thiswriterslife

The One Man Band...

I'm sitting at a stoplight, preparing to turn on to Route 280. I look to my left and instead of the usual homeless woman with the bright red lipstick, I see this man, playing a trombone. And it's raining.

I'm thinking, how much are you getting to play your trombone on the side of the road. And why the trombone? Is it your only possession? Are you really any good at it? Do you have some really sad story about how you almost made it as a musician?

I took a picture of him and felt immediately guilty. I could have at least donated something to his bucket, right?

But the light turned green. And from what I could hear, (had the windows up cause like I said, it was freaking raining), he wasn't very good.
-A

A Giant Gore

So, a few weeks back, I get a call from smokey d. fontaine.

Smokey was the Music Editor at The Source when I arrived in the summer of '99. He assigned me my very first feature--on Eve. He was gone from the mag before the issue came out. I've always liked writing for Smokey, especially when he started america.

america magazine was smooth and creamy and glossy and beautiful and wonderful. My Mariah Carey story remains one of my favorite clips. I even have it hanging up in my office. Not so much because I wrote it but because it's just so damn pretty to look at.

Google it, you'll see it. It's hot. I tried to insert a link. But, well shoot y'all. I'm new at this. I know you can buy it on ebay. Ha.

And since I've promised to let myself get all egotastical on this page, I have to admit, my byline was HUGE in that story. Smokey made me feel like a force to be reckoned with. And with the black background under the white text, (which I believe was a play on her interacial status?), it made for a pretty scene. Not easy reading, though.

Anyway. So america is on, (ahem), hiatus. And he's moved on to a magazine called Giant. Before he sent me off to Israel, he sent me to meet the man who refers to himself as the man who used to be the next vice-president of the United States. Ba-dump. Bump.

I met Gore inside the Viacom/MTV Building at 1515 Broadway, where I used to work as an editorial assistant, back when Billboard was located there. I hated going to work on Wednesdays. On matinee day, I could count on being late to work, no matter how early I left. Tourists. Stopping. Looking. Snapping. Laughing. I'm like, dang. Can I just get to work already? Go stand in the island in the middle of the street and load your freaking camera.

I digress.

Gore was screening his film, "An Inconvenient Truth." It's about how we're all going to hell in a handbasket because we are wrecking the planet. You should see it. It won't make you all freaked out about the environment. Gore is way to congenial and calm and well-fed to make you anxious.

But you might start at least turning off the lights and maybe not sleeping with the television on. (As if I could get to sleep without Nick-At-Nite.)

Al Gore has gained a LOT of weight. Like a proper Southern gentleman, he stood when I walked into the room and I was actually flabbergasted. He's very heavy. He does not look presidential. There, I said it. He must lose 50 pounds if he wants to be taken seriously.

Like all politicians, he keeps intense eye contact and it's downright creepy. I remember when I went with my boy Me to see Cory Booker at this synagogue in Maplewood a few years back. I asked Booker something about school vouchers and dude was thisclose to my grill. And every once in a while, he would casually touch my shoulder or my elbow. Me said later that he was kind of freaked out by it. Like, dude are you trying to kick it or win her over to the school voucher program? Or both?

Al Gore didn't touch me. But he did stare at my breasts. Openly. I am not a big bosomed woman. Just average B-cups. And while he kept his eyes locked on mine mostly, whenever he reached for that Diet Coke, and took his eyes off me for a second to take a sip, those eyes went right to my boobs and took the long way back up to my eyes.

I talked to Me about this later. He said, this is the man who served with Clinton. That was his boy. What did you expect?

Didn't really bother me one way or the other. Probably should have. I was too nervous, thinking about covering 25 questions in the 15 minutes they gave me for the interview. I was actually sweating, something I never do. As always, it was a last minute assignment. I was writing out questions and reading research on the train in from Jersey.

I love the last line in the story. It made me laugh when Gore said it. And it makes me laugh now just thinking about it.

Well of course I'm not going to tell you. Then you won't buy the mag yourself! (Or at least go to a bookstore and flip through it!)

Ok, fine. This guy's got it on his blog. Click HERE and read away. Cheaters!!
-A

Interior Dialouge

During my daily web crawl, (okay, it was actually a rare case of ego-surfing), I happened upon a story on my press junket to Israel. The story appeared in The Jerusalem Post, formerly known as the Palestine Post, (see pic at right).

I remember talking with the reporter. He would pop up from time to time during various parts of the trip. I was so disoriented and travel-weary that at first, I thought he was a member of the crew. He quoted me in the piece and it was all good. It's very surreal to be on the other side of the notebook. I hate being interviewed. Without fail, I walk away thinking, "what did I just say?"

Like, yesterday. I was interviewed by an editorial assistant at a magazine I'm writing a story for. I will be featured on the Contributor's Page when the story is published and they usually run a short bio on the writer, complete with quotes. The whole time I was talking to the young lady, I felt like I had diarrhea of the mouth. I just Couldn't. Stop. Talking. It was so bad that I was actually having this whole interior dialogue with myself as I was being interviewed.

Editorial Assistant: So who are your favorite writers? Who inspires you?

Me: Youmeanlikealiveordead? Causesomewriterswhoarelivearelikereallycool. [takes breath] ButsomewritersthatIlikeareactually...umm...youknowlikedead.

Interior Dialogue: Would you slow down? And think before you speak. You sound like an idiot.

Editorial Assistant: I guess, uh, living or dead writers would be fine.

Me: IloveOctaviaButlerexceptshe'sdeadsoIshouldsayilovedher. Youknow. Whenshewasalive. I alsolovethiswriternamedTananariveDue. Idon'tknowhowtospellhernamebutyoucouldprobablygoogleherandithinkshelivesinFlorida.

Interior Dialogue: Tananarive Due? You haven't read any of her stuff in ages! Why don't you tell her how much you love UsWeekly and People and how you get all depressed when you don't have enough money to buy them every Friday? Why are you trying to make yourself sound all literary when you really love David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs and you never even finished Tom Wolfe's A Man In Full!

Me: That is the ONLY book that has ever defeated me! And that's because when I got to page 1,253 he was STILL introducing new characters and new plotlines. And dammit, once I get halfway through a book, I fully expect you to start wrapping stuff UP for god's sake. Jeez.

Interior Dialogue: She just asked you if you enjoyed interviewing [redacted Celebrity Name].

Me: Oh. Yes. She was very sweet and I really liked her a lot.

Interior Dialogue: Oooh. Nice. Really Exciting.

Me: Shut UP!

Suffice it to say. I don't like being interviewed. So, I'm grateful that I didn't sound ridicuous in The Jerusalem Post.

And NOW I understand why interview subjects always say things like this to me at the end of an interview:

Okay, now. Make me sound like I have some sense [Mariah Carey]. Or Don't make me sound too crazy [Al Green] . Or, you gon' clean that up, right? [Busta Rhymes]

Internally, I always roll my eyes and think: What do you expect me to do? Reword your slang? Make you speak the King's English? Make it seem like you DIDN'T kill a woman in your house after she burned you with a pot of hot grits? Jeesh. I'm a writer. Not a miracle worker. [not a miracle worker. what a lame quip. that's right up there with this girl on my block telling me to move out of her way because my father was not a glass maker. Meaning, she could not see through me. Which never made any sense to me. If my father WAS a glassmaker would that automatically mean I was MADE OUT OF GLASS? What the--?]

Anyway, now I understand why the people I interview always ask me to work miracles on their quotes. Because yesterday, after I talked to the young lady from the magazine, I swear, I wanted to tell her: I know I sound insane. But I'm really, really not. Please don't pick up on my sudden inability to speak coherently...

I have a newfound understanding for a reporter's power. You talk. It's recorded. You can't double back and clean it up and tell the world about the argument with your Interior Dialogue.

This doesn't mean that I'm going to go easy on the people I interview. This simply means that from now on I should demand things that mega-super-celebrities get to do before an interview...

You know, see the questions ahead of time. Make some things off limits. Maybe even have the right to read and edit everything before it runs! You know, all the things I'd never stand for on the other side of the notebook...
-A

Don't Call It A Comeback...

Contrary to popular belief: celebrity profiles have the potential to be pure drudgery. You are told to meet the artist somewhere. And then you usually spend a few hours waiting around for the actual interview to begin. If you're lucky, the artist is easygoing and forthright and maybe even has a sense of humor.

Or, if you are really blessed, you can interview someone, like LL, who is pure, unadulterated eye candy.

People. The man is just too fine for his own good.

As soon as I came into the studio, I found a place to sit where I could observe him without being too conspicuous. To no avail. As soon as I got comfortable on a couch in the studio, LL danced over to where I was sitting, flashed a smile and started lip-syncing to one of his new songs.

I'm hardly ever star-struck. With the exception of a chance meeting with Prince at a Chaka Khan concert back in 1998, I'm rarely fazed by people that I meet. But this is LL! I see him and I'm fifteen again, sitting on Portia and Paul's back porch, singing "I Need Love" at the top of my lungs.

But, there was something weird going on with James Todd Smith. He was almost TOO happy, if that makes any sense. He was dancing around the room, grinning from ear to ear in a way that was almost manic. Really intense. I couldn't quite put a finger on what it was. But I was unnerved. He seemed like he'd recently had a brush with death and was happy to be alive. He danced. He clapped his hands. He screamed out, "Whoo! God is good!" every so often...

Weird.

I couldn't help but ask him why he was so cheerful. He said, "Why NOT be cheerful!?"

Check out the story if you like. Oh. But don't look for this cover. This one is two years old. (I actually wrote this one too. And I was quite amused to find that it can now be purchased on ebay for 5 bucks. That's a buck over the original price!)

At some point, maybe I'll find a pic with the new cover....

Interesting tidbit you won't find in the story: LL loved my belt. It's a leather belt with brass studs. Bought it at a leather goods store in the Beverly Center last summer. It was way too expensive. But I knew I would wear it every day. And I literally wear it every single day. I live for my brown leather belt. So, I'm finishing the interview. We do that weird are we going to shake hands or are we going to hug thing that always freaks me out at the end of an interview. And then, this dude is like. "Yo, that belt is FRESH." I'm like, uh, thanks? And he calls over one of his assistants: "Do you see this belt! It's hot, right?" At this point, I'm beet-red. "How much you want for it?" he says. I laughed. But I'm not sure he was joking...
-A

Allow me to introduce myself...

...A one-two, a one-two. *tap tap* Is this thing on?

writing this blog is the equivalent of walking up to a person you don't know and telling them all about your day. I'd never do it.

However. I've got this job, right? And it's mildly entertaining to some. Quite often I'm asked, so, who've you interviewed lately? I feel awkward running down the names of Random Celebrity Interviews I've done.

Modern technology now makes it easy. I can post my thoughts. You can come with me as I interview vapid celebrities, (and some smart ones too), intimidating rappers, (and some sweet ones too), and random folks, like James Gibson, the painter from Florida I interviewed last month who mentioned off hand that Zora Neale Hurston was his high school English teacher. I almost fell out of my chair. He was even the pallbearer at her funeral! Whoa.

Why not just add these posts to randomblackgirl? Good question. Cause randomblackgirl, I've decided, will be dedicated to my travels. So i won't post as often. When I returned from New Orleans, I realized that I missed blogging. And I wanted to throw my thoughts out there. So I wrote about LL Cool J and how I sometimes have really loopy conversations with myself. And then someone--not saying any names--sniffs: "I don't want to read about your celebrity encounters. Maybe other people who aren't in the media might like it. But media folks don't want to read about that..."

Hmph. At first, I thought He Who Shall Not Be Named was just being bourgeiose and stuffy. And then I realized, he's right, (in addition to being bourgeiose and stuffy). I need to separate my worlds. My mom and my boy Ant want to know about my interview with LL. And my girl Vicky totally understands how a book can defeat me, (how much do I love that she knows me so well?). But alas, this blog will be dedicated to writing--my writing and any other writing that inspires me. Or anything, period, that makes me happy...or sad...or angry....or inspired to write something bold and daring and new....

I will continue to track my travels on randomblackgirl.typepad.com Jeez, I feel like by even saying that, I have now jinxed myself and will never, ever travel again. I guess we'll see....

Away we go! Enjoy!