Well, that would have been the headline if the Paparazzi were not so interested in the Paris Hilton's and Anna Nicole Smiths of this fair young nation. Thank God for actresses who can't act and singers who can't sing, otherwise the young snapping stallions would be following me! Boy oh boy, do I have a lot to be thankful for.
I speculate that in my home town the headline would have read thus..
KIRSTEN PRICE SNAPPED BARE BOTTOMED IN BEVERLY HILLS!
That is, if it was published in "THE SUN" . A more tasteful headline in the Daily News would have read..
"KIRSTEN PRICE BARES ALL"
OK, OK. So you want to know. You KNOW you want to know, right?
Los Angeles is hot, but this was a bonafide standardized, call it anything you want, it's a heat wave. i.e. well over 100 degrees Celsius (to convert from C to F, try these calculations manually. 37 + 40 = 77, and 77 * 9/5 = 138.6. For the final calculation, remove the 40. 138.6 - 40 = 98.6 ..God bless the metric system)
So, to put it in a nutshell it's fucking hot. Colonial hot. I'm in my underwear playing a slow song on the piano and there are beads of sweat dripping down each leg, hot. Too damn hot. Obviously a siesta would have been the appropriate response but this is my second ever West Coast run and instead of a band in tow, I have:
an old Akai MPC drum machine
a mini Korg synth
a Nord Electro
an Apple laptop (let's hope Steve Jobs doesn't really have cancer, again.)
an Epiphone guitar
and a mini Line 6 POD.
In short I have way to much shit and no time to get my shit together. I can't sleep, it's showtime and it's way too hot. Instead of siesta, I opt for a short jog in the neighborhood. It's officially Beverly Hills but it's also flat, so I guess that makes it Beverly Hills Flats? Whatever. It's Beverly Hills 90210. Lot's of whitewashed buildings and white people. I like to get lost in new neighborhoods, it's my thing. So I'm running, I'm lost, I'm hot, and I need to pee. I REALLY need to pee. Since I have succeeded in straying too far and I don't know where my temporary home base is anymore, exactly. I figure that I can find a toilet, which Americans commonly refer to as a "rest room". This is an urban community in the western world. There is a public toilet within spitting distance, right? I can rest in the rest room, powder my nose, take a bath in the bath room, right? Wrong. Nobody walks in L.A. It's not like Rome. It's not "civilised", it's just the suburbs.
By the time I figure out my predicament, it's too late. My bladder is about to burst. Fortuitously I stumble upon a construction site at the corner of Oakhurst and Civic Centre. I see something that from a distance looks like a port-a potty-from the Redding Festival (now the V festival thanks to the hot and fabulous Richard Branson). No such luck, it's too big, metallic and has a hazardous waste sign on it, besides it's locked. (Yes I tried to pee in a standalone closet marked "Hazardous Waste", I was THAT desperate). If I was a bloke I would just whip it out between a high wall and a parked car, but I'm not a bloke. I don't have hairy balls or any other such convenient equipment. Uh Oh, here comes a Beagle out on a walk looking for a crumb somebody dropped between the cracks in the sidewalk back in 1974. He's sniffing forever and I need to go way more than he does. Keep sniffing Beagle Boy, you lucky little shit. I am wishing so hard that I was a dog right now.
There are 3 large yellow cranes parked in a lot next to a concrete wall. I can sneak in there and crouch down in the plants and dirt. The only people who can see me are behind a few mirror tinted office windows way, way far away. Left with no choice I bare my sparkling white bottom to the glaring LA sunshine and OH MY GOD WHAT A RELIEF.
Please let me continue my slow burn without the inconvenience of paparazzi. Let this be a lesson to jealous media whores everywhere. God bless America.
