.

Angelina did not like this view of herself. Indeed, naked views were always the most revealing. One could not hide flaws behind designer clothes and tight fitting undergarments that shaped one's outward appearance. Here, in the privacy of her southern California bathroom, Angelina saw what most did not see.

She saw her very long and thin legs. Check. That was good.

She saw her very long and thin arms. Check. That was good.

She saw her long neck. Check. That was good.

She saw her porcelain complexion. Check. That was good (though the pregnancy had caused some blemishes. Minor. Not a worry.)

She saw her face. A total big check. That was the best thing going. So everyone said. Who was she to disagree.

But then she saw the middle, the part few ever saw, the part that was so cleverly disguised by the distractions of long legs and a beautiful face. The middle was short, the distance from hips to shoulders was too short for the length of her legs and arms. In addition, her middle was soft. There was no six-pack of muscles, now definition at all, actually. She was soft, as she had always been. When she lost weight, the weight would come off everywhere but the middle. The middle only gave up fat when she starved herself. And since she just gave birth, her middle was softer than usual.

Now the bad part. The breasts sagged. They were very large and hung down. This was not due to age, just body type. And the breasts enhanced the impression that Angelina's middle was big. They, the two large breasts that is, were soft as well. Very soft. Angelina had thought of breast reduction surgery, but she decided against it, having a visceral reaction against any plastic surgery.

So there she was in one of the most outstanding bathrooms on the planet Earth with one of the most commanding views money could buy, and she was focused on what anyone in Western world would be focused on if they were in that bathroom with her. Angelina's naked body.

Brad Pitt had noticed her body as well. Angelina knew that Jennifer Aniston's body was actually better proportioned than hers. Aniston's body had the more pleasing esthetic, and in the nude, Aniston's middle was just the right size and shape for her legs and arms. Angelina had Aniston beat on the face front. Sort of. She had guessed, and was ashamed to admit that she even thought about such things. But Angelina had seen Brad examine the Angelina Jolie body. Brad betrayed a certain minor disgust at the large soft middle, though he denied it when Angelina poked fun at him without betraying her own actual concern for Brad Pitt's opinion on the matter.

Why did she care? Well, she said to herself, she cared because of the baby. She cared because she wanted a normal family. And she wanted it to remain that way. Angelina Jolie anted Brad Pit and her to remain together. Fat chance, right, in Hollywood. Brad had already started to act ever so slightly distant since they returned to Los Angeles. And she overheard a conversation Brad had with Jennifer Aniston that was a little too comfortable for her taste.

Mirrors. Damn mirrors. They made you paranoid. What was she worried about. She was gorgeous. Soft in the middle. Big deal. The hell with it. She was healthy. She had a good attitude. Certainly healthier than the chain-smoking Jennifer Aniston. And Angelina was diving back into her work. Her work. Her baby. Her beautiful view. Her beautiful bathroom. Her beautiful life. No complaints.
Angelina gave herself a wink. It was a twenty-million dollar wink. Roll the cameras. Let's get back to work. Give her a note. Give her some direction. She’ll make the scene work. She’ll make it work.