Holly Randall

Disenchanted Kingdom

escomadmin — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 18:25:00 GMT

Leave it to me to turn a trip to Disneyland into a depressing reminder of how far behind me my childhood really is. As my friend Christopher paid for our entrance and the clerk handed us our tickets—or as she called them, “keys to the magical kingdom”—I should have been looking forward to visiting an amusement park that I had not been to since I was about 10 years old. And I was excited, but this excitement was mixed with a profound sense of disappointment that I could not enjoy “the happiest place on Earth” without remembering how much happier it was 20 years ago, before adulthood stole the rose-colored glasses I saw the world with as a little girl.

As I walked down Main Street, the stores seemed to scream greed and commercialism with their overpriced products. When I bought ice cream from the middle-aged woman at the corner stand, all I could do was imagine her miserable existence in a dirty apartment with cheap linoleum floors, peeling wallpaper, and too many cats. Those dressed up in Mickey Mouse costumes were probably angst-ridden teenagers, sweating profusely in their stuffy getups and glaring at the surrounding children through their smiling masks. And the girl that sang in a fake Mardi Gras band was probably counting down the days until she could once again stand in an eight-hour line for American Idol tryouts, only to once again be rejected and sent back to this mortifying job of singing at an amusement park for disinterested tourists. Oh yes, I was sure that everyone around me was as disillusioned with this place as I was... and I’d only arrived about 20 minutes prior.

I took this attitude with me as we climbed into the seats for our first ride, Pirates of the Caribbean. This used to be my favorite ride; as a child, I really felt like I was sailing the high seas, witness to a chaotic yet exotic and thrilling world. Now it was not the same. As much as I admired the lifelike qualities of the animated human figures, instead of imagining them as real, I questioned what kind of material they made the skin of. As I gazed around the dimly lit tunnel, I wondered how often they had to clean the ride, how they did it, and at what times they could do so. How different the ride must look with all the lights on! I was just about to turn to my friend and ask him if he thought the water was heavily chlorinated when I realized that the ride had come to an end. I was quickly ushered out of my seat by an angry man dressed as a pirate, irritated that I did not move fast enough to make room for some people who might actually appreciate the ride.

Next was the Haunted House. This ride used to be a close second to Pirates, and it had truly frightened me as a kid. It begins with those in line crowding into a circular elevator. The lights dim, a spooky voice echoes over the loudspeaker, and the elevator begins to descend. Once we hit the bottom, the room turned pitch black and the sound of thunder was loud and sudden. This time, as kids all around me screamed, and a little girl next to me began to cry, I rolled my eyes—is this really an appropriate ride for children? And why do we have to be crammed into this room like sardines?

It was the same experience for me as Pirates: Instead of enjoying the spectacle, I considered the technical logistics that went into making the ride. I remembered how impressive the ride was when I was 10 years old and compared that to my current disposition of unmoved disenchantment. It was depressing.
Not all the rides were as gloomy. Space Mountain was just as—if not more—fun as I’d remembered. Yes, there was a brief moment that I considered what the jolting might be doing to my back, but that was soon cancelled out by the pure exhilaration of being catapulted through complete darkness. Only on the fast and jostling rollercoaster rides could I be physically shaken out of my slump and forced to have a good time.

As time passed, I allowed myself to let go of the expectations I knew were unreasonable, and I began to enjoy myself. But I wasn’t completely immune to the intermittent attacks of sad nostalgia. The last one came when Christopher and I, on our way out, visited the princess store to buy presents for my friend’s five-year-old daughter and his one-year-old twin nieces. As I gazed around the room, I noticed several fairy-tale couples painted on the walls: Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty, all with their perfect, smiling princes.
Christopher was standing beside me, looking up at the figures as well. “This is what’s wrong with women!” I exclaimed. “We’re raised on these fairy tales where we’re supposed to be rescued by Prince Charming, who is going to bring to us the happiness we were never able to have on our own. I spent a long time waiting for the guy to save me from myself, someone who would fix my life and make me happy. I finally learned that nobody was coming to rescue me, and only I could save myself. I firmly believe that you have to build your own happiness without a man, and then when you do meet someone, he adds to your life, but doesn’t necessarily define it.”

Christopher agreed, adding: “Well, also for men, it sets up this unrealistic ideal we are supposed to live up to. I’m far from perfect—how am I ever supposed to measure up to Prince Charming?”
As much as I agreed with him and believed in my own feminist political statement, I was still drawn to the glittery girlishness of the souvenirs that surrounded me. I picked out a beautiful, opulent blue dress, decked in sparkles and matched by a shimmering tiara. I held it up against me and stood in front of the floor-length mirror. If I bent my knees a bit and squinted my eyes just right, I could almost see the little girl I used to be staring back. I smiled at her. Perhaps she was still there, hidden somewhere among the cynicism, distrust, and worry that cluttered my life.

I know I cannot bring that little girl back out today. But that’s OK, because she will wait, dormant, deep inside of me. She will be patient, because she knows what can bring her back to life. When I am able to revisit Disneyland as a mother, I think that she will re-emerge amidst the laughter and the wonder that the children I hope to have someday will experience here. I think that then, through the eyes of my children, I will once again believe in Disneyland as the happiest place on Earth.

Shooting Gianna

hollyrandall — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 17:23:00 GMT

Shooting Gianna Michaels was a step in the right direction, as it was a step towards producing content for the internet, as opposed to shooting for our magazine clients. A very popular and highly searched for girl online, she’s a girl known for her natural DD breasts and her enthusiastic gonzo boy/girl scenes. She was not the typical blonde and skinny girl that seemed to have become a very boring Randall standard, and I didn’t really have any commissions on her from any magazine clients. But my webmaster had been bugging me to shoot her for ages, as he knew she would bring in some good traffic for my site. And I’m glad I listened this time.

It’s been a difficult transition for me, and especially for my parents, in this new and internet-driven market. Usually, we only book girls that are a possible sale for many of the adult magazines that we shoot for. My webmaster has been encouraging us to stop thinking so much about this shrinking market, where we have to shoot long sets for editorial reasons, and thus are able to usually only get about two sets in one day. But if our shoots are internet driven, I can get as much as five smaller sets in one day, plus video.

I liken changing my parents’ way of running things to turning around the Titanic—it’s a long and arduous process. After more than 30 years of running things a certain way, it must be really difficult to shift your thinking process into a whole different arena. I’ve been pushing for more location shoots, as it’s easier for me to change up looks there than it is in the studio, and that’s been a difficult sale. My mother has a theory that we have to shoot brand-new girls in the studio first, so we can light them properly and see how they model. But in the age of digital photography and Photoshop, we don’t have to worry about the little flaws that Suze would spend so much time in the studio trying to compensate for with lighting and clothing. It’s difficult to get her to accept that stretch marks, which take an extra 20 minutes to hide with lighting and fabric draping, can be fixed in Photoshop in a matter of two minutes. Her ability to manage these issues in camera is surely one of the things that makes my mother such a great photographer, but it’s almost unnecessary now. Oddly enough, that seems to frustrate her rather than relieve her.

So back to Gianna: She was not on time to the shoot; she was, in fact, early. That’s always a good (and rare) sign. She was actually cuter in person than I expected, but then again I’d seen a lot of crappy, low budget shoots of her online. I was shooting her in a solo stills set first as a “beer wench” in an old tavern-like scenario. Wine barrels and giant wood mugs decorated the set. We were going to get sawdust for the floors, but then I thought about how much of that would get in the air and decided against it.

At first, Gianna was very quiet, and when we began to shoot some test shots, she looked at the photos on the monitor but said nothing about them. This was kind of a blow to my ego. Now as I said, I’ve seen lots of unflattering content on this girl, and I know that I had made her look fabulous. I was used to, and now expected, her to be very excited over these amazing shots I was getting of her. But she looked at the photos and seemed expressionless. So my mind started racing: Does she not like her outfit? Her makeup? The set? My God, is it possible she doesn’t think I’m a good photographer? That last thought horrified me. At that moment, I decided that she wasn’t very nice, and I probably wasn’t going to enjoy today’s shoot. Keep in mind that she had done absolutely nothing that could be considered unfriendly. She was nothing but compliant and certainly had not an ounce of a diva-like attitude. But because she wasn’t fawning over me and my photos of her, I immediately decided that I didn’t like her very much.

Me and my ego. What a pair we make! In a matter of minutes, we can decide that a girl we hardly know is a bitch. Because we aren’t being stroked, we are going to throw a little temper tantrum and formulate unfounded and rash opinions of a girl we met hardly two hours ago. Thank goodness maturity has taught me to try to deflate this pesky ego of mine, but in the end, I can only credit Gianna with warming up to me and completely changing my mind about her by the end of the shoot.

By the end of the solo set, Gianna was well on her way to becoming a favorite of mine. She was a great model, and her amazing boobs were paired with a great set of legs. I loved her loud, abrupt laugh, her professional attitude, and most of all her performance! I knew the hardcore video was going to be a winner when we started the solo video. She crawled around on the bed like a panther in heat, asking the camera in a whispery voice: “What would you do to me?” She went on to vocalize all kinds of dirty things that the viewer might do to her if given the chance. I’d never seen a girl do a masturbation scene like this one, and I was enthralled.

As the time for the boy/girl video scene approached, I was getting excited. I’d hired Charles Dera, an absolutely gorgeous man who was Playgirl’s Man of the Year a while back. Gianna had never worked with him before but was as thrilled as I’d expected her to be when he showed up. She later confided to me that the first Playgirl she’d ever bought had featured him, and even back then, she thought what an amazingly sexy man he was. I was truly happy that I was able to bring this male centerfold to life before her, and on top of that she gets to have sex with him!

The video scene was hot, sweaty, and totally unstaged. It was like the cameras weren’t even there, and those are my favorite kinds of scenes. I honestly like to direct as little as possible and let the performers just enjoy themselves—I think it makes for a more intimate scene. I actually found myself smiling as I filmed the scene, and let me tell you, that is rare. I think I had more fun than they did!

So by the end of the shoot, I was in love with Gianna and so glad I’d taken that step toward shooting a larger variety of girls. I’d like to see my site emerge as a cosmopolitan destination for all kinds of models, appealing to all kinds of audiences. And the internet has encouraged that kind of change, as it allows all kinds of different people with different tastes and fetishes to find their favorite kind of girl. After all, variety is the spice of life, is it not?

I Have an Imaginary Boyfriend

hollyrandall — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 10:56:00 GMT

I have an imaginary boyfriend. He may not snuggle with me at night, rub my feet after a long day at work, or listen to me rant and rave about my crappy day, but he’s there when I need him. When the sweaty obese guy at Office Max asks me out, or the cross-eyed butcher at Albertsons gets too familiar, my imaginary boyfriend is always there. Well, he’s not actually physically there, since he doesn’t exist—but as far as these unwanted suitors are concerned, he’s sitting at home in front of the TV, waiting for me to return with his printer ink and rib-eye steaks.

His name is Carl, and we’re quite serious. We’ve been together for many years now, ever since I was old enough to date. Let’s pretend you are a guy who’s interested in me. I am a people-pleaser, which means I don’t like to hurt your feelings, unless of course, you’re out to hurt mine. I think perhaps that my desire for attention from the opposite sex fuels this relationship with Carl, because if he exists and thus prevents your chances with me, you can still remain hopeful that Carl and I will break up. That way, I don’t have to be upfront and honest with you, which would have allowed you to write me off and move on to someone who might be better suited for you. Oh, no—I don’t want the admiration of any of my suitors to wane; I’d rather keep stringing you along. I’m insecure like that. But Carl doesn’t mind.

Carl and I have had our tough times and broken up before. In fact, during one of our off moments, I accepted a date with a guy who worked at the local garden store I frequented. He looked like LL Cool J and told me he was working to fund his way through architecture school. There’s nothing I like more than a hard-working boy from a blue-collar family who is working to better himself through an impressive education. Apparently, there is nothing he likes more than a gullible blonde who is willing to buy that kind of story. I should have guessed that he wasn’t too bright from his barrage of misspelled text messages. And it wasn’t even simple typos that we all do when texting—he added letters to words that didn’t belong. He did things like spell taking “takeing” and asked me if we were “going too the movies.”

I tried to withhold judgment until one day when I’d stopped by to buy some potting soil for new flowers I was planting. I wasn’t sure if I got enough bags, so I told him I might be coming back for more. An hour later, I got a text from him: “More soleil?” More soleil? Was he trying to be smart and cute, using the French word for sun? Would I like more sun? I was totally baffled until it hit me: He meant “More soil?” The fact that this guy had worked in a garden center for six years and couldn’t spell “soil” was the final straw for me. Suddenly, Carl and I were back together, and there was no second date with my LL Cool J look-alike. Carl can at least spell past a fifth-grade level.

Sadly though, as time passes, I see the end of Carl and me on the horizon. Of course, ideally, I would like to replace Carl with a real man, someone I can touch and talk to. But if I am to grow as a human being, I need to be able to let Carl go regardless. You see, Carl is really just an excuse to avoid setting boundaries. If I continue to use Carl as a buffer between me and an unwanted courter, then I inadvertently leave the door open and encourage undesired flirtation, because Carl is never around to stop it. The suitor continues to overstep boundaries that I never set. Their persistence makes me feel uncomfortable, but that is entirely my own fault, since apparently people can’t read minds. It’s up to me to establish the rules in terms of what kind of conduct I find inappropriate, because I can’t keep Carl around forever. As much of an asset as he’s been to me, it’s time to move on and grow up.

Besides, Carl never picked up the tab at dinner, planned anything for my birthday, or held me while I cried after a bad day. I’m beginning to wonder what I ever saw in him anyhow.