Here I am living in the fabulous South Beach, where the hot fashion models hang out and last call at the clubs is 5 AM (on Sunday night!). So what am I doing on a Tuesday evening? Hosting two of my male photographer friends, one of whom is blowing out the door, cursing with smoke pouring out of both ears because his printer isn't working properly and I'm not paying enough attention because I took a break from fixing his printer to read my email. The other gentleman has confiscated my TV remote and is staring intently at a cable program about some fellow who has got his arm buried elbow deep (I kid you not) in the wrong end of some poor horse. In the middle of this, the phone rings, and another (very male) friend is calling to tell me when he will be coming to town to stay at Che' Fish!
It occurred to me at that moment, I have died, this is hell.
Ah, but God works in mysterious ways. This morning I got a call from a girl who wanted to know how much I would charge for a couple of pictures she could take to a model search (in Las Vegas!). Now, you know you are not dealing with the sharpest knife in the drawer when they live in Miami (where practically every major agency has a big office), but are paying big bucks to go to a model search 2000 miles away (to a city where fashion is non sequiter). It's hot, I'm bored, so gimme a bazillion dollars and maybe. "No, no, no! It's only two pictures, why so much?"
How does, "Because I don't want to do it." sound.
It gets better.
"Oh, please please help! My makeup is all done and the photographer who said he'd do it hasn't shown up!" Oh dear, you know what I'm thinking. If the photographer who was supposed to show up, hasn't, it's probably because the poor girl couldn't get the dog to play with her if she had a pork chop tied around her neck! Sigh, I'm bored, got nothing planned, and I'm a sucker for a sob story. "Okay, come over, but this will be quick."
I walk down to the lobby to meet my worst nightmare, oops, I mean the lovely aspiring model. Apparently I missed her, this I know because one of the security guys comes running up with his eyes as big as saucers saying he'd sent her around the other way to my place. "You are such the man! How do you get these girls?"
Huh? Pork Chop Girl, the one with the IQ of a gerbil on crack? Hmmmm, maybe I better get back to my place.
I turn the corner, and there stands this 5'11, blonde, blue eyed bombshell. "Privet, I'm Anastasia!" Oh dear God, a Russian. Stick a fork in me, I'm soooo done.
Now, don't jump to conclusions. Those who know me know I am now slipping into my own seventh ring of the inferno. The fishing pole she is holding is appropriate. She will be so nice, she will say something in Russian, then she will play me like the big tuna that I am, and leave me gutted and filleted in the frying pan.
And I will beg for more.