But Enough About Me (6 page)

I remembered as a teenager hurrying with Heather to catch the 1985 John Travolta movie,
Perfect,
the story of a
Rolling Stone
reporter, on opening weekend. The film commenced with Travolta as a restless reporter who
was plenty tired of working the obits desk of the
Jersey Journal.
He wanted more. At the time, I was an intern at
New Jersey Monthly
magazine, fact-checking a column called “Exit Ramp.”

“He's just like me,” I whispered to Heather.

Cut to Travolta a few years later in New York City, working as a reporter at
Rolling Stone.
I watched, openmouthed, as he interrupted his fast-paced life long enough to lunch with his boss, “Mark Ross,” played by Jann Wenner. Soon they started kicking around story ideas, because his mind was always going-going-going.

Travolta ogled some women who walked by in full-on eighties aerobics regalia: candy-pink butt-floss bodysuits, puffy Olivia Newton-John “Let's Get Physical” headbands. “Why not do a story about how health clubs are turning into the singles bars of the eighties?” he says. How, I marveled, was he able to just pluck that idea out of the air?

“Mark” mulls the pitch over for about a nanosecond. “Hot tubs? Alfalfa sprouts?” he muses. “We haven't done California in a long time.”

Next, we see Travolta at a Los Angeles health club, leering at “Slimnastics” instructor Jamie Lee Curtis. After she rebuffs him a few times, he finally wrangles a meal with her, but is unable to persuade her to be interviewed. After lunch, he is driving back to the Sunset Marquis hotel and pulls out a tape recorder. “Notes on lunch,” he announces briskly. “She's smart, but I've gotta be smarter.”

Later, he is introduced to a guy at the gym. “I loved your Carly Simon piece,” gushes the man.

“So did I,” John modestly replies.

I was mesmerized, utterly blind to the cheesy dialogue and hackneyed plot (no reporter in their right mind talks into a tape recorder, especially to say “Notes on lunch”).

“You could easily do that job,” whispered Heather, ever steadfast.

“Right,” I said. Surely I was just the kind of person
Rolling Stone
was searching for: a Jersey girl who pulled down B's and C's in a state school, with long hooker-red nails and a passable knowledge of music.

Meeting Amy was my chance. Emboldened by my seventh Old Milwaukee and inspired by the success story of a fellow Garden State girl, I asked if I could send her my résumé.

“Sure,” she said, scribbling down her address.

Ritchie spotted us chatting and wended his way over through a gauntlet of high-fives.

“What's crappenin'?” he said, slinging his arms around both of us.

“I'm bothering your friend here about a job at
Rolling Stone,
” I said, flashing her what I hoped was a warm, conspiratorial smile.

Ritchie squeezed Amy's shoulders more tightly. “She doesn't need to work at
Rolling Stone,
” he said. “My girl is doing just fine right where she is.” He gave me a loud kiss on the cheek, the kind that goes on for a full minute until everyone around you is uncomfortable.

I smiled at her.
Ignore him,
I telegraphed.

Ritchie's brother-in-law Raymond, still in his green maintenance-worker uniform, barreled over and pulled me down next to him on a beer-stained plaid couch. He pointed at the window. “Look over there,” he said loudly. “It's a bunch of seagulls flapping at the window, trying to get in. You should probably close your legs.”

“Raymond!” I hollered, punching him. I was so loose, so free!

“I'm just jokin' with ya,” he said, enveloping me in a b.o.-scented bear hug while Amy looked on.

I figured Amy would chuck my résumé in the trash, but a few weeks later, I was flabbergasted to receive a call from someone in the magazine's editorial department, asking if I was interested in interviewing for a job as an editorial assistant. It wasn't very dignified to have my mom answer the phone, but I put on my best professional, slightly nonchalant voice.

“Tuesday?” I said. “Let's see…” I pretended to check a date book while my mother hovered.

“What?” she hissed. “What are they saying?”

“Ah,” I said smoothly. “Yes, Tuesday works.”

Why, you may well ask, do I get so nervous before interviews? They are, after all, just people, right? Mostly, it's money-related jitters: If celebrities do not supply the amusing quotes that the story requires, the story could be killed and I will not get paid. There is a realistic danger that, during the measly forty-five minutes I am allotted for our chat, a famous person will take it into their head to natter about some subject that I cannot possibly use in the story: where they were on September 11, for instance. For years afterward, famous people would steer the conversation toward the Tragic Event, and I would think,
Oh no. Please, no. I can't use this, and everybody in America has a September 11 story, and it's very hard to interrupt you people when you get rolling. Just give me the funny on-set anecdote and let's call it a day.
There are so many conversational sand traps that could eat up a precious fifteen minutes, from new-age philosophies to complaining about paparazzi to the hands-down most dreaded topic among interviewers, My Craft. It always placates actors if you toss them a throwaway question or two about their acting process, but as it is hard to get them to stop, it is best to avoid the subject altogether.

Then there is the familiarity factor. When someone who is weirdly familiar is cranky, it's disconcerting. I am a shy person and acutely aware of
the barest flicker of moods in others. I wish I could be one of those Teflon interviewers who can obliviously stick a mic in someone's face without noticing their defensiveness, but I can't. I can only relax once they do.

Sometimes, if the star is of particularly high wattage, I need a little extra help. That's when I pop a brand of pills from the health food store called Calms. They basically quiet the screaming in my head without a buzzy, druggy feeling. Who knows, maybe they're placebos, but I find that my hands aren't quite as Niagara Falls–like if I've gulped down two or three Calms. I recommend them to tamp down anxiety in all but the most hard-core instances. Which, in my case, was my interview with Madonna.

When I heard I was going to have a sit-down with arguably the most famous person in the world, you can best believe I hotfooted to the health food store and bought two bottles of Calms, particularly after one of the people at her record company advised me not to act afraid, because she smells fear, like a dog.

I could understand perfectly why she wouldn't want to deal with people who quake in terror. It must get tedious, joking that you “won't bite.” But while I could empathize, I was still paralyzed with terror when I traveled to her Maverick Records office in Los Angeles. Most women in their twenties and thirties who have grown up with her have a proprietary relationship with her that transcends fandom. My friends and I have maintained this connection even as our interest in other stars has quickly faded. To this day, I will read any item on her and study any photo with the zeal of a Talmudic scholar.

As I headed over in a tele-car, I realized with alarm that the Calms had not kicked in at all. From here on in, I vowed, I would get a prescription for a nice tranquilizer. I gulped my fourth Calms, which lodged in my throat. Goddamn Calms! Maybe I just needed to build up some residue in my system and then they would work.

My hands, as usual, were sweating. Lord, what if she shakes my hand? I rapidly clapped my hands in order to dry them off, as the driver glanced sharply at me in the rearview. Why didn't I bring a tissue? I inspected my palms in the lurid California sunshine. They were glistening.

The driver stomped on his brakes. “Son of a bitchin' bast'!” he screamed. What was that dialect? And what was he distressed about? There were no other cars on the road. I looked for a squirrel, or a bird. Nothing. He was not helping my nerves.

I leaned forward and asked the driver for a tissue. “I don't haf, miss,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks, anyway.”

“I don't haf.” Colombia? Russia? Iceland?

“Right. Well, thanks.”

“Glove deportment. But I don't. I'm still the King.”

“Right.” Now my hands were sweating in earnest, because we didn't have a language barrier but a sanity barrier. God, if only this were a restaurant interview! Then I would use one of my little hand-drying tips, which I pass on to you: Get there first, order a cold drink, and clutch it in your palms so that they stay cool. Use the condensation on the drink as a hand bath, and then, when it's time for the Big Shake, swipe your hand on a cloth napkin as a sort of abbreviated wash and dry. Maybe I could request a can of soda or something from an assistant. Or maybe Madonna wouldn't shake hands. A lot of famous people are germophobes. Again, who can blame them? All those clammy hands that you must shake in a meet-and-greet, encrusted with God knows what? Yecch.

We passed a parks employee, desultorily sweeping the sidewalk.
I wish I were you,
I thought fervently.
Sweep, sweep, sweep. Aaand repeat. Why can't I be you?
(This had also been directed at my cat, curled up in a tranquil ball as I left the house for the airport.) We traveled onward, passing a taco hut. Its patrons stared blankly out the plate glass window.
I'd rather be you, or you, or you. Even you, with the port-wine stain.
In three hours it will all be over. In three hours it will all be over. Please, Jesus, let her be in a good mood. Some people love being driven around in a limo, but the only time I ever take them are on the tense, gloomy journeys to interviews, so to me, they're the Transportation of the Damned. Well, with one exception. After I finished up a dinner interview with Melissa Etheridge, easily the nicest person I have
ever profiled, she had her driver drop her off at her Los Angeles home before continuing on to my hotel. As she said her good-byes, she told me that she had paid for the limo for the rest of the evening, so if I wanted to go somewhere, I should feel free.

“I'm starving,” I admitted to the driver, a large, easygoing guy named Rodney.

He laughed. “Didn't you just eat?”

“I never really eat at interviews,” I said. “Are you hungry, by chance?”

“I am, actually,” he said.

“I could go for a cheeseburger. Or maybe some barbecue.” After an interview, I always liked to treat myself to something hi-cal. I had planned to get an ice-cream sundae from room service.

“I know of a great barbecue place,” he said, brightening. “But it's not in a part of town that you would consider nice.”

“I'll treat if you take me,” I replied. Off we went, Rodney and I. He was amazed to see how much pulled pork I could put away.

I was jolted back to the present tense when the driver stomped the brakes once again. Jitters. Jitters. After the fretting part, the self-chastisement. Christ, it's not a medical procedure. It's just a profile. How about some perspective? And how about not praying to Jesus with a request to put some celebrity in a good mood, when clearly He has more pressing problems? Plus, remember your pledge that you would only pray to thank Him for your good health and wonderful life, so as to get on His good side, and save up a prayer coupon for only the big stuff.

This is inevitably followed by an out-of-body feeling. How on earth did I get this job? Clearly, I'm not at all qualified. But who is? What are the qualifications? I'm from Jersey, for Christ's sake. Although isn't everyone from Jersey? Is Long Island really that different? Is Philly? The driver stomped the brakes again. “You're foot-sick!” he screamed to no one.

As the car finally rolled up to Madonna's office, I had the familiar panicky feeling of wanting to leap out and just sprint down the street. Well, what if I did? What would happen? Would the world end? No, it would not. I looked
at my watch. Oh, Lord, we're twenty minutes early.
Don't be late,
the record company person told me. Apparently Madonna, ever the professional, did not tolerate tardiness and had even canceled interviews because of it.

I had to go to the bathroom. My hands! Ugh, they were like soft, moist frogs. I had to do something—otherwise she would shake my hand, be repulsed, and the interview would be over before it started. The more I concentrated on them, the wetter they would be. For the love of Pete, think of something else! Something! Else!

I wondered if I should wait in the car. Yes. It's better than hanging around some lobby, pretending to examine the prints on the wall. Plus, I might faint. She was just too famous. A sitcom star, that I could handle. This was something else entirely. “Sir?” I said. “I'm just going to wait here for a few minutes, if you don't mind.”

One staring eye, meshed with veins, was visible in the rearview mirror. Why wouldn't he turn around?

“On second thought, I'm going in.” I walked into the lobby, which had a large photo of Madonna's eyes on the wall. All the men in the office were sleekly trendy, the women less so. The receptionist told me to take a seat. In my head I went over my questions, which I had memorized. If you consult a list of questions, it tends to break the momentum and your chat will be less conversational. You want to at least create the illusion that you are simply two friends or associates having a nice little confab. Although, as I reminded myself, I had to remember to start off with questions about her album. Always, always lead with queries about the person's project, the reason why they are granting the interview. If the questions are not presented reassuringly up front, your subject will get visibly riled.

An assistant broke my trance. “Hiiiii,” she said. “So Madonna's ready for you.” I couldn't breathe, but I followed her down the hallway, surreptitiously wiping my hand on my sleeve. If only it were the fifties and I could wear gloves. What else did the publicist say?
No chitchat. Get right down to business.
Which I can respect. Why bother with the blah-blah? We both had a job to do.

We were in her office and oh Christ, there she was. I had probably seen her face more often than I have seen my own. Smells fear! Like a dog, smells fear! Dog! Fear! Smelling fear! Run away run away run away!

I shook her hand and looked her in the eye. At that point, I was so filled with terror that my body reversed its natural inclinations and my palms were bone dry. “Hello,” she said. Cordial, but all business. As usual with every single famous person except Clint Eastwood and Uma Thurman, I found that she was smaller in person: five foot two. And, at the time, pregnant with little Rocco. It was odd to see her heavily pregnant, because despite being one of the globe's most photographed women, hardly any photos existed of her with child, assumedly not a coincidence. Because she didn't look like the image I had of her, I was almost able to pretend she was someone else. This quieted the internal screaming, somewhat.

Time to show my lack of fear. Deep breath! “I just read an interview in which you complained about your adult acne,” I said, scanning her face. “What a load of shit! That's just something you say to make us feel better about ourselves.” Sassy, yet unctuous! I saw her smile a little. Good. Then I pulled out my I Get You question, about a book that I remembered she wanted to option for a film years ago, Jeanette Winterson's
The Passion,
which I, too, had loved. What came of it? I asked, and she sprang to life, telling me that she once wrote a letter to the author and never heard back, and how disappointed she was.

Then I started right in with questions about her new album as she slowly, gingerly lowered her pregnant body into a chair. It made her uncharacteristically vulnerable, and slightly less frightening than she would have been in her
Sex
book days. At one point, a crazy montage of all of her videos, films, and life events flashed through my mind, unbidden
—Remember that video when she was a redhead? What was that?
“
Fever,
”
right—
and with a Herculean effort, I tamped it down. Four questions down. Good. Good. Then it happened: As she talked away, I realized that I couldn't remember my next query. My notebook was in the car in the car in the car, and when she finished talking about how her spiritual quest informed the album, we were just going to stare at each other in hideous silence.

Take it easy, I counseled myself. Pull out some lightweight emergency questions that you usually reserve for interviewees who keep checking their watch. Usually it is the first time they have heard these questions, so they are fun for your subject to answer, and you can avoid the dreaded prerehearsed response. No one wants to answer for the three thousandth time the question about her musical influences, or how this album is different from the last one. Instead: What did you think about before falling asleep last night? What day did you see your parents differently? What smells remind you of childhood? What can't your friends tease you about? When is the last time that you were truly content?

I threw a reliable one at her (what was your worst high school job?) to gain some time until the other questions finally reappeared in my head. She answered immediately that it was cleaning houses, and it was gross, and she had to clean the toilet bowls of boys she went to school with. Then I shored things up with a few more album questions. As the end of our chat loomed all too quickly, I peppered her with the kind of regular old lifestyle questions that I, and all of my friends, were curious about: What was the last movie you rented? (At the time, it was Ice Cube's
Last Friday
because it was her husband's, Guy's, turn to pick.) Do you ever cook at home? No, but she helped out Guy by adding “accessories” to the salad.

“Accessories?” I said. “What, like a belt and gloves?” Look—she's laughing!

We moved on to her pregnancy. She said mournfully that her doctor informed her that she couldn't exercise, and she couldn't go out or wear cool clothes or go dancing and she just felt like “a domesticated cow.” I nodded sympathetically, pretending I was her girlfriend and she was confiding in me, like she did with Sandra Bernhard in
Truth or Dare,
when she was saying that there was no one left to meet because she had met everybody.