rollerblading for twisty straws

my short-lived career as a victoria’s secret production assistant

Nov 11, 2025

A New Personal Essay This Week…

So, I was born and raised in a fashion family that got into some wild adventures I’m developing a movie about.

Here on Substack, you may have read about my early days in entertainment being manhandled by the Secret Service, tossed in an alleyway, and relieved of my duty as Natalie Portman’s body man.

Now for the first time: my brief life in fashion. Two weeks as the lowest-ranked gopher on the set of a Victoria’s Secret commercial. Hope you enjoy!

My collision course with the fashion business was inevitable.

It ran in my family.

My Mom was discovered as a teenager in St. Louis and was Second Runner-Up in the nationally televised Model of Year Contest in 1967. Coming in third won her a modeling contract and a year in New York.

She was a really sweet, naïve girl in those days. A Catholic schoolgirl straight outta the Midwest, she eagerly went on every “go see” (casting call). In one story, she was sent down to Soho and buzzed the door at an old walk-up. When someone answered the intercom:

“Yeah, who is it?”

My Mom said:

“Hi, it’s Pat! I’m here for the hand job!!!”

But hand modeling wasn’t the only thing innocent young Pat did.

Her face ended up on Spree Candy wrappers and she was the B.F. Goodrich Giant, an iconic sixties campaign, where she laid out all mod in a sparkling silver mini-dress while they used camera tricks to make it look like she was a giantess playing with tiny cars.

“It’s the radial age!” went the jingle.

By the mid seventies, she was a veteran model pushing thirty and shopping on Rodeo Drive when she met my Dad — whose job was to arrange the windows at Jerry Magnin’s, the first store in Los Angeles that carried Ralph Lauren.

My Dad, James “Les” Goldberg, was seven years younger. Around 23. Instantly smitten, he told my Mom that he was a “photographer” and wanted to “shoot” her.

She was charmed.

He was a totally lying.

He was as much a photographer as his name was “Les.”

That night, he convinced my grandma to buy him a camera and he got busy studying the instruction manual before his big date. My Mom must have known right away this guy had no idea how to use the camera — or shoot a professional model. But she decided to show the young man a few things.

The next thing she knew, “Les” convinced Ralph Lauren to let him shoot the first Polo catalogue, starring her.

My mom ended up running his company as he became a well-known photographer. He even shot Vogue covers.

In 1977, they took a crew to Chile for a Neiman Marcus shoot. They had six models, including Jerry Hall, $2 million worth of fur coats, and private security guards. As soon as they arrived, a historic blizzard hit, blasting them under fifteen feet of snow. They had to be rescued by Pinochet’s military helicopters. That story ended up in Elle Magazine, and selling the rights to Paramount helped inspire my film producing career. (My old boss called it my “origin story.” I was born about nine months later.)

But it was only when my little brother was born that it became obvious who was really going to follow in my parents’ footsteps.

Now, when anyone goes through our old family photos from the 80s and 90s, they’ll see literally thousands of pictures of my little blond, blue eyed brother — and maybe six total of me.

By the time I was in Middle School, my Mom worked full-time for Polo and her team came “model scouting” at our school for a boys campaign. Surprise, surprise, my brother and I were both selected along with about five or six other kids. In the end, there was a single photo taken of me on the entire shoot — but a star was born.

My little brother.

Charlie ended up signed by Ford Models, being the youngest male model ever to get a major brand contract. He was on billboards in Times Square for Guess Jeans. He even had a role in the movie Stepmom. He didn’t have any lines, but Julia Roberts and Susan Sarandon spied on him outside of a school and talked about him for an entire scene.

His character name?

Stone Fox.

Jesus Christ.

Skinny, with that long blonde hair, he had the perfect androgynous “Heroin Chic” look so popular in the 90s. He would’ve looked perfect next to Kate Moss.

Now that I see at that hair, I also think of another 90s phenomenon: Fabio.

Even though I was the older one, I became known as “Charlie’s Brother” in school — which, yes, absolutely sucked.

I couldn’t even escape it at summer camp. During the now-canceled cultural appropriation that was the Native American-inspired fireside “Council Ring,” people got cool nicknames inspired by animals like “Chief Screaming Eagle” and “Chief Powerful Python.” I was named:

“Chief Brother of a Model.”

Might as well strangle me with the strings of a dream catcher and hammer me in the eye socket with a tomahawk.

Of course, I found my own way to rebel against this at the time: In high school, I was sure to let the world know that I thought fashion was vapid and vacuous and shallow and blah blah blah. I got into grunge and wore oversized flannels (as if that itself wasn’t obviously fashion).

By college, I evolved into a version of the Timothée Chalamet character in Lady Bird.

You know, I went to NYU, wore Dylan-style Wayfarers, and hung out in cafes in Greenwich Village reading Nietzsche — frowning upon just about everything.

I was insufferable.

But somehow I couldn’t escape the fashion world.

Sometimes, it was pure coincidence. I was an intern for producer Wendy Finerman the day her exec found the unpublished book proposal for The Devil Wears Prada and I became a development intern on the movie.

At the time, I even played the role of frazzled assistant Andy Sachs to Wendy’s Miranda Priestly — all while barely meeting her in person. Based on the 20th Century Fox lot in L.A., she’d send little errands to the Fox News building in New York for me, via the Newscorp overnight “pouch.”

Mostly, her Manolo Blahniks.

It was my job to grab her fancy heels from the “pouch,” run them through hundred degree heat to the only shoe repair guy in the world she trusted. I’d get them fixed, turn around and run them right back — so we could “pouch” them to Century City. 24 hours round trip.

It’s no wonder Wendy related so much to Meryl’s character in the movie. You honestly can’t make this shit up.

The Wendy thing was an unpaid internship and I desperately needed to get paid, so at some point I succumbed. I took the one and only job I’ve ever taken from a bit of nepotism (other than the failed childhood modeling gig):

Production assistant on a Victoria Secret commercial.

It was my Mom’s hookup. Her friend (and still my friend to this day) Jeff Madoff was the director. Shot at Silvercup Studios in Queens. Absolutely classic.

It was the peak Victoria Secret era. The models were Giselle, Heidi Klum and Tyra Banks. I was a stupid kid who had no idea what I was doing. So, once again, I became a gopher.

Somehow, I bumbled into being the only straight guy running around and helping out in the dressing rooms. But my main responsibility was Tyra Banks. It was my job to get her whatever she needed. For some reason, that included twisty straws.

You hear those stories about how Britney Spears put in her contract rider that she could only be served certain colored M&Ms in the green room? Well, maybe that was Britney’s thing. Tyra’s thing: She only drank out of twisty straws.

Twisty straws, swirly straws, silly straws. Whatever the fuck you wanna call them.

Kind of a weird thing to find in Queens.

I remember bringing my childhood Rollerblades to work.

Just in case, I thought. These could really come in handy!

(Being a 90s kid, it made perfect sense at the time.)

So, picture me rollerblading around Steinway Street in Queens, popping into Party Town USA or whatever to find twisty straws for Tyra.

I also used petty cash to buy her a boom box for the dressing room, and I’d escort her guests from the main entrance of Silvercup to her inner sanctum.

I’ll never forget one of those guests was a gentleman who went by the name “Director X.”

Walking up to a very serious looking Black dude waiting around impatiently, I made the assumption:

“Excuse me, are you Mr. ‘X’?”

He was. And he turned out to be a cool dude.

My most important job involving Tyra, though: The Chair Guy.

You see, the commercial, which was the per- day budget equivalent of a blockbuster movie, involved the Victoria Secret “angels” thing. You might remember those campaigns. The girls wore elaborate angel wings, and they were suspended in the air on wires against a green screen. Eventually, the background would be filled in digitally with cityscapes. But our shoot involved the girls going up and down on those wires all day.

My job?

The Chair Guy.

Every time Tyra was lowered back down on the wires for a break, I was supposed to run out with a director’s chair and position it carefully under her ass.

That’s what I did.

Again and again and again.

For several days.

I waited around as Tyra “flew” through the air in her angel wings. When she was exhausted, I came running, unfolding the director chair, and sliding it in place perfectly under her ass.

Then someone would hand her a drink — with a twisty straw.

Boom.

Apparently, union regulations prevented me from doing most of the real jobs on set. Legally, I couldn’t touch a light. I wasn’t a gaffer or a key grip or any of that. I couldn’t even pick up a broom and sweep the stage. I wanted to be helpful, so tried that once — only to get yelled at by a union guy.

But the one job that wasn’t unionized?

The guy who puts the chair under the model’s ass.

I’ll never forget the other job I was allowed to do as the lowest gopher of them all.

At one point Jeff, or his producer, took me aside and handed me a credit card. They were sending me into Manhattan to the flagship Victoria’s Secret store. The mission?

I was supposed to buy about a dozen Double D bras and panties for the body doubles.

That’s right.

While Giselle, Heidi, and Tyra were in the dressing room for four to five hours of hair and makeup every morning, their body doubles were on stage so the Director of Photography could do lighting setups.

Why there was a shortage of bras and panties at the Victoria’s Secret commercial, I never questioned.

Why the body doubles had to be wearing Victoria’s Secret lingerie for the lighting set ups? I also never questioned.

I guess the Director of Photography was a real artist and very precise. He demanded to get the lighting on that underwear perfectly right!

So, off I went on the 7 Train to Midtown.

A very flustered, out-of-breath, goofy-ass white boy with rollerblades in his backpack — using an American Express Black Card to buy dozens of bras and panties.

I swear to God, while I was standing in line at the checkout, with piles of bras in my arms, a very intense lady decided to make a comment. If I could cast an actress to play this lady, it would be Octavia Spencer from the movie “MA.”

She was staring.

“Whatcha gonna do with all those bras?” she finally said.

“Um, yeah… well you see… I, uh…”

“Those are all Double Ds!” she said, eyeing me up and down. “I’m sorry, kid, but you look like an A-Cup to me…”

Then she just laughed in my face.

Blushing, I tried to explain I was working on the Victoria’s Secret commercial in Queens — but it sounded far fetched to say the least.

So, I just swiped the credit card and ran out of there.

Rather than getting back on the 7 Train carrying all those Victoria’s Secret bags, I took a yellow taxi back to Silvercup.

That was just about the end of my career in fashion.

And pretty much, my career as a production assistant.

Twelve hour days on your feet, running around set and all of New York City being a gopher…

Rollerblading for twisty straws.

I think I lost my extra college weight — which started with “The Freshman Fifteen” four years before — all in two weeks.

It’s all pretty cool when you’re working on a Victoria’s Secret commercial.

When you’re hanging out at craft services with Heidi Klum! Or with Director X.

But the next gig?

Probably a commercial for Frosted Flakes.

No thanks!

I knew anything else would pale in comparison. So, that was my first and last PA job.

9/11 came shortly after, and I’m not sure the commercial even aired, due to sensitivities about the angels floating around New York City skyscrapers.

A lot has changed since.

For one, my attitude about fashion evolved. The Devil Wears Prada finally came out years later. And the Cerulean Sweater Speech made a lot of sense to me.

Sure, I still frown upon a certain kind of obsession with designer brand names and people posturing online showing off their logos. But I don’t think my parents were shallow, vacuous, or vapid.

They followed their passion into creative careers that were not only successful, but made an impact on our culture — whether it was helping to invent the entire 80s preppy look pioneered by Polo, or the concept of “Lifestyle Advertising” itself.

Les had an old school Jewish father who accepted nothing less than him being a doctor or lawyer and never understood his artist son. So, my Dad told me it would be fine with him if I ended up a garbage man, as long as I was happy. My Mom said she believed if you passionately love your job and work hard at it, you’ll naturally become good at it and find success.

That’s what they both did. They made it look easy.

Most people are cooler than their parents.

(Think about it. Aren’t you?)

Well, I’m not.

I’m still struggling every day. Hoping my Mom was right.

Is a creative career even possible in 2025, no matter how passionate you are or how hard you work?

Maybe I’m not talented enough. Or maybe she’s just a Boomer and her time has passed.

But that’s the question hanging over me every day.

The other question?

What was with the twisty straws?

Over a decade later, when Tyra was in her America’s Next Top Model hosting era, I had coffee with a guy from her production company. He confirmed: “Yeah, she still demands those.”

A lifelong obsession with twisty straws.

What’s that all about?

I remember in the dressing room, a crazy hairdresser shrugging and saying in a deep Russian accent:

“I don’t know…Go figure it out.”

Max Winter

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