| Break Through |
[08 Oct 2007|06:07am] |
"Stop. This isn't right."
Cara immediately stopped singing. Her left hand was resting lightly on the studio headphones that were wrapped around her ears. She sighed inwardly. This was her fifth take for a lousy, insipid song.
"And what's wrong with it, Butch?"
The producer on the other side of the glass took a long drag from his cigarette. Exhaling, he said, "Too slow. This is supposed to be an electro-pop number. Not a ballad. What are you, on downers today?"
The blonde gave a sweet smile, but her voice was infused with venom. "You know I don't do drugs. I'm the face of the new D.A.R.E. campaign."
The bespectacled producer just laughed. "Honey, we're all the face of something, but that rarely ever has anything to do with what we get up to in private."
"Tell me about it," she muttered. And then, audibly now, "Okay. Take six." She scribbled on the notes laid on the stand before her. Faster, upbeat, pop shit. Above this, her agent's scrawling handwriting read "Crossover". The word was underlined three times. Apparently, Cara's career and image depended on it.
Every day, she forgot more and more who she was; it was replaced by who she was supposed to be. A product, to be marketed.
|
|
| Temper, Temper |
[08 Oct 2007|06:28pm] |
"Did ya see this? Did ya see?"
Moments earlier, the writing bullpen had been a place of quiet chaos. The stable were spitballing ideas about future plot arcs based on notes from Max Bickert, looking for novel ways of new pairings, the next 'big bad'. They only needed to wait two minutes.
August Whittaker stormed into the dank, smoky room and tossed several copies of the latest issue of GQ Magazine onto the table, not caring as one slid off and into a cup of coffee that upended into a laptop. Sparks flew in more ways than one.
"Best dressed! Damned right I am! It's all about presentation boys. Look the part, feel the part! Bloody fuckin' 'ell, you've got me as such a goddamned wanker for too long now! You promised changes. I figured that meant an upscale in wardrobe. But no, instead yeh turn me into a fuckin' lawyer consulting bad movies for reference!"
It probably didn't help that he'd lost the part to Joe Pesci. A joke at his expense, obviously.
"Did ya read? O' course yeh didn't, barely able to scratch your own arse! Here let me: 'Whittacker is the epitome of style, reflective of his former glory in London's West End. Sadly, Whistler remains the sow's ear culled from a silk purse. We'd be more invested in his performance in Birthright and his former relationship with Rhiannon Lee if they just let the man dress in something better than Goodwill rejects'."
"I won't fuckin' stand for this! You hear me!?"
With that, August Whittaker stormed away, grumbling at the secretary as he flashed a 'V' over his shoulder.
|
|