mom-ager.
Roxie gives me her famous, adoring smile. I wonder if she has any idea what I just said. I wonder if she even listens to any of her guests’ answers, or if she’s already onto the next topic in her mind. She seems like she’s more effervescent blonde cheer than present, mindful thought. Not that it matters to me, as long as my fans are swayed by her bullshit.
“Awesome!! Well, I think everyone knows this one already, but we have a clip of you rehearsing your hit song You’ll Never Break My Heart Again , getting the routine ready for your tour. Let’s check it out!” Roxie chirps.
“Thanks so much! See you guys out there for the American Dreams tour, everyone!” I cry and wave at the camera. It’s a little fake at this point, since I’m having trouble connecting with the show’s hostess, but it’s important to smile smile smile . That’s what pop stars do .
“Great. Let’s watch the clip, shall we?” Roxie says. A statement, not a question.
I know the drill. Roxie and I both turn to watch the green screen behind us and hold still for half a minute. When the director calls out CUT we both relax and sigh. I can’t believe I made it through without any questions about the attack, but Roxie is probably too hammered to think of anything off-script.
“Whew!” Roxie says, shaking her head. “Great energy. That clip is going to go viral, I can feel it.”
“Oh, good!” I say, pushing myself to stand, balancing in my five inch designer heels. “Thanks for having me on…”
Roxie isn’t paying a bit of attention. Her hair and makeup team descend to take advantage of the small break in airtime.
“Let’s get you moving, make room for the next guest,” a young blonde production assistant says, gently tapping my shoulder in an attempt to shoo me from the interview area.
“Oh! Right. Okay,” I say. Before I can start to feel truly awkward, though, my PR team surrounds me. Brad, Sarah, and the two Jennifers. My team of publicists from Raven Media.
I call them the Ravens, which is a little funny because each one of them is bright as sunshine. All of them various shades of blond, high energy, two of them always by my side in rotating shifts. Someone is with me damn near twenty four hours a day. I tend to get a little too truthful when left unattended, so the Ravens make sure that doesn’t happen.
You know, so I don’t get too chatty , as the Ravens call it. Say something I’m not supposed to say. Anything that’s off script, anything that’s outside the carefully crafted narrative that Raven Media has formulated for me. I’m supposed to be a Southern girl from a good family, cheery and bubbly and just the right amount of outrageous.
That’s the Elly Parsons who sells tickets and CDs, so that’s the Elly Parsons I want to be. The Elly Parsons I choose to be. For the most part, I let the Ravens mold me, hand hold me, encourage me. If I let myself get wrapped up in the game, it’s actually pretty damned fun.
Besides, I like the Ravens. They’re a lot better than the rest of my entourage…
“Giiiiiirllllll, good job!” Brad says, giving me a little high five. “Let’s get you out through the main entrance while you’re still looking so fierce. We don’t want you to smudge.”
“Okay.” That’s my answer for almost everything. I am famous in the business for being the anti-diva, for being delightful to work with. So if I’m a little bit of a pushover, who cares? I’m making bank, and so is everyone else around me.
I get to entertain the adoring masses with my silly songs, wear awesome clothes, and dance around on stage. That’s my literal, actual job . I’m one of the luckiest people on the planet , as I remind myself constantly.
Brad links arms with me and leads me out of the studio, past all the production offices and through a bunch of pristine white hallways. The Jennifers open a set of double doors and Sarah opens an umbrella to keep the sun out of my face, and
Roxie gives me her famous, adoring smile. I wonder if she has any idea what I just said. I wonder if she even listens to any of her guests’ answers, or if she’s already onto the next topic in her mind. She seems like she’s more effervescent blonde cheer than present, mindful thought. Not that it matters to me, as long as my fans are swayed by her bullshit.
“Awesome!! Well, I think everyone knows this one already, but we have a clip of you rehearsing your hit song You’ll Never Break My Heart Again , getting the routine ready for your tour. Let’s check it out!” Roxie chirps.
“Thanks so much! See you guys out there for the American Dreams tour, everyone!” I cry and wave at the camera. It’s a little fake at this point, since I’m having trouble connecting with the show’s hostess, but it’s important to smile smile smile . That’s what pop stars do .
“Great. Let’s watch the clip, shall we?” Roxie says. A statement, not a question.
I know the drill. Roxie and I both turn to watch the green screen behind us and hold still for half a minute. When the director calls out CUT we both relax and sigh. I can’t believe I made it through without any questions about the attack, but Roxie is probably too hammered to think of anything off-script.
“Whew!” Roxie says, shaking her head. “Great energy. That clip is going to go viral, I can feel it.”
“Oh, good!” I say, pushing myself to stand, balancing in my five inch designer heels. “Thanks for having me on…”
Roxie isn’t paying a bit of attention. Her hair and makeup team descend to take advantage of the small break in airtime.
“Let’s get you moving, make room for the next guest,” a young blonde production assistant says, gently tapping my shoulder in an attempt to shoo me from the interview area.
“Oh! Right. Okay,” I say. Before I can start to feel truly awkward, though, my PR team surrounds me. Brad, Sarah, and the two Jennifers. My team of publicists from Raven Media.
I call them the Ravens, which is a little funny because each one of them is bright as sunshine. All of them various shades of blond, high energy, two of them always by my side in rotating shifts. Someone is with me damn near twenty four hours a day. I tend to get a little too truthful when left unattended, so the Ravens make sure that doesn’t happen.
You know, so I don’t get too chatty , as the Ravens call it. Say something I’m not supposed to say. Anything that’s off script, anything that’s outside the carefully crafted narrative that Raven Media has formulated for me. I’m supposed to be a Southern girl from a good family, cheery and bubbly and just the right amount of outrageous.
That’s the Elly Parsons who sells tickets and CDs, so that’s the Elly Parsons I want to be. The Elly Parsons I choose to be. For the most part, I let the Ravens mold me, hand hold me, encourage me. If I let myself get wrapped up in the game, it’s actually pretty damned fun.
Besides, I like the Ravens. They’re a lot better than the rest of my entourage…
“Giiiiiirllllll, good job!” Brad says, giving me a little high five. “Let’s get you out through the main entrance while you’re still looking so fierce. We don’t want you to smudge.”
“Okay.” That’s my answer for almost everything. I am famous in the business for being the anti-diva, for being delightful to work with. So if I’m a little bit of a pushover, who cares? I’m making bank, and so is everyone else around me.
I get to entertain the adoring masses with my silly songs, wear awesome clothes, and dance around on stage. That’s my literal, actual job . I’m one of the luckiest people on the planet , as I remind myself constantly.
Brad links arms with me and leads me out of the studio, past all the production offices and through a bunch of pristine white hallways. The Jennifers open a set of double doors and Sarah opens an umbrella to keep the sun out of my face, and
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