watched things fall into place. With barely a second to spare, MC Toke and his fellow gangstas were rumbling down thestairs of the private jet, arms in the air, saying “holla!” for all the world to hear. Joe recorded everything, with me directing in the background. Like Leopold Stokowski with his 200-piece symphony orchestra, I was expertly performing my own free-form Fantasia .
“Just me and the Kittens,” said MC, wrapping his arms around the girls and slapping their asses as they loaded into our fancy white limo. Smiling widely for the cameras, he showed off a gold-plated grill. “Gonna be a good day,” he declared.
Joe and I ducked into the limo, delicately stepping over legs, extra-large designer purses, high-top running shoes, and stiletto heels. Joe set himself up neatly in the front of the limo and pointed his camera to the back, where MC Toke had sandwiched himself between the girls. His bodyguard sat on the long side-seat, stretching out his tree-trunk sized arms and legs, oblivious to the fact my TV crew might have needed a little more room. I sat on one butt-cheek, squashed between a tripod, sound gear, and some serious gangsta legs, making log notes of the conversation.
Time Code 1:05:03: Lucy: “MC, you are so sexy.”
MC Toke: “Holla, babe.”
Tasha: “Can I feel your arms?”
Lucy: “Yeah, take off your shirt!”
MC: “Now that’s how we do.”
TC 1:05:22 – ***MC Toke removes shirt, girls rub his chest, Lucy kisses his nipple, girls laugh, MC Toke barks like a dog.
I’d triple-starred the entry, thinking this was exactly the kind of stuff CRP-TV audiences wanted to see. As for their smoking a big fat dube and clouding up the limo, probably not usable, but Joe rolled on it just in case we wanted to use the audio.
After two hours of cruising up and down Sunset Boulevard, we landed at the newly redesigned Mondrian Hotel Sky Bar. Koi, an established A-list hang-out, I’d since learned, wouldn’t let us shoot there, though they did invite us to camp out front with the paparazzi. As far as I was concerned, the Mondrian, with its chic interior, luminescent marble, bamboo-linedexteriors, and crisp white furniture, was a true get. The manager allowed Joe to set up a rather obstructive light fixture beside MC’s table for a little quality control—video footage in a dimly lit bar would, according to Joe, end up unacceptably grainy and look totally amateurish. The club even dimmed its music for us. Satisfied and still aflutter from my “ILU” text, I was about to order myself a celebratory drink when Lucy grabbed my arm.
“We’ve got to shut the lights off,” she commanded. “MC doesn’t like the bright lights on him. He says it’s harshin’ him.”
“But there’s not enough ambient light,” I said politely. “If we shut the lights off, we can’t shoot you.”
“It works in the movies,” Lucy said bluntly.
“But that’s film. Video will look grainy, assuming we get a picture at all.”
“Well, I guess you’ll have to figure it out,” she said with a huff, the music now full bore. “Just turn the lights off or we’re out.”
“You realize,” I said, “that this is your show.” As in you, the host, your gig, your series, your future, make it or break it.
Lucy waved her hand in the air, as if to say “later,” and strutted irritably toward the bathroom.
The only hope I had of getting any decent footage in the club was to sweet-talk MC Toke. As I walked toward the table, I wondered how he could possibly be interested in anything I might have to say while surrounded by uber-girls with impossibly low body fat, humongous breasticles, sparkling white chompers, and flawless complexions. A small part of me was hoping that, up close, these nudie models would look plastic, maybe even slightly inhuman, like creatures from Jupiter, such that I might look fresh and natural next to them, but I knew that was wishful thinking.
I took a deep breath. “Um, MC? I’m sorry
“Just me and the Kittens,” said MC, wrapping his arms around the girls and slapping their asses as they loaded into our fancy white limo. Smiling widely for the cameras, he showed off a gold-plated grill. “Gonna be a good day,” he declared.
Joe and I ducked into the limo, delicately stepping over legs, extra-large designer purses, high-top running shoes, and stiletto heels. Joe set himself up neatly in the front of the limo and pointed his camera to the back, where MC Toke had sandwiched himself between the girls. His bodyguard sat on the long side-seat, stretching out his tree-trunk sized arms and legs, oblivious to the fact my TV crew might have needed a little more room. I sat on one butt-cheek, squashed between a tripod, sound gear, and some serious gangsta legs, making log notes of the conversation.
Time Code 1:05:03: Lucy: “MC, you are so sexy.”
MC Toke: “Holla, babe.”
Tasha: “Can I feel your arms?”
Lucy: “Yeah, take off your shirt!”
MC: “Now that’s how we do.”
TC 1:05:22 – ***MC Toke removes shirt, girls rub his chest, Lucy kisses his nipple, girls laugh, MC Toke barks like a dog.
I’d triple-starred the entry, thinking this was exactly the kind of stuff CRP-TV audiences wanted to see. As for their smoking a big fat dube and clouding up the limo, probably not usable, but Joe rolled on it just in case we wanted to use the audio.
After two hours of cruising up and down Sunset Boulevard, we landed at the newly redesigned Mondrian Hotel Sky Bar. Koi, an established A-list hang-out, I’d since learned, wouldn’t let us shoot there, though they did invite us to camp out front with the paparazzi. As far as I was concerned, the Mondrian, with its chic interior, luminescent marble, bamboo-linedexteriors, and crisp white furniture, was a true get. The manager allowed Joe to set up a rather obstructive light fixture beside MC’s table for a little quality control—video footage in a dimly lit bar would, according to Joe, end up unacceptably grainy and look totally amateurish. The club even dimmed its music for us. Satisfied and still aflutter from my “ILU” text, I was about to order myself a celebratory drink when Lucy grabbed my arm.
“We’ve got to shut the lights off,” she commanded. “MC doesn’t like the bright lights on him. He says it’s harshin’ him.”
“But there’s not enough ambient light,” I said politely. “If we shut the lights off, we can’t shoot you.”
“It works in the movies,” Lucy said bluntly.
“But that’s film. Video will look grainy, assuming we get a picture at all.”
“Well, I guess you’ll have to figure it out,” she said with a huff, the music now full bore. “Just turn the lights off or we’re out.”
“You realize,” I said, “that this is your show.” As in you, the host, your gig, your series, your future, make it or break it.
Lucy waved her hand in the air, as if to say “later,” and strutted irritably toward the bathroom.
The only hope I had of getting any decent footage in the club was to sweet-talk MC Toke. As I walked toward the table, I wondered how he could possibly be interested in anything I might have to say while surrounded by uber-girls with impossibly low body fat, humongous breasticles, sparkling white chompers, and flawless complexions. A small part of me was hoping that, up close, these nudie models would look plastic, maybe even slightly inhuman, like creatures from Jupiter, such that I might look fresh and natural next to them, but I knew that was wishful thinking.
I took a deep breath. “Um, MC? I’m sorry
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