Yesterday was epic! Rather, an epic disaster, might I say. I know things are epic when I get goosebumps all over my arms, and on my legs. That also happens when it is cold. Go fig. And I know things are a disaster when I start literally huffing and puffing, and right before I let a tear out, it goes right back in. It’s too epic of a disaster to cry. I stay, in silence, baffled by the way things around me just fell apart, and how I watched it happen in slow motion. Kind of like the Baywatch babes, running up the sand. Somewhere Hobbie is saying to some girl, "Do you have a quarter?
Call someone who cares."
Everyone in school knows who I am, and who I rep. Everyone knows what I stand for. I am Penny S. Cilpen, and I am a frickin popstar—writer. I have posters from Bop and Tiger Beat all over my room of the stars from "Nick Freno Licensed Teacher," Hilary Duff, Shia Lebeouf, Backstreet Boyz, Hanson, 112, and my favorite group of all!
The Moffatts!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 
new.music.yahoo.com
The Moffatts are amazing. They’re like, saints. Those four swept the Canadian music scene and swept up my heart with it. Ohh, I feel a pang. The twins are my favorite, but everyone knows that Clint is cuter than Bob or whatever his name is. Clint. I dream of having a forest wedding with Clint Moffatt, where I wear a ruffled lace cream ensemble and dainty veil, and Clint wears a navy blue suit. It has to be navy. I cannot resist a man in a navy blue suit.
Enough about me and Clint and our nuptials. I am 17 years old and I am the youngest writer for Halapeno Magazine. Their motto is, “We’re hot—Period.” How I got asked was like an upgrade of sorts. I won a contest by writing a column on my website about how level 3 editing error can ruin lives, and how artists should speak in grammatically correct terms in their lyrics. Like the song "Stronger." "My loneliness ain't killin' me no more." Really, Britney Spears? Really?
They’re so cool, my editors. Only, they hate talking on the phone, they like e-mail. Anyway, these two things are about to come together.
Last Sunday I got invited to cover a Moffatts concert! OMFG! OMG! OMG! OMFG! Like, what the hell am I supposed to wear they are like Greek Gods, I heard they smell like Cool Water, and they wear Calvin Klein. But there is a dinner beforehand, and I get to interview them after. I mean, I have to get it together. The last time I fumbled in front of an artist was the ever so sweet Mandy Moore.
Me-“Mandy, how do you get your eyebrows to do that when you talk?”
Mandy-“Do what?”
Me-“Huh?”
Mandy-“Huh?”
I use that tactic to get out of situations. Anyway, I can’t fudge up this time. I already have a green poncho and velvet leggings to wear, and I’m going to put my hair in a side ponytail. It’s a high class affair, you know. I’m staying up figuring out questions to ask the Moffatts which consist of “What’s your next video in the US?” and “Which American act would you love to work with if you ever got the chance?” and once I got my questions down, I went to sleep like, “Oh Holy Grail! Tomorrow will be epic indeed.”
♦
So I’m in school, and I’m trying to hide my phone when I get a text message with the address. Cool beans. "But who is the contact?" I ask back. I waited until 3:15 for a response.
I’m getting off the bus—oh, crap! My New Kids on the Block lunchbox just fell. Don’t make fun of me, I’m a senior and I love pop bands. I get by high school without trouble because I meet famous people. And I take the bus still because I like the bumpy ride. Sued. I pick it up, walk over to my humble abode, and start changing. This thing is at 8; I’m going to need an answer soon. Somewhere around 5, I get a response, "Your contact Penny, is Cel-les Honcho. He didn’t provide a mobile number, but he provided an e-mail. You can email him at your convenience, but…"
2nd text.
"You shouldn’t need too. My phone isn’t being too much of a friend right now, but everything should be fine. Just walk to the door and say the secret word—k-OS."
Ok—so I’m leaving the house, and Mom is driving me to the train….We’re driving! We’re driving! I’m getting pumped. I hope I don’t hurl. Do these shoes really match this poncho? Fixing my hair, making sure the pony tail is perfect. Taking it out, stroking it, banding it….Crap-- it’s not good enough. Taking it out again, stroking it 15 times, banding it… kind of ignoring all the voice messages of how Leslie told Angela I was going and now Angela wants to “forgive” me for “talking” to her “boyfriend” at that party two weeks back. They were kind of on a break. I told her, “You’re the one that left that scared little puppy alone! Someone was rescuing him! Shouldn’t you just be happy he found a good home?”
She didn' t like that too much.
When I get there, I wasn’t on the first list, but I was on the second. I walk in and I look better than half the people in the room. Where are all of your ponchos? I’m just kidding, everyone looks amazing. I’m talking to two girls about how I’m graduating next semester and the only things I’ll miss are a double handful of friends and the cappuccino muffins in the cafeteria. They say high school is bittersweet.
Just two things. Where is Cel-les and why isn’t this a dinner? People are sitting around talking. I am too hot in this poncho, so I go upstairs and ask the coat guy for some direction, of course seeing a dinner on the right upstairs. “Is this the Moffatts dinner?”
“No this is the Red Cross dinner, the Moffatt event is downstairs.”
In line for some fruit punch, I see a guy to my left who looks douchey, but hip.
Me-“Is this a dinner?”
D-“Whhhhaaaaa?”
M-“Isn’t this supposed to be a dinner?”
D-“I dunno.” Shrugs.
One of the girls I was talking to about HS says it wasn’t a dinner, but then, someone walked in.
BB. BB is the person that I wrote for as a teen trendspotter for two years, and then she offered to pay me. Upon payment, which wasn’t what I expected, I should say, we had a scrabble over money. For one, she owes me some of it.
I actually don’t think too much of it, only my heart does. It’s a trust issue really. BB is over the top, and keeps walking circles around me like she’s trying to get through/enjoying the music, or like I'm a tree in the center of a curved road... but I remember what momma told me, “Don’t say shiz that will get you in some shiz.” Budda.
So I walked around in daze, it was getting quite boring, when four handsome young men walked down the stairs right to where I was sitting.
OH. MY. FRICKIN. GOD.
I seriously? On my grandmothers. I don’t even know what to. I almost feel a gizz… Crap.
So gorgeous! They were wearing green, the same color as my poncho! Where is my poncho! I want a picture. Where is Cel-les anyway?
I tap Clint.
Me- “Ni… ni….nice suit there.”
Greek God Sir Clint-“Thanks.”
“Will the Moffatts please come to the stage?” Thunderous applause ensues.
Crap. I got to get to the stage.
“Excuse me, perdon me, pardon me, make way! Um, can I get right—in there? Yeah, right there. Thanks!”
I’m really looking up Clint’s nose right now as they sing the soundtrack to my heart, and I fall in love one more time. “Bang, Bang, Boom,” “Girl Of My Dreams,” and “Misery” solidified when their vocal waves hit the microphones, they created the most consonant of sounds. At least that is what I am going to put in my write-up. I did stop the love fest to email Cel-les. “Is an interview still possible for Halapeno Mag? I’m by the stage. I don’t have your number, but call me at 555-PLZ-CALL.”
After they finished, they were bombarded by security and label execs, and I got a call. Red Pepper, my editor.
RP-“How’s it going kiddo?”
Me- “I feel like I am four and dropped in the middle of a supermarket parking lot and my parents drove away.”
RP-“Whoa. How was the dinner?”
M-“What dinner? I get here and I don’t see a dinner. And the dinner I do see I am told it has nothing to do with the Moffatts, it’s like…what the fudge. They ended up giving an intimate performance of three songs.”
RP-“So it was like--just people standing around drinking fruit punch?”
M-“Yeah.”
RP-”How was that?”
M-“I really don’t like talking to random people, I like performances.”
RP-“Aw. Well, get to the other spot quick. Moffatts concerts are crazy. You’re going to have to get through a ton of screaming girls to get in. Cel-Les said the interview would be at the second spot anyway. Good luck!”
God speed. I need God’s speed. I got my coat and see a member of the Moffatts, but no Cel-Les. Me and my rules.
I get outside and call my sister, B.B’s her BFF, and try to explain to her what happened. She thinks I’m being bitter about B.B.
Me-“So if you love her so much, why don’t you two get married and do artificial insemination or something?”
Sis-“This conversation is over.”
Me-”Well, DITTO!”
I’m walking up Jameson St. Looking for a bus, a train, maybe trying to get right--without getting drunk. I find a bus coming up the block, run to the stop and wave it, saving 3 other people who were at the wrong stop further down the block. If I could save 3 people from waiting another 10 minutes, I’ve done my job as an urbanite.
I get to the second spot and call my mother. She’s a hard nut to crack, but if you ….if you form a really good argument and refute all her points she’ll calm down and you can get some really good advice--after the thunderstorm.
“If you can’t get in touch with Sir Cel-Les after 30 more minutes, get your tush home. You have school in the morning.”
So I’m in line. Nick Lachey passes by with Jessica Simpson. They get in. But Ginger Spice has to wait.
Uhhhh….insert joke? Dude comes by like,
Dude-“Anybody a member of the press?”
Me-”I am!”
D-“Are you a member with Lox Entertainment?”
M-“What?”
D-“This is the Lox Entertainment list.”
M-“Oh, well, I don’t know.”
D-“Ok then.” Dude saunters when he walks away.
I’m here waiting, and my Senior Editor, Green Pepper, shoots me a text.
GP-“Did you interview them yet?”
Me-“Nah.”
GP-“Ask them this!”
Me- “Shoot me an e-mail.”
30 min.
GP-“Hear anything?”
Me-“I just emailed him again. He said 'ohhh I'll seeh" and I haven't heard back.”
GP-”I’ll try- did you email him at the right email?”
Me-“I tried it 3 different ways he had to get one of them.”
1 hr.
Dude with the list, yeah his name is Dude, he goes,
D-”Anybody a member of the press?”
M-”I am!”
D-“Are you a member with Lox Entertainment?”
M-“I. am. From. Halepeno. Magazine. Does that count?”
D-“Oh let me look!” *looks* “Oh you aren’t on the list.”
M-“Cel-les put me on.”
D-”I don’t know who that is…wait let me check.”
Dude disappears.
1 hr 30 min
The doorman says the list is closed.
GP texts, “I can’t get him, you may as well call it a night.”
Even fricken Ginger Spice got in. She’s a has-been!
I’m taking a taxi to the train and thinking horrible things. But really, in my heart, I’m just relieved the night was over. I probably wouldn’t have waited so long if I was in higher spirits. I mean who only provides their e-mail? I know the Moffatts are uber important, they should be knighted by the queen, and that they can stop wars, but just b/c you’re their publicist doesn’t mean you can invite me somewhere, promise me an interview like you were doing me a favor, and be unreachable. Anyone in the room that night would have been more reachable than you were. I’m not sure you even want to see my spunk. Let’s just skip to that.
GP apologized twice, and said, “So nobody came to help you?” and I said… “I waited two hours…” I don’t even feel like a recap. Not like I have Spidey senses or anything, but the saying sorry repeatedly over and over must hurt the ego. Especially when it's on behalf of someone else.
I wake up for school in the morning and write a favorable piece about the Moffatts. And then I write this....
Cell Less,
You don’t know who I am, so let me remind you. You invited ME to go see the Moffatts on Tuesday. You invited me to an album release party and a dinner. You ASSURED my editor I was on the list. I don’t know if this was supposed to make me feel like, assured, or something, but I had your word. Not like I go on people’s words of someone I've never seen and may never see again, who won’t be held accountable because I won’t tell you off to your face. HELLO Cell Less, you only gave your email. BS! I call it before you say…"I answer better to e-mail." BS. No one answers email it’s harder to open than a text and you have to press more buttons and you know it! You don’t want to give your telephone number to random people you don’t know! That’s understandable, you’re the Moffatts publicist. Frickin epic! I wonder, do you have a security guard too? I get it. So give me someone else's number. Anyone in the room would have been more reachable than you were on Tuesday night. Your one liner was sweet- I felt appreciated that you were going to “see” if you could get an interview, from the warm confines of inside the building. But not answering and then I’m in line for two hours and I’m not on the list ….lets take it back. I entered the first spot and it wasn’t even a dinner and I was confused. Or maybe there was a dinner but I didn’t know. B/c no one directed me. And when I saw the crew from Tiger Beat and Pop Star sit down I guessed it wasn’t a dinner after all. But I would never know anyway, I’m looking for you asking Moffatt's security and other people "Is this a dinner? Where is the dinner? Do you know Cell- Less?" I mean, and even with everything that happened, I didn't get any follow-up apologies for your disappearing act. Care to provide an explanation...to a writer? OF COURSE NOT! You taught me a big lesson. Publicists are below me on the totem pole. Because if Suave Greek Gawd Clint is right next to me and you are nowhere to be found, I have the right to snatch him. I am kicking my behind with my foot, and that takes a lot of contortionist effort. Next time one of you email preferring drinking having a merry old time publicists invites me somewhere, trying to appease my past pains of having to wait an hour with your golden word, promising I’m on the list and I’m not on the list, someone will be given a piece of my mind, or I will make like Puff Daddy, or Diddy Puff, or Sean Combs the Puff, do the Diddy-bop, and bounce. And the next time I see your artist and you aren’t doing your job, I will do it for you, and bypass you. See my name with your extension at the end. No dash. And I can make your money for me. And I'm 17. You have a good day, sir.
Oh My Dearest Red & Green Peppers. You're not off the hook.
Nick Cannon interview-So I get up to San Jose to have lunch with Nick, and then I get a call when I get out of the taxi that it is canceled. You give the label a piece of your mind. Nice, because no birds had to be flipped.
Britney Spears interview-Phone interview. Luckily I'm off from school, because if I miss crappy PE Golf one more time, I get the dreaded F. I run upstairs. See phone. One message--Just calling to confirm--we'll be calling you at 2 PM call us back! Call back, publicist is like, "You know what, Brit has been dancing all day and she's tired. She's gonna have to reschedule." That's unfortunate, I say, offer the next day I'm off. They ask for a reschedule weeks later. I am available. I get no response until hours before that the interview wasn't going on--some one forgot to tell me.
Aaron Carter interview-I'm going to San Francisco to talk to Aaron, and when I get in the office, they say, "Hey, we cancelled. Jorge was supposed to tell you." I call Jorge. He called me 1 hr before, while in the subway--so I didn't get it. I tell them--cancelling an hour before to a 17 year old is like someone who was supposed to get your dress for you the day of prom and then deciding to go into work last minute and leaving you a message when the limo is on it's way. They heard...."blah blah writer blah blah....take the trolley."
N*SYNC/Backstreet Boys-I am in line for an hour and I'm not on the list, probably because I was asked that day at 4 and then put on the list at 5, left at 5:30, got there at 7. Well, I waited til 8, for the person who put me on the list to get there. Then when they finally call my name to go in and meet her, I get in there and she's nowhere to be found. She made that dove disappear too, I believe.
And more within the last 6 months. But because things are great, famous people, fruit punch, blah blah, people spend money to learn this crap and I am given the opportunity into my hands--it looks like open mouth insert foot, no matter what shoe I'm wearing. And I've messed up too! Don't think I don't get that (Like the time I stepped on Amanda Bynes foot backstage with my 5 inch heels before she was going to do her last show on Nick, and she had to work it into her routine...) I think, though, that you peppers, with all of this waiting around and cancellations, are like, giving me heartburn. No,...wait...oh...I feel it... I'm getting heartburn. I can surely give everyone a piece of my mind, if that is what will stop the circus. But really what I want is for both the label side and the editorial side to be on point, so the writer doesn't get so pissed that she drinks too much fruit punch and crab cakes, and then hurls in the bathroom, missing the whole show. Thanks in advance rents....you now have yourself a writer.
Penny S. Cilpen.
THE END.
