Read Online But Enough About Me by Jancee Dunn - Free Book Online Page B

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.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Thanks, anyway.”
    â€œI don’t haf.” Colombia? Russia? Iceland?
    â€œRight. Well, thanks.”
    â€œGlove deportment. But I don’t. I’m still the King.”
    â€œRight.” 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 haveever profiled, she had her driver