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THIRTY TWO: 'KYLES' & THE ART OF LOSING MY PANTS ‘Hello!’s
freelancing job turned out to be interviewing some barely dressed woman with
huge, over glossed lips the Brits decided to christen as the new ‘Pop
Princess’ I
was prepped on Brit tabloid protocol on part of being a clueless ‘Yank’
(I’m offended to say the least), so Priscilla, the bubbly features journalist
took a break from her article (Have Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Presley
finally divorced?) to give me a crash course on London’s streets (‘Pitt is
for the shopping and Oxford is where all the most fabulous stores are!’) just
so I could navigate my way through and avoid being tragically (but fashionably)
late for my first freelancing job. Talk
about traffic, I thought NY was bad! But
I have to admit, taxi drivers around here are the same as over in the US- they
know little English are more lost with direction than the English words they
know and take the longest route there, and as I got out of the cab, I had a
suspicious feeling he had taken me a mile longer than was necessary. So
I stumbled in, not really knowing what I was doing, where I was going, until I
spoke to some butch guy posted like an English guard at a door. “’Round
yer left, she’s ge’in ‘er make up done” “Thanks”
was all I managed; I was so intimidated by his cold glare, I could barely
breathe. So
I met this tiny woman (I mean tiny, as in five feet) and I was so afraid she was
going to fly away, I made her sit before I began my interview. She
was nice enough, but she must have been a little worried about my ‘american
twang’ “You’re
not English are you?” “Er…
no….” She
withered at me with one heavily made up ‘starry night blue’ eye outlined in
‘charcoal’ mascara, while poising one carefully manicured finger on her high
‘tawny’ cheekbones. “I’ve
just never been interviewed by you before” she shrugged, while generating this
svelte, shiny smile. “I was told Belyndah was interviewing me today” “She
had a little accident in her bathroom this morning. I’m her replacement” “Oh”
was all she said before she picked up a fridge cold bottle of Evian and brought
it to her lips when suddenly, someone motioned her to move along. “Where’s
your photographer?” I
held up the trusty Nikon, and waved it around “Right here” I said. She
just gave me this snooty once over before she walked out, an entourage of
personnel following her smoother-than-a –slide walk. Her
publicist came up to me and shook my hand vigorously “Chloe Bellamy, Kylie’s
publicist. Are you a professional photographer?” I
shook my head, as she gave me this phony, apologetic smile and said “Well,
Kyles’ best angle is her left, perhaps not fourty five degrees, but maybe
about fourty three, forty degrees…” “Okay”
I managed to squeak as she patted me condescendingly before leaving me alone. The
lights finally dimmed, and a bevy of dry ice clouded the bottom of the stage, as
fans in the back began to scream. I
looked up, poised with the camera when a familiar beat pumped out; my mind
reeled as I tried desperately to match the track from my memory, but an
explosion of dry ice clouded and then; I remembered. I
was you, know doing my thing when Nick or someone must have tripped on the wire
that I connected to, and the pact clipped to the band of my pants- yup, just
about ripped em down! Just
as my eyes lowered enough to fix it, my mind went into overdrive.
A
huge silver camera hung from her neck, her mouth gaped open in horror, as her
eyes fixated on my moves.
What
the fuck was she doing here?
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sayamaru and 'Bittersweet Rhapsodies' 2001-02 No
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