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Whitney's Song: Every Teenaged Girl in America Wants To Be Me By Pirategrrl (c) 2000 1. SMUGNESS IS NOT HAPPINESS. "New message, left today at 11:35 am," the quasi-sexy voice cooed as I checked my voicemail messages from behind my desk. The snottiest, most overeducated assistant I ever had used to call it my Ayn Rand desk; gleaming metal, dominating the landscape of my office with swoops of stainless steel, black marble and ego, covered in the monuments of my importance as a sports agent, topped with my name - Billy Ackright - in buzzing blue neon script. I cradled the phone, and leaned back to listen to the first message. "... that fucker is a pig. Sorry for the cursing, but Ackright is a slovenly little man who gets along by bullying and intimidating people." That would be the voice of Jerry Dimitroff, an accountant who hates me. I laughed. "Yeah, I bet he was beaten up a lot as a young kid." That was the Midwestern nasal twang of Anna Friedke, one of the bevy of lawyers for the other side. I wondered what that tight-pooned attorney would be like as a spite-driven conquest fuck. Laughter. That would be their faceless drones of assistants, chuckling at a socially appropriate moment, all at my expense. "All right, maybe we will just try him later." Beep. I leaned forward, my chair swiveling towards my desk and pushed seven. "Message deleted," said the voicemail whore voice. There must be some principle of psychology at work here, I thought, like when people write an email flaming someone and they subconsciously copy the subject of the flame. The people who left that message for me were a team of accountants and lawyers for a sporting goods company, trying to convene a spontaneous conference call to discuss one of my clients, Dwayne Steinberg, a professional wrestler who was sure to be the next big thing. But when the beep came and my voice mail kicked in, the assembled masses just kept talking, and the proceedings were all recorded. It's not as though I was surprised by any of this venom; whenever I was in the room with these people they acted as though I had been rolled in freshly crapped poodle poop. But it did knock me down a notch to hear these things, on tape, all directed at me. See, we were a small firm of sports agents, accountants and others who represented talent: musicians, athletes, actors, whatever. When you represented talented people who did not have business savvy, it was a challenge to demonstrate the value of your work. The best way to do that was to beat up on the accountants and lawyers for the big bad team. Sure, I had acquired a well deserved reputation as a difficult negotiator - maybe even as an asshole - but that is what the clients wanted. I exhaled and got over it. The "asshole act," as my ex-wife used to call my gruff exterior, was getting to the other side in this wrestler deal and soon they would start giving me points - extra revenue here, better scheduling there - which would make this more lucrative for my client. Because I worked on a percentage basis, the more my client got, the more I got. My bareknuckled approach to these deals was proof that your mother was wrong: I was catching flies with my vinegar, leaving my honey pot unopened. I leaned back in satisfaction, my hands behind my head as I tilted the chair back as far as it would go. In a moment of hubris, I pushed a little further, my tipping chair a metaphor for how I could push the corporate tools on the other side to their limit, then push a touch harder to get what I wanted. I should have known that you can push people, but you can't fuck with gravity. My chair tipped directly back and would have spilled me right on the floor were it not for the window sill. My head bounced once, maybe twice off the metal sill, exploding my field of vision from a clear view of the humming fluorescent lights in my ceiling into a vision of million tiny shards of stinging red, gray and black needles, before fading to snow as all awareness of my surroundings ebbed. 2. HAMSTERS EAT THEIR YOUNG. "Git up, you worthless piece of human hog slop!" The screechy voice was unfamiliar, and the accent was Southern. Way Southern. My eyelids were horse blankets, scratching a heavy weight across my vision. I was still trying to process my surroundings when I felt the first slap, stinging hard across my face. I was raising my hands, squeaking a "please," when the second slap backhanded me into a heap. A powerful hand gripped my hair and dragged me caveman style across a smooth, cool floor. After a fiery moment in which my scalp burned from the relentless pulling, the pain was replaced by shock, as I was thrown into a cold shower. "Don't you go startin in with that cryin now!" the unfamilar voice was coming from a woman, standing just outside the shower. She seemed enormous - taller than me, with her red hair teased into a cloud-like vision of trailer park couture. "Why are you looking at me?" She said. "Hurry up and git showered, you're already makin me late for rehearsal." I stood there dumbfounded, my senses slowly returning. But as I started to piece together my life from my last memory of being in my office, the redhead was in the shower with me, a cap over her teased 'do. "Dammit I'll betcha even expect me to shit for you too, don't you?" She had shampoo, and was rubbing it vigorously into my scalp. In my confusion, with my eyes closed, I could have sworn that my hair felt, well, bigger. My senses were overwhelmed, and anytime I tried to focus and think about what was going on, she would slap me, berate me or lather my head with some floral smelling cream. The shower over, she jumped out, and tossed me a towel. Through the curtain of dripping hair, lightning struck. Directly south of my chin, I had breasts. Not those jiggly man-boobies, that client dinners and a lack of exercise had grown on my hair-covered guy chest, but I was looking down at honest to Jesus tits. I was just staring at them, stunned, fascinated by how their smallish nipples rose from smooth, hairless flesh. I took the towel, and held them - my breasts - up closer, feeling their weight on my hands, and feeling the towel on them. I shrieked, an unfamiliar high pitched yelp. "What in the name of Reba McIntyre's hair colorist is the matter with you?" The hard hitting heavily accented woman looked over at me, and saw that I was cradling my breasts with the towel. "You're acting like you grew them overnight, which if any tabloid reporter asks, you did." I looked up at her, my eyes filled with the sort of terror reserved for procrastinating accountants with computer problems on the evening of April 15. "Well git over it girl, them things is going to make the next album platinum." After that, my mind shut down; there was too much sensory information to process. My higher brain functions, like the part of my consciousness that would ask questions like "what the fuck is going on" and "why do I have a nice rack" - stopped, and gave way to instinct. I was detached, putty in the hands of this drawling woman who chattered about albums, rehearsals and studio time as she pulled my hair into a pony tail, and squeezed me into an outfit that had as much fabric as a pair of tube socks. There was a white halter top, made from some sort of elastic material. It swept low across my cleavage, and extended for an inch or two below my breasts, leaving most of my firm stomach exposed. Next were a pair of heavily elasticized thong panties, and a hip hugging pair of shorts that did not even reach my belly button. Throw in a pair of high heeled sneakers, and some thin, white nylon girl socks and you have my ensemble. Walking out of the room, which turned out to be some sort of dressing suite, complete with a makeup table, costume rack and shower, I felt more than simply naked. I was on display and my clothes were the equivalent of the trusses that the natives used to offer Fay Wray to King Kong. My breasts were lifted by the nylon material, then exposed by the fact that the top was low cut. Whether it was the new weight distribution, the high heeled sneakers or the skin tight shorts, my walk was different, swaying in an unintentional come fuck me style familiar to anyone who has ever seen a streetwalker's ass swagger. We walked through dark hallways, passing sets, screens and props, when a sweaty, balding man with a clipboard and wearing a headset lept at the red-headed demon who had pummeled me. "Where have the two of you been?" the man shouted. His throbbing neck veins, burst facial capillaries and hand tremors made him look like the poster child for heart disease. "We have been waiting for almost half an hour to do the sound check." "Well little Ms. Precious here just could not be bothered to get ready," said the red head. "Besides, that dick suckin' cast of faggots that you call a backup band needs more time to pull its limp wristed shit together." "The word's queer, not faggot," said a well-muscled man behind a drum set, as a number of other people laughed. "Let's just end this little love fest, and try to pretend like we are going to do at least one sound check before every teenager on Long Island claws her way in here," the clipboard guy said. He paused, looked at me, then held his finger up to my cheek. "Marvella, have you been slapping Whitney again?" His voice returned to the shrill, cardiac care unit tones of a few moments earlier. "How I raise my daughter ain't none of your bidness," said the redhead. "So just do your job and I'll do mine." Clipboard guy shook his head, and said into the mouthpiece of his headset "alert makeup, Marvella has been slap happy again." With that, the hardassed woman - I guess her name is Marvella - pushed me out on stage, just as a bank of stage lights powerful enough to be seen from space came on and the band started playing. I was stunned, deer in the footlights style, by the sudden activity, all of it seemingly focussed on me. Standing slack jawed, dressed as whored up kindertart on an enormous stage filled with sound, along with the fury of a dozen dancers and backup singers, I must have been a sight. I stood there for a few moments, a passive island in the storm of frenetic activity that surrounded me. "Stop, stop, stop," said clipboard man, who walked over to me, waving his arms as the music ended. "Whitney, that was the part of the song where you start singing and dancing, just like the last 100 concerts," his voice thick with sarcasm, "OK?" "Goddammit it you worthless little pig, I cannot believe how much of my life I put into you," Marvella screamed, just behind sarcastic clipboard guy. "Git it right or I will pull your pants down right here and spank you for all creation to see. You are just about as worthless as that sperm donor of an ex-husband." My senses seemed to come back slowly, with the first thought being that sort of anger you only see described in Jim Thompson novels right before the recently paroled, semi-retarded amateur boxer beats the crap out of some poor guy in a bar fight. I was sick of that evil woman's attitude, and was so angry that my vision was taking on a reddish hue. Everything that I knew to be real was gone, but I knew one thing: she was a bitch, and I hated her. My mind raced with fantasies of the horrible things that I wanted to do to her, from slapping back, to commenting on the fakeass dye job, to well... By the time I finished my mind rant about the medieval shit that I wanted to lay on Marvella and her auburn beehive, I realized that the band had not only started, but that I had too. I was singing, dancing, well, grinding, along with a song that I know that I had heard before, but could not place. Then it hit me - the song was "Whoops, I Did You Again," the latest chart topper from Whitney Stubbs, the half-naked Louisiana eighteen-year old whose image adorned the locker, bedroom and computer wallpaper of every teenaged girl in America. It was a Keanu Reeves moment, where the only possible comment in my internal dialogue was "Whoa." This was again simply too much to handle, and panic was a real possibility. I tried to remember the techniques from that anger management seminar I attended as part of the plea agreement. See, a few years ago I had squeezed off a couple rounds of semi-automatic road rage into the side of a Suburban that had cut me off in traffic, and had to attend this touchy-feely seminar taught by former hippies to those of us interested in avoiding jail time. Just focus on my breathing, let all other conscious thought flow away, especially the urge to wrap your hands around the throats of fellow drivers. Ok, most of the seminar had nothing to do with a teenaged sex moppet's stage performance, but I had the sense that the less my mind focussed on the music and dancing, the better. Don't get me wrong, I was not musically illiterate, but my only previous experience had been rhythmlessly playing bass in a band at my small, midwestern liberal arts college. But then again, the only reason that they let me in the band was that my cousin was the best weed connection in Minnesota, and the only thing more important to a college band than talent is a constant supply of high quality pot. Artistically, we were a dismal failure, but we had a chance to see all the local bands, and even had a chance to open for a few of them. The set finished, and I walked, no, I pranced offstage. A tall, shorthaired man, cleanly attired in a gray shirt and black, flat-front pants handed me a towel in familiar but professional way. "I just do not know how you do it," he said. His handsomeness was both overwhelming yet not intimidating. In other words, he registered a 9.87 on a straight person's Gay-dar.. I looked at him for a few moments, smiling at the fact that he was the first person since the change not barking orders at me. "Oh, not again. Don't tell me that you are having one of your 'I'm not talking to Josh phases.'" he said, with his mildly feminine vocal tone rising in friendly agitation. "Look, the record company assigned me to be your shadow because they want your life to be easier. But if you want to live life the hard way, I'm sure we could just go ask mommy dearest to smack you with a wire hangar," he said, holding his hand against my cheek. "Though it looks like she already got you with everything else." "Oh come on," I said, trying to establish a connection with the only person who had treated me like a human since this began. "You know how I am after rehearsal." Rule one of the sports agent business: When you are talking to someone you should know but don't, bluff with a demonstration of interpersonal closeness. "That's true," he sighed. "I'm just afraid that you were about to go into another one of your two month funks like the last time Marvelous Marvella the Monster Mother slapped you." "Oh I may," I said. "But what was that wire hangar bit - most people won't catch the Joan Crawford reference and will think that you are threatening me with a back alley abortion." "Ahhhhh - don't even think about politics!" he said, his agitation returning in an instant. "What?" I said, shocked that I had violated yet another rule. "Politics - first you think about it, then you comment about it in the media, then you are some singer-songwriter doing ballads about Marlboro Men, your hands, or nonsense like that. You Whitney are a pop singer and always will be. Don't try to go all lesbian folksy here." It seemed weird that this gay man was counseling me to avoid being publicly gay, but I had stopped looking for logic some time ago. "Ellen DeGeneres is single, folk chic is dead. No," he said with emphasis, shaking his finger at me with a hand on his hip. "Remember that your demographic is teenaged; don't get political, folksy or gay." "Do you ever get tired ranting like that?" I said, toweling off. "It's my job to be your image guardian, so I will be stir fried if you mess up and take some political stand that hurts record sales. Not that your fate will be much better mine, some celebrity has-been who is lucky to even be considered for the next VH1 'How Far Have They Fallen' special. Is that what you want - to end up as Gary Coleman's date for the Grammys, sitting at a TV in his mother's basement? Come on, you have one more concert, then you are off to the spa for a few days of rest - doctors orders young lady," he said, with his hand again on his hip and a finger waving. "Then off to Sweden to record the new album." We walked by a mirror on the way backstage. Shocked, I paused for a moment. I mean you would think that the rehearsal and everything else would have convinced me that it was real, but humans really are visual animals. In the mirror was Whitney Stubbs, and when I lifted my right arm, so did Whitney. I smiled, and the reflection was the eponymous grin of the teen queen du jour. Something huge had happened, and it made zero sense. As I started to process what this meant, Josh took my arm, and tugged gently. "No one can see where she hit you, Whitney," he said, thinking that I was looking for the slap marks. "Come on, you need to get ready." The next few hours were a return to the non-thinking stimulus/response lower brain function that enabled me to survive the shower and the rehearsal. An army of worker bees buzzed around me, preparing makeup, hair and costumes. By the time the concert itself started, I felt like a passenger in this very famous body. The concert began with the standard issue smoke machine, laser light show, video projection spectacular that any big venue tour would use these days. Hordes of buff dancers flooded the stage, the band cranked into that other Whitney song that got all the radio play: "Hit Your Baby One More Time," which took on suddenly ironic overtones in light of Marvella's backhand. Again, this small-framed, large-breasted body launched itself into a frenzy of singing, dancing and flirting to the delight of the crowd, almost all of whom were squealing. I looked out past the stage lights, at a sea of teenaged girls, all of whom were either shrieking or singing along, totally centered in the apotheosis of their teenaged musical existence. I would have expected it to be sort of sad, but in fact it was liberating. I could see the backstory of each of the concertgoers, their Whitney dreams realized, having forgotten the indignity of being dropped off at the arena with three friends by mom in her minivan. There were what felt like a million costume changes, some audience banter, including a peck on the cheek for one boy pulled from the crowd to dance during "You Make Me Crazy." While the lucky kid was coming on stage, it all seemed weirdly parallel to the fact that fifteen years ago, a fresh faced but unknown Courtney Cox was the person pulled from the crowd in Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark" video. Sending the lucky boy back to the crowd was the only time that I broke out of the Whitney character, telling him that "he was my gun for hire." The longer that I spent on stage, the more comfortable I was just letting the body handle all the details. Say what you want about Whitney, and believe me I had said just as many nasty things as the next person, but that little body could move. And the singing, well, there was no Milli in her Vanilli. I know that some people have strange relationships with their bodies, and nothing felt more bizarre than the relationship that I had with this Whitney body, but dancing in her shoes for an entire concert, I gained a new respect for her talent. The concert concluded otherwise uneventfully, and when it was over, Josh was just off-stage with another towel. After a few minutes backstage, posing for photos with local radio DJs and pimply faced teenagers who were "Caller X" in some promotion, it was off to the airport for the trip to the spa. 3. SEPARATED FROM THE WORLD BY A PANE OF TINTED GLASS On the flight, I had time to think for the first time since the change. I knew a good deal when I saw it, and frankly, this girl, well me, had it pretty sweet. People take care of me, and I had more money than the post office on welfare day if half the things in the trade press were true. Sure the life was stressful and Mom was a trailer park Ike Turner, but on the whole it seemed pretty decent. Don't get me wrong though; it was weird. I could feel the heft of my breasts jiggling when I laughed, I had wiped what was a very feminine crotch when I went to the bathroom, and everything just looked different. There were like a million small changes that did not necessarily have anything to do with sex or genitals, like when I grabbed a door handle, and expected to feel the tips of my fingers touching, but they didn't because my hands were so much smaller now. And it was off the scale strange to feel the underside of my breasts touching my chest when I took my bra off, especially after the concert when I was totally sweaty. The slick skin on skin contact was just bizarre. But what was most strange was how quickly I had become comfortable as an object. Look, when I was guy, I spent plenty of time thinking about women as though they were empty vessels waiting to be filled with my desire. Like the time at work when we sat around wondering which secretary gave the best head. My vote was for the paunchy girl from Queens with the big hair and tight polyester knit sweaters who once told her sister "once you have Black, you never go back" on the phone as she absentmindedly examined her acrylic nail job. But here I was now and I was the ultimate object. Everything about Whitney's eighteen year-old life just oozed sex, and playing into that conception of women as objects of desire - the clothes, the walk, the grin and even the songs. But I had never felt more at ease than I did as Whitney. I fell asleep, contented for the first time in years because everything made sense without having to think about it. The plane landed, somewhere in Southern Mississippi, at a private airfield on the campus of the Rolling Meadows Spa. I had heard of Rolling Meadows in my Billy Ackright days; several of my aging clients used to do their private, post-plastic surgery recovery there. It was a reformed plantation now catering to the uber-rich and had a deserved reputation as the sort of refined place that knew just how to strike the delicate balance when catering to celebrities. See, famous people hate it when you recognize them. Every one of my famous clients had a conflicted relationship with their celebrity. Famous people don't like it when you point at them in restaurants, wondering "isn't that the chick from that show," or "doesn't he play for that team?" And when you walk up with a pen and piece of paper asking "do you mind," they always do. And the first thing that they always want is to get away from all of the prying eyes and requests of cloying fans. But as soon as they are alone, the drive to be famous, to be loved, turns horribly inward and they immediately start feeling lonely and inadequate, asking questions like "I'm still famous, right?" Rolling Meadows knew how to strike the balance between making famous people feel important, while still allowing them a vacation from crowds of autograph hounds. But the fact that I was in Mississippi really bugged me. Look, I grew up in Chicago, went to college in Minnesota, then spent the rest of my life in New York. I was old enough to remember when the police turned dogs loose on black people who wanted to vote. Stepping off the plane, I would not have been surprised to see Boss Hogg from the Dukes of Hazzard sipping a mint julep while watching a reenactment of that scene from Roots where Jordy from Next Generation is beaten to within an inch of Jesus. Kunta, Kunta Kinte. Toby. And yes, my sense of irony was developed well enough to appreciate that I was prejudiced against an entire state because I thought it was prejudiced. But when the plane door opened, it looked like any other private airfield; a small hangar, with a car waiting in front. Other people fussed over the luggage while I climbed in back for the short ride to main building. When the car pulled into the front entrance, a bellman came down from the long porch, and opened my door. Close on his heels was a swarthy mustachioed man, wearing an open collared sport shirt, linen pants and loafers with no socks, with perspiration pouring off his gelled hair. Something about this sweaty ethnic guy screamed constant machismo demonstration, to the point that he probably pomaded his hair with his own semen in some Caribbean virility ritual. One thought went through my mind: Ewwwww! "Ms. Stubbs," the said, extending his hand. "Call me Whitney," I laughed, and instinctively gave that open mouthed toothy smile that was plastered across so many different magazines, but did not offer my hand, my hypothesis as to his choice of styling products fresh in my mind. "Ok, Whitney, I'm Manny Hernandez from corporate finance. I just came into town to go over some numbers with your mother, and to make sure that everything here at the spa goes well for you. First thing, they have a facial planned for you in the Plantain Cabana." "Are you telling me that he," pointing at Josh, "does not get the same treatment?" "Well, it's not our policy to get our employees facials when they should be working." Hernandez gave Josh a withering look. "Why not?" I said with my hands on my hips. "Because this spa trip is to preserve and improve you. And no one gives a shit about his face." "First off, I will thank you to never curse around me again." I said, pausing as he looked suitably shamed. "Second, and be sure that you hear this Manny fuckin Hernandez," I said as his face contorted in pain as I violated a rule that I had established for him. "How am I supposed to know if these services are any good? I mean the facialist might be some sort of escaped convict butcher. I simply refuse to through with this unless this peasant goes first." I turned and winked to Josh to demonstrate that this tantrum was staged for his benefit. "Very well Ms. Stubbs," his overly polite tone belying the hatred in his eyes, as he mentally updated his resume to get the hell away from the insufferable bitch that I was being. He turned and walked away, muttering some foul sounding Santeria-style curse under his breath. I laughed after he left, and looked at Josh. "What was that all about?" he said. "Actually Josh, the correct English phrase is 'thank you.'" "Very funny, why all the sudden concern for my welfare Mother Teresa?" "Concern, puh-leeze, I'm just a spoiled little brat," I said, flashing that patented Whitney grin. "That's fine, but did you have to do that to my boss?" "Oh. Umm, sorry, I guess I forgot that you work for Manny." "Ok, just don't go getting me into any more trouble with your crazy diva act again." "Actually, there are a few things that I have been meaning to talk to you about," I said. "Like from now on, I only want to see light brown M&Ms in my dressing room." He cocked an eyebrow, and raised his hand. "Two things. One, they haven't made light brown M&Ms for about ten years, and two, that whole M&M thing is way too Van Halen. Were you even alive the last time those fossil rockers had a hit, I mean from something other than a marijuana cigarette?" Was I even alive? I was in the front goddamn row for the Chicago show for the 1978 Diver Down tour. I was close enough to touch the prosthesis in the pants of each of the band members, if I had wanted to. My anger gave way to good humor when I realized that he had asked a rhetorical question, because he saw me as an eighteen year old who sang her way into the hearts of every teenaged girl on the planet. "Ok," I said, "but don't expect me to be so easy on you in the future. So come on girlfriend, it's spa time." I squeezed his arm playfully. The rest of the afternoon was a playful blur as Josh and I were exfoliated, massaged, seaweed herb wrapped and otherwise pampered. The day's combination of touring, travelling and relaxing had taken its toll, and I fell heavily to sleep within seconds of getting back to my room. 4. TO ENCOURAGE YOU, PEOPLE WILL TELL YOU THAT THE BUDDHA GAVE UP MORE THAN YOU WILL EVER HAVE TO REACH ENLIGHTENMENT. I woke up the next morning, and enjoyed the chance to sleep in, alone, without people bothering me for the first time since the change. I tried to just empty my mind, and see what, if anything, still made sense about my life. As soon as I exhaled to center myself, the phone rang. "Where are you?!?!?" Josh nasally whined. "I am here at the front desk, and it's 6:30," he said, as though that were supposed to mean something to me. "Get down here, we have to run. You don't want to get all nasty and flabby do you? Miss just one day's run and you are halfway down the road to Ricki Lake. Is that what you want? A future of weird guests, John Waters movies and more rolls than a bakery?" He was still going when I hung up, pulled on a sports bra, t-shirt, shorts and sneakers, and went downstairs to meet him. "So did you patch things up with your boss, Mr. Hernandez?" I asked. "My my, aren't we just a chatty Cathy?" "Is that bad?" "No, not at all, just unusual. I cannot remember the last time you ever said anything before noon." "Well then let's change all that," I said, as we stretched for our morning run. "Since I can see that you don't want to talk about work, let's talk about something else. What is the favorite thing that you like to do with friends?" "Hmmmm, other than then gay sex, I would have to say we love playing the casting game." "The casting game?" I said, amazed at how much more limber this eighteen year old body was than the thirty eight year old one that I had left behind. "Oh sorry, I am being way too L.A. The casting game is where you come up with a concept for a movie or TV show, like the live-action movie version of Babar, the kid's book elephant. Then you come up with the perfect casting, which in this case would be John Goodman, with a pair of tusks taped to his cheeks." "Oh no way, you can't use tusks, even fake tusks, that is way too un-PC, what with elephants being shot just for their ivory. As far as John Goodman goes, he lacks the seriousness and emotional presence for Babar - that elephant is royalty for god sake. Besides, whenever I think of John Goodman, all I see is Roseanne. No, this needs someone new, but familiar, serious but still accessible to children. Oh yeah, and this person also has to be as fat as a house. My choice - Al Roker, the Today show weatherman." "You're a ringer, right? I am with you for two years, and you say almost nothing, then today you play the casting game like an old pro. I will just never understand women." "That's ok Josh, I doubt if I will ever understand women either," I said, laughing to myself. We swapped casting choices for the remake of Sixteen Candles on the rest of the run, and we both tried to claim Freddie Prinze, Jr. as Ducky. We even made it to the next stage casting game, which was to create a celebrity feud, then devise a way to resolve it. Josh suggested a pay per view death match between Emanuel Lewis, TV's Webster, and Gary Coleman. I suggested that Roman Polanski, the exiled pedophile director, get into a fist fight with Charles Manson, the guy who killed Polanski's wife, with winner getting the right to live free. I mean, I guess I was totally sucked in to the televised Manson Parole Hearings that had been running live on Court TV, and it was at the top of my mind. "Have you been sneaking daytime television again, Whitney," Josh scolded me, as we rounded our fourth mile, my new body not even winded. Jesus, I used to get tired driving four miles. "Oh no, but so what if I do?" I said, incredulous at the thought that a media icon like Whitney Stubbs would be forbidden from watching television. "I mean, it's not like I have some thing for African American midgets; you have made like fourteen references to Gary Coleman during this run alone." He blushed, but then said "fine, do what you want, but I can promise you that your next shadow will not bend as many rules as me." "You mean that you have like rules for how you are supposed to take care of me?" "Oh of course! You don't think that I just make this up as I go, do you? No waysireebob. We have a website for our favorite stories, and we all share our rules." "There are more of you?" I said, once again surprised by another bizarre element of my new life. "You really have been sheltered, haven't you? Yes, Rip Van Winkle, all teen celebrities have a watcher, an overseer, a den mother assigned to them. Jeez, ever since Zelda from the Dobie Gillis show came out as a lesbian, studios and record companies have been way careful to protect their investments. Things sort of slacked off in the seventies, but when Leif Garrett went all druggy, things have been tied down ever since." "No shit," I said. "Ahhh, watch the potty mouth young lady, I may be starting to like you, but I am not going to start letting you curse like a drunken sailor with an infected tattoo." "I have this like weird Rudy from Survivor image," I said. "Funny. But seriously, there is a whole guidebook of rules about how to be a celebrity shadow. We really are here to keep you from hurting yourself, or your own career." "Hey, aren't they worried that you and I will like hook up or something?" "Of course they worry, that's why they found the gayest most homo fag on the planet to watch over you." "Ewww, now I have a Richard from Survivor image," I said. We laughed, and when it settled down, I looked at him. "You're gay?" I chuckled, my eyebrows crawling up my forehead like raising the irony flag. "You're too funny," he said between chuckles before turning serious again. "Now remember that no one likes a wise ass - you want a Dennis Miller career? Hmmm, you know, Dennis Miller - bad haircuts and references more obscure than the bibliography for a PhD thesis in the ethnomusicology of late Nineteenth Century Javanese Gavelan?" "My, you got off quite a little riff there, didn't you?" "Cute," he said. "Hey, listen, if you are Mr. Superfag, why don't you stand up to Cruella when she starts in on that drummer for being gay?" "Are you suggesting that I cross swords with a Stage Mother? I would sooner fellate Satan. Pissing off a stage mother is the fastest way to end a perfectly decent little career. Remember, stage mothers are the sort of people who hire hitmen to clear a spot on the cheerleading team for their little precious. You still hear stories about the poor guy who once told Debbie Gibson's mother that the recording track could pick up sounds of her screaming at a dress designer. That old lady beat him to within an inch of his life with one of those plastic jelly style sandals that were the rage in 1984. Then, when he tried to complain, the record company fired him, and he has not worked again. At last telling, people saw him working in the grease pit in a fast oil change place somewhere on La Cienga." "Well, it would be nice to have a little backup sometimes," I said. "Besides, it seems like you need to have your priorities, and if that is who you are, you should not let yourself get all pushed around. You should be proud of yourself sweety." I held his hand and squeezed gently as I looked into his eyes and smiled. 5. MAYBE YOU'LL FIND DIRECTION, AROUND SOME CORNER WHERE IT'S BEEN WAITING TO MEET YOU. It was the morning of my last day at the spa, my body, Whitney's body, this body, whatever, had fallen into a routine. Waking without an alarm clock at 6:15, my hair still up from the previous day's spa treatments, I went to run with josh. This last day was different, it was strange. I mean after just a week, I took this life as if it were my own. Sure I had my doubts and I questioned what was going on, but I did not really miss my previous life. I wondered every so often what would happen to certain clients, like that goofy wrestler Dwayne Steinberg, but for the most part, it was significant to me how insignificant the change was. Almost like Billy Ackright was the phony, and Whitney was the real person. As soon as I started wondering about such deep and crazy thoughts, I just got up. It was a beautiful day, I was a beautiful girl, and no one could remember that being any different. Spending any more time worrying about what seemed so natural would just fuck up the perfect day, and as Billy Ackright, I had had enough therapy to know the pointlessness of being too self aware. After a short lunch that was too small to qualify as an appetizer, it was off to the showers. It would be totally trite to wonder whether my decreased appetite was because women have smaller stomachs or some shit like that. But I think what it was that every time I even seemed to think about having more to eat, Josh was right there, making snorty pig sounds, or puffing his shirt out while talking about Shelly Winters. In fact, every meal was really stressful because of his constant hawkish oversight. The only thing that I looked forward to about meals was that they would soon be over, and after, mmmm fun, it was massage time. Feeling newly confident after my shower, I toweled off, and decided to put my hair up. Actually, that makes it sound more scientific than it really was. My hair was still drenched after I spent what felt like hours toweling it. I took a big handful, gathered it in my left hand, then tried to wrap a scrunchie around the resulting pony tail. It was tough, and I fumbled with it for minutes, my hands feeling as useless as a pair of lobster claws. After a few tries, I got most of it up. Then I saw the makeup kit. Oooh, stars have to look pretty, I thought. Every other day, I had either been going for facials, or someone else had put on my makeup for me. I pulled out all the luxuriant MAC cosmetics, the bold red lipstick, the dramatic rouge, and the vivid eyeshadow. My hands went to work, almost taking on a life of their own, as though I had been doing it for years. I finished and went down to the lobby to meet Josh. "AAAAAAAHHHHH! What happened to you?" Josh shrieked. "What," I said, blushing slightly, thinking that I must have really looked good. "Your makeup - Jesus, who did that to you?" he said with his hands on his face, barely concealing a look of absolute horror. "It looks like you were attacked by a madman with a Wagner powerpainter. If you had any more purple eyeshadow on you would look like one of Pat Benatar's dancers in the 'Hit Me with Your Best Shot' video. Is that the first time in your life you ever put on makeup? And your hair - jesus - you have it pulled so tightly that you have that "Joan Rivers after her fifth face lift" surprised look. I mean it's funny if you are trying to make some sort of joke, but there are reporters everyone, and each one is drooling at the prospect of snapping a few photos of you. If any paparrazzi were to get a shot of you looking like this, the tabloids would have a field day. And your hair - it looks like a mass of kudzu growing through a hole in a fence. Come with me." We ducked into a bathroom, and he spent a few minutes untangling and scrubbing. "Well that was fun." He pulled out his Palm VII, and said "Good, now we can both be on time to our next services. It's massage time, and you little lady have a special treat; you have Pablo Miles, the reflexology specialist. I had him yesterday and trust me, that man can make you feel things that are just not legal in most states." His eyes seemed to mist over as he looked off into the middle distance. "By the way, I cannot thank you enough for standing up to my boss like you did. I really appreciate the chance to have a week at the spa." "No problem sweety, you deserve it." With that, I ducked into my massage suite, and he went into his. I had been there enough times for my daily massage that I knew the drill. Undress, put on the robe, then go into the massage suite. Each was tiled, with steam piped in, along with a variety of aromatherapy scents designed to soothe. Music played; it sounded like Zamphir, the master of the pan flute, having a studio session with John Tesh after four or five Quaaludes. It all combined for a relaxing if not somnolent atmosphere. I lay down on my stomach, shed the robe, and pulled the sheet over those parts that needed privacy. Without saying anything, the masseuse came in, took some oil in his hands, and began with long, slow kneading strokes on the muscles parallel to my spine. A few minutes into the massage, his hands had spread their relaxing firmness across my neck and shoulders, but I wondered if Josh had been confused. This masseuse did not seem that different from others, and in fact he seemed more reserved than most. "So a friend was telling me that you are some sort of reflexology expert," I said. "I have no idea what that is, but it sounds dangerous." "Dangerous? No," he said, pronouncing each syllable slowly with an accent-less baritone. "Some people think that by touching and manipulating certain portions of the feet that a skilled reflexologist can make any number of things happen. Thousands of years ago, Chinese masters discovered that each section of the foot is connected to a part of the body. By manipulating the feet, a skilled reflexologist can actually effect the corresponding organ of the body," he said with his voice that was as warm and smooth as the oil he was rubbing into my calves. "Is there any truth to that?" "I don't know," he smiled. "You tell me." His hands, once sort of coolly distant but firm became a continuous flow of pressure, in and out of the arches of my right foot. Within seconds, I could feel my breathing changing, first becoming deeper, more cleansing, then becoming shorter, less controlled. After that, I lost all awareness of particular sensations as I surrendered myself to the elemental magma flows of what I was capable of feeling. I felt a spreading warmth, first in my chest, centered, then stretching a flush tingly heat across the rest of my chest. I lay there, the feeling of growing warmth building, and starting to spread. His hands kept their relentless pressure, pounding in carefully to my arches, then pulling back out. I gave out a quick exhale with every new thrust back into the arches of my feet and a breathy sigh as his hands trailed out towards the edges of my feet. I was in corporeal autopilot, and I was left to just breathe in breathe out, focussing on the heat that was leaking all over my soul. Breathe in breathe out breathe in breathe out was all that I thought. Fuck, it was all I could do, and I wasn't even struck by the machine head reference. I shifted my hips again, lifting my right hip, as I felt my newly acquired girl parts slide across one another. For the first time, the sliding girl parts went more than just smoothly, they were wet. I shifted again, and became increasingly focussed on that moisture as he moved his hands to my other foot, continuing his relentless reflexology attack on my senses, my breathing coming in increasingly ragged gasps. Oh shit, I'm excited, I thought, for the first time returning to the world of conscious thought. It was different - I was floating, yet pulled gravitationally towards his hands, almost ready to beg him to continue. I felt nothing that went on around me, except the rushing of my blood to tingly extremities, with an electricity coursing through everything, turning on sides of me that had not previously existed. When I was male and excited, every ounce of that excitement was centered in one spot, in one organ, squarely between my legs. Now, I felt a physical embodiment of my horniness whenever I moved my hips, but rather than having my consciousness centered on the stimulation of just one organ, it was an all over body rush, like my body wanted to sexually sneeze, and release all this building energy, but just couldn't quite get there. Turning my foot, he rolled me onto my back. "So," he said, "can you guess which part of your body that part of your foot corresponds to?" I looked up at him, and saw him, really saw him for the first time. As Billy Ackright, I had never been attracted to men. But I looked up at him, and every fiber of my newly sexualized feelings became imprinted on him. I knew that he was conventionally attractive - duh, any straight guy could make those sorts of assessments - but the feeling I had when I rolled over, and looked up at him, holding my left foot in his strong but flexible hand, it was like I came to appreciate another new ability of the Whitney body: the ability to get way horny. He looked down at me, with eyes that were at the same time playful and serious, and entirely focussed on me. It was both unnerving and enervating all at once. When this is made into a major Hollywood studio movie, this is the part of the story where the popular romance song from the soundtrack would start, full of sweet hooks and easily digested lyrics. The film would dissolve into a montage of giggling, casual touches, a half serious, play it off like it is a joke kiss if it does not go as well as you hope, followed by a deeper more real kiss. If this were a PG movie, it would cut to the afterglow, all dewy, snuggly and giggles, followed by a serious but hokey revelation, like "this is the first time I ever did this," or "today is the one year anniversary of fiance's death." If it were R rated, there may have been some squirming under a blanket, and some grunting, maybe even a staged porno-like moan or two. But the film is still in development, the soundtrack is not finished, and there were parts of this that would definitely find the cutting room floor. When I was a guy, I understood the marching orders. Start kissing, then neck nibbling, then the "accidental" over the shirt breast brush, etc. This is the essense of the first base second base theory of physicality progression. He was doing fine in that regard, but then he changed the rules. Pablo started kissing me, nuzzled my neck as I moaned a guttural approval, but then before he went for my breasts, he went for my feet. He licked and worshipped my feet. It was sick. It was wrong, but in a twisted way in felt really good. By the time he finished, I was putty. No thinking. That was the other difference. When I was a guy fooling around with women, I was always thinking. Does she want me to do this, does she want me to do that. Here, I was simply laying back as he expertly tended to my needs. Finally, he finished with my feet, and started slowly nibbling his way up my calves. I had a sudden appreciation for how good of a shape this body was in as I flexed my calf muscles under his lips. His hands were like the advance guard for his oral assault. As he licked his way north, his hands were running slowly up the sides of my thighs, then back down the tops. He moved up an inch or two, and again ran his flat palms along the outside of my thighs, but this time, they came back down along the underside. My whole body was raging with the pulsing quiet electrical storm was intense desire, swirling through every part of my body that had nerve endings. Two three four more times he ran his hands along my thighs, each time creeping slowly a few more inches upward, until his lips reached the back of my knee and his hands were on my underwear As he explored the crevasse behind my knee with his tongue and warm breath, he slowly pulled my underwear down, and then off. I would say that I lifted my hips to help him, but my hips had been gently thrusting upward, gyrating on their own volition for the last several minutes. I offered no resistance, and in fact pulled the sheet off of me, offering him free access to that honeypot that was the center of my radiating desire. He pulled himself on to the table, and while kneeling between my spread legs and raised knees, pulled off his shirt and his pants. "I want you to take that off," he said, pointing to the massage sheet that was still draped across my hips. I looked up at Pablo and realized that this was it; either I stopped things now, or I went forward. I held his strong gaze and pushed my chin forward as I smiled slowly, my widening lips moving as I slowly let the sheet fall to the floor, exposing my completely naked self to him. Our eyes never broke their magnetic lock. In one of those reality slowing down to a crawl moments of tremendous significance, Pablo took out something, and pulled it over his rather interesting erection. I noticed just before he covered it that the end was like huge - I mean, the bulb end looked about twice the size of my old Billy Ackright days. Length and girth were normal enough, but that head interested me. And I was laying there, with this bizarre curiousity to examine it, but realized that Pablo wouldn't wait. I began to wonder what he would feel like inside me. Watching the muscles of his tight thighs and stomach, I also wondered he would feel like against me; all over me, like pushing my body into his. To tell the truth, I was terrifically horny and wanted Pablo to fuck me; I was surprised by the feeling. It was exactly what Pablo had wanted; just as he'd planned, with his crazy reflexology massage and foreplay. It was hysterical. I was hysterical too, unable to stop that fat-headed cock from moving between my legs. I looked down between our bodies to see what was happening, I though I could feel Pablo's cock pressing against my opening. At that angle I couldn't actually see him doing it, but I felt him push. I felt the lips around my throbbing wetness pushed open. The elastic rimmed tightness resisted for a moment, then gave way before that big cock-head came rippling down into me. The feeling was momentarily harsh and she mechanically resisted for a moment, and. I actually felt it passing along the interior walls of me, as a long low groan came from deep within my throat. It felt both weird and stimulating. He pulled out, then whoosh, back in again, and I got the same rippling effect as he plunged deep inside me. Then he was humping away, and that big fat cockhead was driving me crazy, scratching itches I didn't even know I had. I'd never imagined a cock like that before and it was great! He shoved again-a deeper groan-he wanted to hear her scream for mercy. And suddenly, he could stand it no more. He rammed forward with everything he had, sinking himself all the way to the hilt. I could feel his balls slap against me, and it struck me as really strange. My legs jerked out wide on either side of his well muscled, splaying over either edge of the massage table and kicking futilely into the air. I felt my body coming to life. The pain was receding and was slowly giving way to a maddening electric tingle that began deep within me and seeped relentlessly through the raw nerve ends of the rest of my flesh. It rippled like fire across my thighs, and up the full length of my splayed legs and circled around inside my toes, curling them tightly against the bottoms my feet. It worked its way up from my contracting belly through my rib cage and out to the tips of my pink palpitating nipples, which peaked into hard tiny buds, sensitive to even the. Thin lines of sweat rolled down the sides of the full pulsating mounds, wetting the sheet beneath me. I rolled my hips from side to side, and felt as though a heart imbedded in the palpitating head whose heat was becoming a part of me. I was one with it. He had crawled into me! He was a part of me! He slid moistly into me several inches and then slowly back up, before embedding his full length deep into my warm belly. He went immobile, resting still above me with his hands on either side of my shoulders, his knees pressed tight against the massage table. He then started to pump up and down at will on his rigid dick that fused us together. He then began long hard strokes into me; I was now wet and slippery from the climb. He withdrew the head until just the tip was inside me and then thrust forward hard with his hips until his balls were screwed tightly against the wide split crack of my ass. Cool mad rushes of air rushed between her thighs as he withdrew. I pulled him deep and thrust my belly up hard to skewer myself deliciously on him. I moaned, splaying my legs wider and wider to give him greater access. Pablo could stand it no longer. He grabbed my flailing legs behind the knees and shoved them back against my shoulders, slithering up my sweat soaked body. He planted his hands on either side of my shoulders, my ankles locked tightly behind his neck. He plunged away with abandon, and soon I was thrusting back at him like a banshee, my legs wrapped tightly around him. Both of us were growling and groaning, whimpering and screaming as we thrust at each other. Eventually Pablo shoved especially hard, and that huge cockhead pulsated as he pumped his hot come; it was lovely to feel it expand and contract with each gush. It felt so good that I couldn't hold myself back, and I came on him in gasping spasms that made my whole body shiver. 6. YOU WILL FIND CREATIVITY WHEN YOU STOP LOOKING The next morning was a constant stream of "you're glowing" and "I guess the spa really worked for you" from all of the attendants and porters as my things were packed, and we headed off to the airport for the trip to the recording studio in Sweden. It was a shame to leave the spa, and I would miss the easy going lifestyle. I didn't really think about it at the time, but I felt zero connection to Pablo, and it was not strange at all to just pack up and leave. Then it hit me: I may have been female, but I had really had sex as a man. Sex as a man in the sense that I simply enjoyed what I did, was energized by it, and did not think at all about the emotional consequences. It was fun, it felt good, so I did it. This was totally different that the "sex/guilt" cycle that so many women seemed to experience. By the time I climbed on to the flight to Stockholm, I was beaming, feeling empowered at having the ability to have had mind blowing sex without the emotional consequences that seemed to cloud such encounters for women. We had to fly to Sweden because Matias Bialystock was the largest producer of bubblegum pop anywhere in the world, and artists simply came to him, and if you had a chance to work with Bialystock, you took it. Forget what Boyz II Men will tell you, Bialystock invented the boy band format, with its stock characters - the pretty boy, the dangerous boy, the sensitive one. And he was the creative force behind all of the biggest ones, including the Upside Boys and 98 Degrees of Separation. Bialystock was based in Sweden, yet he seemed to understand instinctively what teenagers wanted. When I saw him, I was surprised; his physical bulk was impressive. Bialystock's obesity and world famous appetite had even been parodied by the dyed blonde rap star Marzz Barzz in his hip hop classic "The Island of Dr. Moreau." Like all fashionable Euro power brokers, he wore tiny framed black glasses. On him, with his mountainous girth, the glasses looked like a goat, climbing a distant peak, very near the summit. The rest of that day was really sort of a blur, mostly we just ran through the new songs once or twice. They were ok, sort of sweet songs filled with more double entendres and exhortations of teenaged love, but there was a spirit that seemed to be missing. Not that I am like some musical genius, but it just seemed really shallow, even for teen music. I mean, don't today's kids deserve songs like we had when I was growing up? "Come on Eileen"? "She Blinded Me with Science"? "Take on Me" by that Norwegian hair band A-Ha? "How about something deeper," I said at the end of the day. "Maybe we could squeeze in a cover song or two. You know Madonna got away with a cover of American Pie." "Got away with?" Bialystock barked. "She had a fuckin smash," with his pan Euro accent strangely lingering on the verb sound in English curse words. "I love it, let's do a cover song." I had been humming a song I sort of remembered from college. I remembered the melody, and the title. "You know, I was kind of thinking about 'Too Far Down,' the old Husker Du song. What do you think?" "Not familiar with it," Bialystock snapped his fingers, and several production assistants came scurrying. "But I will be in a few minutes." Bialystock and his entourage disappearing to listen to the song that I had suggested. In the meantime, Josh and I sat around, talking about what would be the funniest artist/coversong combination. Josh thought Prince doing a cover of "Send in the Clowns" would be the best. Something about seeing that little dwarf dipped in pubic hair singing about clowns would have been cute, but my vote was for Tony Bennett crooning an old Judas Priest song like "Screaming for Vengeance." The image of that old dude singing "the world is defiled in disgrace" in a tuxedo with a cheesy grin and an orchestra backing him just seemed to be too much. They came back, shocked looks on their faces. I guess that I had forgotten that "Too Far Down" was essentially a guy with an acoustic guitar pouring liquid depression on to a recording tape. "That was easily the most dismal song I have ever heard this side of the dance version remix of 'Luka,' that Suzanne Vega child abuse ballad," one of the production assistants said. "I re-upped my Prozac prescription half way through," said an assistant producer. "But there was another Husker Du song that I think would work well for you." Josh said. "What do you think about "These Important Years?" you know, 'Yearbooks with their autographs, From friends you might have had, These are your important years, You'd better make them last' - that could be a kick ass single around graduation time. It could become an anthem." "Yeah," I said, as I started singing the lyrics that I remembered from Billy Ackright's post-college days. And that turned into such a weird moment. I mean it was me, using Whitney Stubbs' surprisingly deep musical talents to sing a song that she had never heard, that only had some meaning to my life as Billy. Trying to describe it is sort of like describing the color blue to a blind person. When I finished my little run through, the day was over, and it was time to go back to the hotel. In the corner, Manny Hernandez was yelling at Josh that his job was not to provide artistic direction. He was a security guard, not talent, I think was what Manny said. 7. YOU ARE THE CONQUISTADOR OF YOUR LIFE, BRINGING DISCOVERY, ADVANCEMENT, PAIN AND DISEASE TO AN ALREADY INHABITED LANDSCAPE. The next morning, in the Hotel, Josh and I met after our run. "So why do you let that Manny guy push you around like that?" "Oh come on, you have some nerve, After all, mommy dearest pushes you around more than I have ever seen - she is even worse than brooke shields mom, who the doctors finally succeeding in removing after seventeen hours of surgery." "She is my mother, and you know that you always put up with more from your family. But look, the guy is just your boss, and why is he always around here anyway, it is like he does n't trust you." "Oh no, that's not it, they are always talking about finances and money and such. I mean your Mom is your manager." "Oh yeah right, studios always separate the talent side from the money side, the money people never deal with the talent: that's the first rule," I said. Josh looked at me askew, as though his teenaged friend just started speaking with the experience and authority of a thirty eight year old world famous sports agent. "Or so I have read," I added quickly. "Hmm, maybe you do have something. I do wonder what they are here for. None of the other talent angels are ever visited by their overlords nearly as often as I am." "Then let's go see what they are looking at." "We couldn't." "Oh please, if anything happens just blame me. That Hernandez guy hates me, and you will be fine. Don't you want to know? I know that you do - I mean jeez, you spent like all summer wondering what was happening on that boat between Joey and Pacey on Dawson's Creek." "Oh fine little miss precious." "You have never done that before." "What?" "Used a cutesy nickname with me, even in anger like that. It's cool, you should do that more." I said, smiling my sweetest smile. "It means that you are finally relaxing and being yourself around me. You should always just be yourself and let other people deal with their feelings about who you are. If other people don't like you, it's their problem, not yours. Actually, it's their loss," I said, squeezing his hand and smiling. He looked touched. "Come on let's go." We found the records quickly, and I read two paragraphs of the Management Support Agreement when I realized that I knew what the rest of the documents would say. Mom, along with the record company executive Manny Hernandez and Matias Bialystock, created several off- shore entities, including a management company based in the Cayman Islands. They would route almost all of the sales of Whitney Stubbs merchandise, license fees and tour receipts through this offshore entity, then lop off about 80% in "management fees," which in turn would be split three ways, and tucked away in secret bank accounts. The effect of all of this was that these three were cheating almost everyone on Earth: the record company, the tax authorities, and most importantly, these fuckers were robbing me. This scheme was genius - I should know: I invented it. Before I specialized as a sports agent, I was a young accountant who represented Up With Goodness, a fresh faced group of motivational singers often suspected of being a cult. Sure it was an aggressive tax plan, but who would suspect the Up With Goodness teens of fraud? As Billy Ackright, I used the scam a few times before I began to focus on sports stars, but it only worked if the group's manager set up the company, and kept the band out of the loop. I had never done very many, but my partner, Peter Hambleton had set up the scheme in several situations that were aggressive even for the drug lords and Russian mobsters that made up the bulk of his clientele. I explained it all to Josh, whose eyes seemed to glaze over at my detailed explanation of how you hid the touring income from the record company auditors. When I finished, he seemed to wake up, and said "this is just like the third season of Dynasty." "Exactly," I said, fearing that if I showed any interest whatsoever he would subject me to an explanation of a minor plot point from the long cancelled evening soap that was as detailed as my sermon on how to avoid withholding taxes on royalty payments to offshore entities. "How do you know so much about taxes and stuff?" Josh asked. "Were you like a lawyer in a previous life?" "Nahh, I was a CPA." We laughed. We turned and walked out of the front door of the hotel, and were met by a teeming mass of humanity. This was not the typical clusters of giggling girls, gathering in two and threes to get an autograph. Flash cameras were exploding, questions were fired, television cameras were rolling, and several microphones were pressed close enough to me to hear the sound of my heart poundin