28 October 2005 I've been here 6 weeks and I could have gotten here yesterday. Except my liver is six weeks older. Or six years older. So many stories to tell, I just need to sit still long enough to type them. Just so I remember myself, here are some of them:
20 October 2005 Here's an article from some magazine in Britain. I know pretty much everyone in the story including the guy who wrote it. Complete pack of lies though. Booze is not dirt cheap here, in fact we're facing a major supply chain crisis and almost reduced to drinking campari. And the people at the toga party were not wearing nothing but togas, I had some lovely Victoria's Secret lingerie on underneath mine. 14 October 2005 I managed to get an article done for the MV Voice. Check it out. 6 October 2005 I'm back in Kabul. Yes, I said I was never coming back. And you believed me? Working 57 jobs like the Jamaican family on In Living Color. This working all day and partying all night is killing me, I'm too old for this. But just a few more nights... More in between here soon... 6 - 8 September 2005 In New York City for 3 of the most glamorous days of my life. Well, the Hotel Pennsylvania wasn't exactly glamorous I got stuck in the elevator and slept on a cot because the bed was so hard. But it's all about location and mid town is my part of town. Spent 3 days zooming around the city meeting with publishers telling the same stories over and over to try to sell the book I haven't written. It's just like a campaign except it doesn't go on for a year. It was an incredible experience. For the briefest few days I had a 6-figure book deal with Random House. It was thrilling. I don't have a book deal anymore, we won't discuss that, but dammit, I had a 6-figure book deal! Then the Vogue photoshoot! The fitting the first day was an experience, getting dressed and undressed in a big room with people just walking in and out. Good thing I have no modesty. It's tougher for them looking at me I figure. When the "Stylist" called me a few weeks before I had sent her all my sizes. A 6, sometimes an 8, shoes 6 1/2. So she had everything ready - an entire rack of size 4 clothes and size 8aaa shoes. What is up with that? They have samples that all the designers want them to show in the magazine and I guess my 120 pounds is over the top. And the clothes? They were a lot of designers I recognized like Oscar de la Renta, Prada, Isaac Mizrahi and others, but who put those labels on these clothes? They were the most hideous collection of old-lady stuff I've ever seen. And none of it combined to a matching outfit. And of course none of it fit. They kept telling me the photo wouldn't show the back, so most of the time the clothes were just tied closed across the back with a piece of dental floss. Breathing optional. And the shoes? 87 inch high heals and about 1 inch wide. My toes were black and blue. Well mostly just blue from blood constriction. So the Stylist kept asking me to pick out something I liked and I wanted to make her take me to the Gap. Then the actual photoshoot a few days later. It started out so glamorous, I was in the big loft studio with floor to ceiling windows all around with great views and this huge white thing just hanging down in the middle of the room. And the make-up artist. And the hair stylist. And the photographer. Oh, and the Stylist. I think she really thought everything was wonderful. After the fitting she promised me she would find more youthful looking clothes that actually might fit. Instead, she raided Nancy Reagan's closet. I swear I've seen Nancy Reagan in each and every one of those articles of clothing. Not together though, Nancy's outfits actually matched. I was looking forward to this for so long, I was going to look so young and well dressed and beautiful. And I looked like Bea Arthur. They put my hair up in this hairdo, put these mismatched Nancy Reagan clothes on me and I took one look at myself and started to cry. Really cry. Couldn't stop crying for like a half hour. While the photographer and his assistant, the hair stylist, the make up artist, the Stylist and her assistant are all standing around wondering what to do. Everyone got it except the Stylist. Just didn't get it. She said I would have to compromise. Well, no, I'm not a model being paid to wear some designer's ugly clothes. I'm just getting a picture taken for a piece I'm doing which is supposed to make me look nice. So, no, I don't have to compromise if compromise means I look like Barbara Bush. Eventually the photographer stepped in, a truly awesome guy. Had them take my hair down, re-do my make-up and put me in a plain black dress and started taking pictures. It was just like the movies. He's just talking to me, taking pictures, I'm making all kinds of different faces, moving my body, click click click. The music wasn't any good, but after the meltdown over the clothes I wasn't going to say anything. After that it got better because I just gave up a little and tried to deal with the clothes. The makeup artist was so sweet, I just kept looking at her and she would just laugh and make me smile. She's been there before, you can tell. Overall it was an experience. And if I ever did it again I would make sure that I didn't get to the actual photoshoot without liking the outfits that were picked out. Then off to JFK in a black towncar to catch my Emirates flight to Dubai. Quick stop in Our Lady of the Skies chapel and on my way. |
