Kate Moss stood in the elevator of the Hilton on Park Lane in London as it rose to the penthouse suite floor. She was alone, wearing a black skirt cut about six inches above her knees and white tank top with string shoulder straps. The top was tight, hugging Kate’s round orange-size breasts. Her left hand held the top of a half empty bottle of Moet and Chandon Dom Perignon champagne, her left arm hung low burdened with the bottle, her back leaned against the rear of the elevator cab. Her right hand gripped the brass rail that ran around the cab. Kate’s drinking this evening had gotten a bit out of hand. The champagne bottle in Kate’s hand was the second one being worked on. A Gauloise cigarette was burning in Kate’s puffy lips, the non-filtered tip in Kate’s mouth, the smoke rising into her face. She glanced up at the “No Smoking” sign and smiled. Signs did not mean anything to her. They had become silly. There did not seem to be any consequences to her behavior, bad or otherwise, and so she had decided to do whatever she liked.
The elevator doors opened and Kate walked down the hallway, occasionally tipping toward one side or the other, touching the wall as she moved to prevent herself from falling. She giggled. I mean, afterall, she was celebrating. That bitch Scarlett Johansson actually thought Chanel was going to use her instead of the great and beautiful Kate Moss. When Kate had received the diamond earrings from Alain Wertheimer, the Chairman of Chanel, apologizing for the unfortunate initial decision made by the Chanel CEO, Francoise Montenay, to cancel her modeling contract, Kate smiled. She called her agent, who called Chanel, who renegotiated her contract, upping Kate’s compensation by a million pounds per year. That stupid little photograph of her snorting cocaine led to a series of events that made her more money.
Kate’s cigarette was burned down to its last quarter centimeter, with a good two centimeters of burned ash still protruding from the front, sloping down. Kate removed the Gauloise from her mouth and tossed it onto the corridor rug. It hit with a little bounce, but continued to burn. So what. Let it burn. There are no consequences, and she was celebrating. Kate removed the key card from her hidden skirt pocket and opened her hotel suite door. The lights turned on automatically in the hotel suite. That’s cute, thought Kate. The hotel room was being paid courtesy of Chanel as an additional gift for welcoming her back to the perfume company. The French; Kate loved them. As if the one million pounds were not enough. They had to give the hotel suite for a week as well as the earrings. Like she really needed it. But hell, with the Zeta Bar downstairs giving her the two bottles of Dom Perignon for free, plus the bowl of strawberries and the two Pina Coladas, which she asked for, Kate had decided to make a nice celebratory weekend of it without the intrusion of Pete Doherty or anyone else.
Kate closed the door behind her and took a swig of champagne directly from the bottle. She placed the bottle down on the thick glass coffee table that sat between two large leather couches. The window beyond had a commanding view of the Mayfair district of London. A wicker gift basket with a card attached was on the coffee table. Another gift? She leaned down, but then lost her balance and fell to the floor. Kate laughed. In public, such moments were embarrassing. But in private, she could be sloppy and drunk and silly, and it all amused her. She noticed that the left string strap holding her tank top snapped, causing the top to fall below her left breast. She hoisted herself up and felt no modesty about her exposed breast. Why should she. She was alone with herself. She was sitting on the floor next to the coffee table. She pulled off her black pumps and massaged the bottom of her feet. This made her laugh too because she felt nothing. Her feet were numb but for some reason this did not bother her. It was the champagne, Kate concluded.
Kate turned her attention to the gift basket and opened the small white envelope and removed a note card. On the card was written with a fountain pen in blue ink “Please accept my apologies.” No signature. OK. Now who is this? More people apologizing to her. Alain Wertheimer had already showered her with expensive apologies. Maybe this was Francoise Montenay, the Frenchman that decided to fire her, then was vetoed by the boss, Alain.
Kate reached into the basket and pulled out a bottle of Chanel No. 5. You’ve got to be kidding me. This is what whoever sent me to apologize? She doesn’t even wear the stuff, except when she has to. The idiot. Wait. Wait. What’s this. Kate pulled out a plastic Ziploc bag which contained a white powder, a healthy amount of white powder, possibly the size of a large cigar.
To Be Continued.
Hi Dixie Chicks. This is Jesus. I hope you do not mind my method of communication, using a text message. It is the most convenient means for me to communicate. These days I have lots of options, but texting is most cost effective. Plus, I got an advanced version of the Motorola Q and I wanted to try it out.
I just want you to know that I am aware of the difficulties you are having with your colleagues in the music business as well as lots of people in the media, not to mention the public at large. I sympathize. But to be perfectly honest, I would not be writing but for one simple fact: your music is great. Your new album “Taking The Long Way” is number one here where I reside, and even the Old Man likes it, and He is not even a country music fan. I told Him that your music is not just country music, that it is bigger than that, broader, more eclectic. But like most sons talking to their fathers, He does not seem to get it. All He knows is that He likes it. And quite frankly, I have to obtain another copy of your album because I have not been able to get mine back from Dad. I am thinking of getting my hands on an iPod and downloading your album. Can you download a whole album from iTunes?
I have just a few comments to help you through this rough patch. You are always right to be honest with yourselves and with the people who listen to your music, not to mention your loved ones and friends. If I may make a suggestion, and please do forgive the presumption that I might have anything useful for you, but if you feel the urge to talk about issues and other things that trouble you, that make you angry, that make you sad, that make you happy, or anything that moves you, then I strongly suggest that you channel that energy into your music and NOT into a speech or talk shows or interviews. Do not feel like you have to explain yourselves to the public. Let the music do your talking. Channel the passion into your music and you will do just fine. In fact, if you keep writing music like you did on “Taking The Long Way,” then you will do better than just fine. You will do great.
One last thing. The Old Man mentioned that He really likes “Easy Silence” particularly because all of all the craziness going on. He says that’s what humankind needs right now, some “easy silence.”
Sorry. One more thing. Don’t tell anyone you got this text message from me. They will just think you are nuts and it will be yet another reason for them to make fun of you. Don’t give them anymore reasons. Just give them music. Bye.
Karl Rove sat in one of the opposing couches in the Oval Office. He was fully dressed in a Navy blue business suit, with white shirt and red tie. Today he also had gold cuff links, each in the shape of a waving United States flag. A US flag was pinned to the lapel of his blazer. He was reading the sports section of the Washington Times.
George W. Bush emerged from the curved door to the private Oval Office bathroom. He was wearing pin-striped boxer shorts and black socks. Nothing else.
“Hey, I didn’t know anyone was here,” said President Bush.
“The Nationals won,” said Rove.
“Oh, crikey, like I really care about the Nationals. I am not a DC guy. Tell me about the Astros,” said the President.
“What are you doing undressed in the Oval Office, George? This is your office. You are supposed to get dressed in your bedroom upstairs,” said Rove.
The President picked up the white Oxford shirt thrown on the back of the couch that was opposite Rove. He placed his arms in the shirtsleeves and started to button up.
“I came down in my PJs and took a shower in the Oval Office bathroom. Is that OK with you,” said the President.
“It’s Memorial Day. I say we go to some funerals,” said Rove.
“I hate funerals. Let’s go to Walter Reed Hospital,” said the President.
“Wrong holiday for that. This is Memorial Day, not Veterans Day,” said Rove.
“What? We can’t memorialize our veterans?” asked the President.
“Veterans are not dead. A veteran is alive,” said Rove.
“A dead veteran is not a veteran?” asked the President.
“George, George…it is about time we do the funeral thing. We are over 2,500 dead in Iraq. Thirteen bodies were flown in over the weekend. I have arranged for one of them to have an Arlington burial,” said Rove.
“It is not life affirming. I would rather go to Walter Reed and visit our soldiers who are alive, Karl. And maybe while we are there, one of them might die, and we can do the memorial thing,” said the President.
“There’s no symbolic value to that. Death in a hospital is private and has not pageantry,” said Rove.
By now, George W. Bush was working his red and blue diagonally striped tie over buttoned white shirt, but he was still in his boxers and black socks.
“Actually, is there a baseball game today. That has symbolic value,” said the President.
“What is it with you and cemeteries?” asked Rove.
“I am not going to a cemetery. And I do not want to be near a coffin. OK. You got that,” said the President.
“Listen to me, George. This is Memorial Day. We are memorializing thousands, damn near a million American men and women who died either in the service of battle or after they have completed their service. That includes the 50,000 who are dead from Viet Nam, 35,000 in the Korean War, 300,000 in World War Two, 100,000 in World War One, 500,000 in the Civil War, and 5,000 in the Revolutionary War. We are only up to 2,500 in Iraq, so to concentrate on the dead of all of America’s wars makes the Iraq War seem small,” said Rove.
George W. Bush slipped on his pants.
“How many died in my Daddy’s War?” asked the President.
“By “Daddy’s War” you are referring to the Gulf War, not the war your father fought in?” asked Rove.
“Yes. Yes, how many,” asked the President.
“Less than 200,” said Rove.
“Jeeez. Less than 200,” said the President.
“The Spanish American War was less than 500,” said Rove.
“So what do we do about that? That makes Iraq look bad,” said the President.
“We do not talk about the Gulf War or the Spanish American War. We talk about all the others. It puts Iraq in perspective,” said Rove.
“Good. I feel better already. Keep me having a good perspective, Karl. But I am still not going to a cemetery,” said the President.
“Think of Arlington like a park with little memorials all in nice neat rows. Don’t think about what is underground,” said Rove.
“A park, huh. OK. Arlington National Park. Got it. What’s for breakfast?” asked the President.
The Saudi Arabian institutions that school Saudi children in Islam and other subjects have started a pilot program of distrbuting iPods to its students, requiring them to download podcasts prepared for their education. The podcasts are rendered in Arabic and English, the latter being the foreign language taught to Saudi children. Click the link below to listen to a recent Saudi podcast in English.
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Michael Jackson was ushered into the back corridor of the Los Angeles Forum by four large white men dressed in black. Michael was wearing black pants and a white shirt. His hat had a large brim that hung with a lazy bounce over his eyes as he walked, almost glided, over the concrete floor. As Michael walked into the large arena he turned and saw Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone standing on a small square black shelf that supported her on the front of a large blue crucifix. Her arms were outstretched on crucifix like Jesus as two African American men adjusted her limbs and fiddled with wrist clamps. Scaffolding had been erected to the side by which Madonna and her assistants had been transported to the somewhat precariously high position they were currently in. Michael noticed that the makeshift elevator was about to go up and so her rushed over and hopped on, which carried him and a muscular girl with long blond hair pulled back tight in a pony tail who was carrying a bottle of water and wearing a red Kabbalah wrist band. The girl, wearing a tight sleeveless tank top, looked at Michael and recognized him immediately, but was already so surrounded by the celebrity of Madonna that she was not impressed by the fact that she was alone in a rising erector-set elevator with Michael Jackson.
“Maddy,” said Michael as the elevator arrived at the intersection of the huge blue crucifix. Madonna looked up. The blond Kabbalah girl leaned against the side of the elevator cab waiting for this little discussion to play itself out.
“What the–what are you doing here?” asked Madonna.
“I thought I would stop in to say hello. I heard you were doing something special,” said Michael.
“How does that feel?” asked one of the African American men who was clasping Madonna’s right wrist to a steel loop.
“It hurts. Maybe we should not actually do a clamp,” said Madonna.
“You doing a crucifixion. Cool,” said Michael. The blond Kabbalah girl resisted rolling her eyes.
“It’s a multiple themed show. So the last I heard you were running around looking like an Arab woman,” said Madonna.
“Yes. So what are the other themes of your show?” asked Michael.
“It’s a catholic-sado-masochistic-equine show,” said Madonna.
“Equine?” asked Michael.
“Horses, Michael,” said Madonna.
At that moment a man on the floor of the arena yelled up to Madonna: “The x-ray of your broken arm is now on the screen behind you. Is that how you want it to look?”
“I’ll look at it when I am down there,” yelled Madonna, annoyed that the idiot thought she could possibly see the enormous screen behind her while clamped to a crucifix. But Michael glanced up at the x-ray.
“That’s an x-ray of your arm?” said Michael.
“Yes. I am sharing,” said Madonna.
“Interesting,” said Michael.
“No, Michael, it is not interesting, it is brilliant. I am showing the real me while you hide the real you behind all that weirdo plastic surgery. You do not look the same. In fact, I cannot even look at you anymore,” said Madonna derisively.
“Oh, don’t say that. Please, no. I look the same. I am me,” said Michael.
“Look at me. I look the same. In fact, I look better than I did ten years ago,” Madonna said with her arms outstretched on the huge blue crucifix. One of the African Americans placed a thorny crown on Madonna’s head.
“Be careful, dammit,” said Madonna to the thorny crown guy who was adjusting it carefully on Madonna’s head.
The blond Kabbalah girl stepped forward. “You want some water? I have timed your last drink at 47 minutes ago. You are three minutes overdue,” said the Kabbalah girl.
“Yes. Give me a hit of water,” said Madonna. The blond Kabbalah girl raised the bottle to Madonna’s mouth as Madonna sucked out water. Water dripped down the side of her mouth which Madonna did not seem to notice.
“Michael, you have become a caricature of yourself. You have morphed into some weirdness that is offensive and disgusting,” said Madonna.
The two African American men turned with some sympathy for Michael who always seemed to anyone who ever met him as fragile as glass.
“Enough water,” said Madonna to the blond Kabbalah who walked back to her post in the elevator.
“No. No. Don’t say that, please. Please. I am fine, really. I am feeling fine,” said Michael.
“Who the fuck is talking about how you feel. I’m talking about how you are. How you look. Have you looked in the fucking mirror?,” said Madonna. Michael was taken aback by Madonna’s verbal attack. The awkwardness of Madonna’s words made the African American men uncomfortable, but they did their best to cover it.
“OK, take these goddam clamps off my wrists. We are not doing clamps. I will place my wrists in open rests and act like I am clamped. I’ll act it dammit. Who the fuck came up with the idea of clamps?” said Madonna.
Michael walked back into the elevator. “It was nice to see you again, Maddy. Good luck with your show. It looks very special,” said Michael. The blond Kabbalah girl grabbed the lever that started to lower the elevator cab, taking Michael and her down. Madonna’s arms were now free as she massaged her wrists.
“Michael, look at me. Look at me. I am normal. In great shape, and I look in the mirror constantly to check in on how normal I am and how fucking great I look. You should start looking at yourself honestly. You are too talented to waste on your narcissism,” yelled Madonna down at Michael Jackson as he alighted from the elevator cab and walked briskly toward the back corridor of the Los Angeles Forum ushered by the four white men in black that he arrived with.
“OK, let me see that x-ray of my broken arm,” yelled Madonna down at the man on the arena floor with the thorny crown on her head and water dripping from her chin.
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