Letter From London - Humorous Gossip from London

Zero Degrees of Separation - 23 May

Dear Lulu,

I’ve just noticed that Michael Jackson + Priscilla + Lisa Marie Presley = 0 degrees of separation, not the standard 6. And no, not through the obvious: birth and/or marriage and/or divorce, film and/or music. All three have been surreptitiously practicing the ancient art of ventriloquism. It gets a bit tricky here: for all we know, Michael could so easily be mistaken for the dummy. We hear them speak, recognizable words come out, but lips fail to move and faces remain frozen. However, destiny has been kind: not one of them has a sense of humour. So no need to panic, otherwise life could get very risky indeed - unless of course their personal plastic surgeons are on 24-hour emergency duty. With Michael, that’s an obvious necessity. Just imagine that ‘nose’ left to its own devices; partying, dancing, snorting substances, waving to other nose-jobs, nuzzling strangers. The nose knows. (Really sorry about that).

This observation came about when flipping through television channels, as one does, choosing the conventional method over the-Elvis-target-practice-method. Surprise, surprise. There was Priscilla with Elvis in an hour-long programme of her life with ‘The King’. (Personally, all the hysteria completely eluded me.) Family film clips were annotated by ‘oh-my-gosh’-Priscilla and her parents. When questioned about their unconventional early days together, Priscilla was quite nonchalant about the peculiar arrangement. Her seemingly normal parents recounted how Elvis came to see them ‘like a real gentleman’. Really. All that indoctrinating military “Yes Sir! No sir!” plus all that customary Southern syntax “Yes Sir! No Sir!” was all they needed to gave their blessing to send their still in school little girl off to live with that massive celebrity and his mansion full of mates. That was 1959, when 14 really was 14 and 24 really was 24. Can we safely assume that Elvis’ predilection for peering through a keyhole at nubile young girls dressed only in pre-Bridget Jones big white underpants cavorting in a bedroom became public knowledge later? What really fascinated me was the fact that there were her parents, sitting only a few feet away from her and they talking to her as if they recognized her. None of the obvious: “Is that really you, Priscilla?” She faced them with an exquisitely prepared mask; flawlessly drawn eyeliner, eyebrows, mouth. Well, I didn’t recognize her.

Immediately after the documentary aired, Priscilla began popping up on every talk show like a cosmetically made-up meerkat (without the madness or cuteness). All movements have been carefully choreographed. She raises her right hand to the top right side of her forehead and in a precise, sweeping hand-curled gesture – a surprisingly large hand – she glides a pre-arranged strand of newly-copper-coloured hair under her chin. Now you know that takes practice. However, the most fascinating feature of her surgically-created mask is her mouth. It certainly wasn’t the same mouth we saw in that trip down memory lane with Elvis. I found myself leaning forward for further examination. What was that whistling sound she was making when talking? Was her upper lip in actual fact glued to her front teeth? Was that clown makeup? Had she spent those off-talk-show hours watching the re-enactment of Michael’s trial, or was it just the work of a clever Kabuki stylist, because her face has been getting progressively whiter with each TV appearance.

Flipping through those television channels yet again; horror of horrors, I caught Priscilla just at the moment when unbeknownst to her, she abandoned her ohmygosh facade in full view on The Richard & Judy Show. At first this was a pleasant relief, assuaging my irrational fear of diabetes through osmosis due to saccharine overdose. Suddenly she became incensed over London press coverage. And how do we know that? By placing our makeup–free faces within 12” of the TV screen, staring straight ahead at her face and not blinking, we could detect the narrowing of her flawlessly auburn-pencilled eyes and the lowering of her breathy ohhhhmygoshshsh voice to a sort of semi-audible Exorcist growl. Granted it was difficult to discern at first, but make no mistake: Priscilla was livid. She referred to comments made regarding a photograph in her book of Elvis more or less hugging a very young Lisa Marie, while placing a kiss on the top of her head. An article in a newspaper had said Lisa Marie looked like a rag doll. To be honest, she looked like a comatose rag doll. More precisely, she looked simply comatose. A rag doll usually has that lively, homespun, folksiness about it. The “I know my father adored me” child appeared quite untouched by Elvis’ affection. Hmmm. Curiously enough, after all these years, Lisa Marie has managed to maintain that very persona of the living dead, matched perfectly by that monotone voice. In that low snarl, Priscilla did say the press were “something else”. She didn’t elaborate, but happy bunny doesn’t spring to mind. To add insult to injury, the full four – I repeat as a personal reality check - four hours of her the documentary of life with Elvis was cut down to one hour. Oh my gosh….

If things continue on the path established, we’re facing a separated-at-birth moment with Joan Rivers. And we know how truly frightening she looks. Aughhhhh. Get the children inside. Quickly.

TTFN, Maggie

Zero Degrees of Separation - 23 May

Letters From London