to disturb you. I’m just wondering if—”
“Baby Sugar, I’m with the ladies and I need some privacy,” he said, not making eye contact or even bothering to look up.
“I know you probably don’t care, but this is like my first shoot in LA. I mean, I’m experienced; I’ve just never worked for CRP-TV before. Look, I’ve got to get more footage of you or Iwon’t have a segment to cut together. I really need this.” I knew I sounded pathetic, but I was hoping he had a heart.
He finally looked at me, totally confused. “You a kitten, too? You want in on dis action?”
“Huh? No, I’m not a kitten , I’m the—”
“Here, baby, this’ll make it better.” He tucked a tiny plastic bag into my palm and turned away, back to the action.
My jeans slid against the leather bench as I joined the crew at the table. Feeling defeated, I uncurled the baggy in my hand. Joe leaned over and burst out laughing.
“Well, I guess when Karl asks for today’s tapes, you can hand him a bag of ganja instead!”
“Great,” I said, sighing. “Just fabulous.”
So Joe, the soundman, and I sat patiently, a few tables away, considering whether we should just get it over with and roll a fat one with our new stash of presumably primo West Coast weed. We opted not to, if for no other reason than that Karl might suddenly show up.
After passing an hour with some rather mindless crew banter, our precious host finally gave us the green light to film, lights and all. “We’re ready, Toke’s ready now, you can film us, but only for, like, two songs.”
“Lucy, first I just need you to deliver your lines for the segment,” I said, handing her a copy of the text I’d written to close the piece. She’d received the script at the office. It had also been e-mailed to her, and delivered personally to her house, with a fourth copy given to her when she arrived on set in the morning, leaving little excuse for not memorizing lines—or so I’d hoped.
She looked down, appeared to review the text as if it was the first time she’d ever laid eyes on it, then crumpled my script into a ball. “What is this garbage?” she said.
“Pardon me?”
“What the hell is this?”
“Your lines. Karl approved it. You approved it.” I was bewildered.
“It’s crap.” She then turned and smiled at Joe as if I didn’t exist. “You rolling?”
“Hold on. We’ve got to turn your microphone on,” said Joe, lurching forward to appease her and shooting me a pitying look.
“Joe, you can’t expect me to deliver this dung. I’m going to wing it. My way.” She glared at me as she shimmied her breasts higher in her corset-breast-platter device. “Thanks for joining the party, y’all. We’ve had one helluva ride with MC Toke, the man, my man, the rap-man of all time. Keep partying with us pussies—oops, I mean kittens.” She winked to the camera. “That would be me and my party gals. Find out which lucky Tom-cat gets to hang with da kittens next week. Meow !” She reached her hand up and made a kitty claw, then licked the back of her hand and rubbed it on her butt cheek.
“Oh, lord,” I said, dumping my head into my hands. “Let’s, uh, let’s just try that again.”
Lucy ignored me and yanked her mike off as she grabbed Toke. “Yo, MC, let’s shake it!”
Like a complete reality TV pro, Joe pulled the camera off the tripod and moved onto the dance floor to catch MC Toke lifting his t-shirt, again , while the girls slithered all over him, tongues wagging and body parts jiggling. Joe knew this would be fleeting. Swiftly, I moved the lights to the dance floor. All eyes were on Lucy and the gang, with a crowd of hotel onlookers whispering, “Who’s that?” A few people recognized MC Toke. But nobody asked for an autograph. After a single song, MC again pushed away the camera lens.
“I’m out!” he said, linking his arm with Lucy’s and the other girls’ as they made their way into a private room and slammed the door
“Baby Sugar, I’m with the ladies and I need some privacy,” he said, not making eye contact or even bothering to look up.
“I know you probably don’t care, but this is like my first shoot in LA. I mean, I’m experienced; I’ve just never worked for CRP-TV before. Look, I’ve got to get more footage of you or Iwon’t have a segment to cut together. I really need this.” I knew I sounded pathetic, but I was hoping he had a heart.
He finally looked at me, totally confused. “You a kitten, too? You want in on dis action?”
“Huh? No, I’m not a kitten , I’m the—”
“Here, baby, this’ll make it better.” He tucked a tiny plastic bag into my palm and turned away, back to the action.
My jeans slid against the leather bench as I joined the crew at the table. Feeling defeated, I uncurled the baggy in my hand. Joe leaned over and burst out laughing.
“Well, I guess when Karl asks for today’s tapes, you can hand him a bag of ganja instead!”
“Great,” I said, sighing. “Just fabulous.”
So Joe, the soundman, and I sat patiently, a few tables away, considering whether we should just get it over with and roll a fat one with our new stash of presumably primo West Coast weed. We opted not to, if for no other reason than that Karl might suddenly show up.
After passing an hour with some rather mindless crew banter, our precious host finally gave us the green light to film, lights and all. “We’re ready, Toke’s ready now, you can film us, but only for, like, two songs.”
“Lucy, first I just need you to deliver your lines for the segment,” I said, handing her a copy of the text I’d written to close the piece. She’d received the script at the office. It had also been e-mailed to her, and delivered personally to her house, with a fourth copy given to her when she arrived on set in the morning, leaving little excuse for not memorizing lines—or so I’d hoped.
She looked down, appeared to review the text as if it was the first time she’d ever laid eyes on it, then crumpled my script into a ball. “What is this garbage?” she said.
“Pardon me?”
“What the hell is this?”
“Your lines. Karl approved it. You approved it.” I was bewildered.
“It’s crap.” She then turned and smiled at Joe as if I didn’t exist. “You rolling?”
“Hold on. We’ve got to turn your microphone on,” said Joe, lurching forward to appease her and shooting me a pitying look.
“Joe, you can’t expect me to deliver this dung. I’m going to wing it. My way.” She glared at me as she shimmied her breasts higher in her corset-breast-platter device. “Thanks for joining the party, y’all. We’ve had one helluva ride with MC Toke, the man, my man, the rap-man of all time. Keep partying with us pussies—oops, I mean kittens.” She winked to the camera. “That would be me and my party gals. Find out which lucky Tom-cat gets to hang with da kittens next week. Meow !” She reached her hand up and made a kitty claw, then licked the back of her hand and rubbed it on her butt cheek.
“Oh, lord,” I said, dumping my head into my hands. “Let’s, uh, let’s just try that again.”
Lucy ignored me and yanked her mike off as she grabbed Toke. “Yo, MC, let’s shake it!”
Like a complete reality TV pro, Joe pulled the camera off the tripod and moved onto the dance floor to catch MC Toke lifting his t-shirt, again , while the girls slithered all over him, tongues wagging and body parts jiggling. Joe knew this would be fleeting. Swiftly, I moved the lights to the dance floor. All eyes were on Lucy and the gang, with a crowd of hotel onlookers whispering, “Who’s that?” A few people recognized MC Toke. But nobody asked for an autograph. After a single song, MC again pushed away the camera lens.
“I’m out!” he said, linking his arm with Lucy’s and the other girls’ as they made their way into a private room and slammed the door
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