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R. Linda:
(First, may I say to Paris, if she's reading this, ignore it, darlin' it's just for amusement purposes.)
I have sunk deep into the pink fluffy category of journalism. Yes, I have. I was sitting at me desk dreaming of interviewing our next President, me old reporting assignment, Mitt Romney, when I was nudged awake by me assignment editor standing over me poking me like I was a pig on a stick. Was I done or awake?
I flew out of me chair in surprise. To avoid another poke with his pencil, no less, I almost saluted.
"With me now, Gabriel?"
"Uh, why yes, I was sitting here trying to think out a storyline on Romney." I forced a grin on me stupid face.
"Forget Romney, I've got an assignment for you. Here is a round-trip ticket to L.A. You have one day to get an interview with . . . " Here, he rummaged into a file he held in his other hand with the eraser tip of his pencil. "Ok, here it is, with Paris Hilton."
I sat down like I had been thrown into the chair. Disbelief and dismay were written clearly on me face, the grin wiped clean.
"Who?"
"Paris Hilton, the airhead," he said, throwing the file and ticket on my desk. "Get it done and get back."
I sat there, not quite sure what to think. Paris Hilton? PARIS HILTON??? Why me? Why not some floozy reporter in Lifestyle? Why me? I do politicians and government officials; I specialise in government corruption stories, not the brain-dead ex-cons of the California Penal System. OH MY GOSH!
I got up, ready to argue the point, when a copy editor walked by telling me the ride to the airport was downstairs. I turned around and looked at the ticket, it was for TODAY, RIGHT NOW! I had no time to go home and pack, I had no time to eat the rest of me morning fajita, I had time to get me jacket on, jam a pen in me breast pocket, grab the ticket and folder and go to the waiting taxi. I was not a happy man.
Given no time to object, I went to the airport, boarded the plane and flew non-stop to LAX. I taxied from there to our sister newspaper and checked meself in. I was given a desk in the middle of a noisy newsroom, and from there, I placed calls to locate the heiress, or as I had got into the habit of referring to her, the airass. It took one phone call, and I was in. I couldn't believe it was this easy, but when one has been in the slammer and has a sense of image spin being needed, news guys like me are in like Flint.
I hailed a taxi, and off to a Malibu hideaway, I went. It was a ride of zooming traffic covering six to eight lanes on both sides of the Thruway. The cars from the other direction sparkled in the sunlight like a long string of jewels; they whizzed by at speeds that made me cringe. Finally, we pulled off the Thruway to a scenic double-lane road that hugged the coastline, brown grass high on one side, ocean surf hitting the craggy rocks on the other. Then I could see it, a gold coast of exotic mansions, none the same, some huge, some smaller, but nothing really small. We pulled up to a high fence, and I got out to buzz the speaker on the gated driveway.
A wispy voice said, "Who's there?" I thought I missed part of a knock-knock joke but contained meself and answered who I was and who I was there to see by appointment.
"Okkk," the voice said, and a buzzer opened the gate. I ran back to the cab and asked the cabby to wait. He said he would, but the meter was running. I thought that was just ideal since I was sure the interview would be a short one.
I walked down the slopping driveway, the scent of bougainvillaeas in the air, the Grecian-style cream-coloured house coming up closer as I walked. Before I could get to the door, it opened, and there standing, one hand on the doorknob and the other posed on the outer pillar of the portico, was Ms. Hilton herself. Her blond locks piled back by a filmy pink scarf and dressed in a dark pink top with beige capri pants, she waited, head tilted to the side, gum chewing slowly as if appraising me person. Her jewelled rings sparkled as she stood one foot down, the other bent at the knee, shifting from one side to the other in nervousness or anticipation?
"Hello there. Ms. Hilton?" I called as I got closer.
She smiled sort of and waved me inside.
The hall was dazzling, a large, varied bouquet of exotic fauna and flora on a round table with lion claw legs centred over an Oriental rug with a marbled beige floor that gleamed from the sunbeams that flowed from the window over the high staircase in front of me. Begorrah it was a tropical Tara it was! Lost for words, I turned with a stupid smile on me face and a 'well?' expression. It was her ball game.
"Come this way," she slinked off to a room on the left. Here, she slid the door open (do people really have sliding doors in this day and age? Ms. Hilton does), and we entered a living room with a marble floor, fireplace and rich tapestry furniture. It was done in reds, beiges, and dark greens, with a splash of deep brown here and there. She gestured I sit in one of the fireside winged back chairs, and she took up the other. She gazed into the cold fireplace as I got out me paper and pen.
"You want some coke or something?"
COKE? Did she mean drugs or the soft drink?
"Uh, no, no, that be fine. But if you want something, I'll wait," I said, trying to relax.
"No, that's ok," she said, her false eyelashes batting at me.
I cleared me throat, "Uh, Ms. Hilton . . ."
"Have you ever done this before Mr. O'Sullivan? Interview, I mean?"
I looked shocked; did I look the novice? I blinked and said, "I interviewed Boyz II Men."
She hesitated, and her mouth worked like she was going to say something but thought the better for it. Then there was a what the hell look, and she said, "No, I mean, have you interviewed a person, not a daycare centre."
Now it was me turn to look baffled. I furrowed me brow, trying to figure this out. OH, it hit me; she thought Boyz II to Men was the name of a daycare centre. OH OK. I explained it was a singing group, and the only reason I thought to mention them was because I thought she'd recognise the name more than she would say, Mitt Romney.
"Kitt, who?"
"Never you mind, not important," I stumbled on. "Do you consider yourself American royalty?" I asked, plunging on.
"Royalty? Like in Princess Diana?"
"Well, I was thinking like John Kennedy was considered American royalty," I suggested.
"I'm so like an American Princess if that's what you mean," she batted her eyelashes at me again.
"Right you be," I sighed.
"You're hot, you know," she smiled slyly.
"Uh, thank you," I responded nervously.
She had wrapped her legs up under her and sat in profile, her head slanted come-hither in my direction. Could Paris Hilton be hitting on me? It couldn't be; it must be her way, but secretly, I felt rather good about that.
"So, Ms. Hilton . . ."
"Call me Paris."
"Ah yes, Paris. Have you been to the city of Paris?" I asked and then added, "In the country of France?" I wanted to be precise.
"I modelled there once when I was eighteen. The streets are all tree-lined, you know. They told me it was so the German army could march in the shade."
Now, it was me that was blinking. I was stunned. I couldn't think beyond the image of the German army marching down Parisian streets under the tree shade. I had to think about that for a time. Poor darling, she was really not one for history and gullible as hell to believe such a thing. It only begged me to ask something on another subject and quick. But I felt a burp coming on from the breakfast fajita I had consumed some hours ago. Hand to me mouth, I excused meself, but the burp didn't materialise (thank God), so I mumbled that I had been to Taco Bell earlier.
"Oh, are you having problems with your phone?"
"Beg your pardon?" I asked, wondering if I had missed something.
"You know the Mexican telephone company, Taco Bell."
OK, that was it for me.
"If I can get you to sign this release before we go on, I can get it out of the way because I might forget to have you sign it later." I handed her the form. "Sign, please."
"Oh yeah, hold my gum a minute," I moved back, and she shrugged, sticking the pink gum to the end of my pen. "Where? Oh ok," and she didn't bother to read it; she took my pen and signed not her name, but her astrological sign -- Aquarius!
"There you go," she said, handing me back the paper and pen with gum attached.
"I think that about does it for me," I said looking at the gum. "I should be going. I have to be at airport so . . ."
She uncurled herself and stood up as I was trying to find some way of relieving me pen of the wad of gum; looking around me, I wasn't paying much attention until she said, "Where is the airport?"
I looked at her, puzzled, "In L.A."
"What do you mean? I went to drive to the terminal there just the other day and the sign said Airport LEFT, so I want to know where it went."
OK, I shook me head violently, trying to unscramble me brain. That was the end of it for me. I had had enough. I let meself out and went on to airport, which was just where I had left it, and flew on home. I have nothing to write up, me editor will be disappointed. I don't even have a proper release. I have a release with an astrological sign written where her name should have been.
But there is one bright spot to all this air-headed insanity. I put her gum up for auction on eBay!
Gabe
Copyright © 2007 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
(First, may I say to Paris, if she's reading this, ignore it, darlin' it's just for amusement purposes.)
I have sunk deep into the pink fluffy category of journalism. Yes, I have. I was sitting at me desk dreaming of interviewing our next President, me old reporting assignment, Mitt Romney, when I was nudged awake by me assignment editor standing over me poking me like I was a pig on a stick. Was I done or awake?
I flew out of me chair in surprise. To avoid another poke with his pencil, no less, I almost saluted.
"With me now, Gabriel?"
"Uh, why yes, I was sitting here trying to think out a storyline on Romney." I forced a grin on me stupid face.
"Forget Romney, I've got an assignment for you. Here is a round-trip ticket to L.A. You have one day to get an interview with . . . " Here, he rummaged into a file he held in his other hand with the eraser tip of his pencil. "Ok, here it is, with Paris Hilton."
I sat down like I had been thrown into the chair. Disbelief and dismay were written clearly on me face, the grin wiped clean.
"Who?"
"Paris Hilton, the airhead," he said, throwing the file and ticket on my desk. "Get it done and get back."
I sat there, not quite sure what to think. Paris Hilton? PARIS HILTON??? Why me? Why not some floozy reporter in Lifestyle? Why me? I do politicians and government officials; I specialise in government corruption stories, not the brain-dead ex-cons of the California Penal System. OH MY GOSH!
I got up, ready to argue the point, when a copy editor walked by telling me the ride to the airport was downstairs. I turned around and looked at the ticket, it was for TODAY, RIGHT NOW! I had no time to go home and pack, I had no time to eat the rest of me morning fajita, I had time to get me jacket on, jam a pen in me breast pocket, grab the ticket and folder and go to the waiting taxi. I was not a happy man.
Given no time to object, I went to the airport, boarded the plane and flew non-stop to LAX. I taxied from there to our sister newspaper and checked meself in. I was given a desk in the middle of a noisy newsroom, and from there, I placed calls to locate the heiress, or as I had got into the habit of referring to her, the airass. It took one phone call, and I was in. I couldn't believe it was this easy, but when one has been in the slammer and has a sense of image spin being needed, news guys like me are in like Flint.
I hailed a taxi, and off to a Malibu hideaway, I went. It was a ride of zooming traffic covering six to eight lanes on both sides of the Thruway. The cars from the other direction sparkled in the sunlight like a long string of jewels; they whizzed by at speeds that made me cringe. Finally, we pulled off the Thruway to a scenic double-lane road that hugged the coastline, brown grass high on one side, ocean surf hitting the craggy rocks on the other. Then I could see it, a gold coast of exotic mansions, none the same, some huge, some smaller, but nothing really small. We pulled up to a high fence, and I got out to buzz the speaker on the gated driveway.
A wispy voice said, "Who's there?" I thought I missed part of a knock-knock joke but contained meself and answered who I was and who I was there to see by appointment.
"Okkk," the voice said, and a buzzer opened the gate. I ran back to the cab and asked the cabby to wait. He said he would, but the meter was running. I thought that was just ideal since I was sure the interview would be a short one.
I walked down the slopping driveway, the scent of bougainvillaeas in the air, the Grecian-style cream-coloured house coming up closer as I walked. Before I could get to the door, it opened, and there standing, one hand on the doorknob and the other posed on the outer pillar of the portico, was Ms. Hilton herself. Her blond locks piled back by a filmy pink scarf and dressed in a dark pink top with beige capri pants, she waited, head tilted to the side, gum chewing slowly as if appraising me person. Her jewelled rings sparkled as she stood one foot down, the other bent at the knee, shifting from one side to the other in nervousness or anticipation?
"Hello there. Ms. Hilton?" I called as I got closer.
She smiled sort of and waved me inside.
The hall was dazzling, a large, varied bouquet of exotic fauna and flora on a round table with lion claw legs centred over an Oriental rug with a marbled beige floor that gleamed from the sunbeams that flowed from the window over the high staircase in front of me. Begorrah it was a tropical Tara it was! Lost for words, I turned with a stupid smile on me face and a 'well?' expression. It was her ball game.
"Come this way," she slinked off to a room on the left. Here, she slid the door open (do people really have sliding doors in this day and age? Ms. Hilton does), and we entered a living room with a marble floor, fireplace and rich tapestry furniture. It was done in reds, beiges, and dark greens, with a splash of deep brown here and there. She gestured I sit in one of the fireside winged back chairs, and she took up the other. She gazed into the cold fireplace as I got out me paper and pen.
"You want some coke or something?"
COKE? Did she mean drugs or the soft drink?
"Uh, no, no, that be fine. But if you want something, I'll wait," I said, trying to relax.
"No, that's ok," she said, her false eyelashes batting at me.
I cleared me throat, "Uh, Ms. Hilton . . ."
"Have you ever done this before Mr. O'Sullivan? Interview, I mean?"
I looked shocked; did I look the novice? I blinked and said, "I interviewed Boyz II Men."
She hesitated, and her mouth worked like she was going to say something but thought the better for it. Then there was a what the hell look, and she said, "No, I mean, have you interviewed a person, not a daycare centre."
Now it was me turn to look baffled. I furrowed me brow, trying to figure this out. OH, it hit me; she thought Boyz II to Men was the name of a daycare centre. OH OK. I explained it was a singing group, and the only reason I thought to mention them was because I thought she'd recognise the name more than she would say, Mitt Romney.
"Kitt, who?"
"Never you mind, not important," I stumbled on. "Do you consider yourself American royalty?" I asked, plunging on.
"Royalty? Like in Princess Diana?"
"Well, I was thinking like John Kennedy was considered American royalty," I suggested.
"I'm so like an American Princess if that's what you mean," she batted her eyelashes at me again.
"Right you be," I sighed.
"You're hot, you know," she smiled slyly.
"Uh, thank you," I responded nervously.
She had wrapped her legs up under her and sat in profile, her head slanted come-hither in my direction. Could Paris Hilton be hitting on me? It couldn't be; it must be her way, but secretly, I felt rather good about that.
"So, Ms. Hilton . . ."
"Call me Paris."
"Ah yes, Paris. Have you been to the city of Paris?" I asked and then added, "In the country of France?" I wanted to be precise.
"I modelled there once when I was eighteen. The streets are all tree-lined, you know. They told me it was so the German army could march in the shade."
Now, it was me that was blinking. I was stunned. I couldn't think beyond the image of the German army marching down Parisian streets under the tree shade. I had to think about that for a time. Poor darling, she was really not one for history and gullible as hell to believe such a thing. It only begged me to ask something on another subject and quick. But I felt a burp coming on from the breakfast fajita I had consumed some hours ago. Hand to me mouth, I excused meself, but the burp didn't materialise (thank God), so I mumbled that I had been to Taco Bell earlier.
"Oh, are you having problems with your phone?"
"Beg your pardon?" I asked, wondering if I had missed something.
"You know the Mexican telephone company, Taco Bell."
OK, that was it for me.
"If I can get you to sign this release before we go on, I can get it out of the way because I might forget to have you sign it later." I handed her the form. "Sign, please."
"Oh yeah, hold my gum a minute," I moved back, and she shrugged, sticking the pink gum to the end of my pen. "Where? Oh ok," and she didn't bother to read it; she took my pen and signed not her name, but her astrological sign -- Aquarius!
"There you go," she said, handing me back the paper and pen with gum attached.
"I think that about does it for me," I said looking at the gum. "I should be going. I have to be at airport so . . ."
She uncurled herself and stood up as I was trying to find some way of relieving me pen of the wad of gum; looking around me, I wasn't paying much attention until she said, "Where is the airport?"
I looked at her, puzzled, "In L.A."
"What do you mean? I went to drive to the terminal there just the other day and the sign said Airport LEFT, so I want to know where it went."
OK, I shook me head violently, trying to unscramble me brain. That was the end of it for me. I had had enough. I let meself out and went on to airport, which was just where I had left it, and flew on home. I have nothing to write up, me editor will be disappointed. I don't even have a proper release. I have a release with an astrological sign written where her name should have been.
But there is one bright spot to all this air-headed insanity. I put her gum up for auction on eBay!
Gabe
Copyright © 2007 All rights reserved
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