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"Oh, hello there. I almost didn't see you from under my blanket. Come on in, and welcome to our home." |
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| "Welcome to my living room. You can watch TV or stare at me!" |
Well, the title says it all. There really isn't much more to add... but I suppose I could explain how I got myself into this awful predicament in the first place. Thanks to my parents passing on great genes (or so I'm told) I was blessed enough to pass as a model in Orlando. With the pushing of some friends and the help of my uncle, I was walking runways, shooting videos, and making appearances at conventions in no time at all. One particular job was the PMA Tradeshow. My job was to pose for a 5 foot polaroid camera! There are only 5 in the entire world! (Google It!) It spits out a 20x24 poster-sized picture instantly! (Which I currently have 5 under my bed. I can't very well throw posters of myself away, but I also just can't just hang them in the living room either. For 1, my husband would make fun of me and for 2, look at it over there, it just looks stupid! I'm keeping them because, to quote a friend, "Pics, or it didn't happen!" But I digress, so there I was at the convention getting paid to get posters made of me and this old man and young woman walk by. They explained to me that they work for National Geographic, they had cards and all sorts of proof. I won't put any names down because the creepy old man and I did not part ways on good terms and I don't want to get sued for slander...but is it slander if it's true? Anyways, their new project was on the history and origins of hip hop music, so naturally, since I'm black, they assumed I'd be perfect for it! (I hate racist and stereotypical assumptions! I will blog about that later.) They were also shooting for a new book the old man wanted to publish...I feel like I'm ripping off Ernest Hemingway by calling him "the old man", so we'll call him C.o.g. (Creepy old guy). So before I knew it, my skeptical mother, excited me, and Cog were flying to New York City on an all expenses paid trip! My first day there I ventured out alone with Cog (I was 20 at the time) and we went to see Kimora Lee and Russell Simmons at their office. Reverend Run was there as well. I was pretty stoked but I'm not that into celebrities and what-not so I kept my cool. As Cog and friends discussed business, Mr. Simmons and I had the same thought at the same time, only he voiced it; "What are you doing here? What's your part in all of this?" He asked this directly to me as he ate a cup-o-noodles with chop sticks from behing a huge oak desk. I had no answer, I looked at Cog, he looked creepily back at me and said "She's my assistant. Up and coming photographer and I'm showing her around."
WHHAAATT!! Red Flags went up instantly in my head, and I was mad because my mother was right; Cog truly was a c.o.g. We leave there and venture off to Times Square and Central Station for a photoshoot (he was working on a new book and I was (keyword WAS) going to be the main focus of it) and he drops me back off at the hotel where my mom is and says he'll send a limo for me later. We had been invited to a chairty benefit mixer type thing that Jay-Z was hosting. Now perhaps Cog had worked with other slizzies (slizzies, is a term my husband uses instead of slut or whore) that would go crazy for name-drops and do anything he wanted, but he had never worked with Naomi Simone. The same Naomi Simone who just last month turned down a photographer who wanted her to pose in lacy underwear even though it was going to pay well and even though he ridiculously picked up a phone and said "Am I going to have to make a phone call to every agency and tell them that you are difficult to work with?" "Um, I guess you are sir, because my pants are staying on. I'm in school, have supportive friends and family, and don't care enough about this industry to fight getting black balled out of it." It's funny because people look at me, judge me instantly, and assume they can easily label me as "that type of girl". They almost always couldn't be further from the truth.
Back to my story: I, of course, don't tell my mother that Cog lied to Russell Simmons because I wanted to check out the event later... big mistake. This is when Cog makes his move; on the limo ride over he put his wrinkly little hand on my knee and starts babbling about how it doesn't matter how old a man is, he can still provide for a woman and give her children, and other stomach churning topics. I pretended to see something outside and turned to get his hand off my knee. (It's funny, with all the odd sitiuations I get myself into, you would think I'd be a pro at diffusing or directly dealing with them. Not so much though.) By the time we are walking into the apartments that the event is at, Cog is asking me to move to L.A. with him, promising to launch my modeling career and make me lots of money (this is the part where he is assuming he is saying the all the right things based on assumptions, from judging the way I look. L.A. is the last place I'd want to be, I hate modeling, and money truly doesn't mean as much to me as it does to other people. Also, I have an awesome God that has blessed me with enough wisdom to know Cog is the c.o.g. of all c.o.g.s.) I politely turn him down and we enter the party. Cog is now irritated with me and leaves my side to start interviewing people and taking pictures. I saw P. Diddy, Jay-Z, and a few other socialites that I knew of but couldn't name to save my life. I wandered around the penthouse, soaking in the art and amazing view of Manhattan for a bit, bored and more than ready to return to Florida, realizing I should have never left. Cog starts making his way back over, drinks in hand, good Lord! I'm thinking that I am not ready for round 2 just yet. I duck around a corner and bump into Russell who says "Naomi!" and I turn around thinking it's pretty cool he remembered my name, only to have a plate full of half eaten sushi tossed at me. "Throw this away for me," he says, and walks away. Cog catches up to me at this point, starts spitting his "game" and I have had enough. I don't speak up for myself much, but when I reach my breaking point, there is no holding back. I let Cog know what a cog I think he is and tell him I want to go home. He acts more than appalled that I would even think he was anything less than professional the entire trip, kicks me out of his book, but still paid me $1200 for the 3 days I followed him around as his "assisstant photographer."I couldn't make up that story if I tried. It was an awful experience but at least now, 8 years later, I have someting to blog about and you have something to read.
