I think a nice little story.
From a German blog.
I liked it
http://beatewedekind50plus.blog.de/2009/06/26/michael-jackson-begegnung-25-jahren-6399982/
Reporter luck - a few unforgettable hours on the side of Michael Jackson
It was after the Oscars, if I remember correctly: 1984. As Colorful reporter at the dinner party I was the star agent Irving Swifty Lazar in Morton's, the then most fashionable restaurant of the Hollywood elite, invited. The year before, I had interviewed for my column Swifty "My Rendezvous," which had brought me the invitation to this most exclusive of all the Oscar parties.
Shortly before two had the table at which I was placed, dissolved: It was, I admit it like to have the press table. But I had good chat with the fellow reporters from around the world, a good time. They were all stars of the guild. Jaime Penafiel, the legendary editor of the Spanish Holà, Andrew Morton from London, later the biographer of Princess Diana, and last but not Dominick Dunne, one of the star writers of the American Vanity Fair least. So I was also at the children's table was in good company, had eyes and ears kept open and made the most delicious observations and saved the details for the next few columns in my memory.
I was tired of all the impressions, even at the Oscars, my first, which I experienced on the red carpet and in the press center at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, I was overwhelmed by the friendliness and readiness for information of the stars. My block was full of scribbled with quotes, I would have liked at once placed at the typewriter and put everything on paper, laptops, there was not then!
But I was not only tired, the intimate round, still sitting there in a few tables, was so high level that I did not trust me associate to do so. Shirley MacLaine and Jack Nicholson, who had received both an Oscar for "Terms of Endearment," Barbra Streisand, with Michel Legrand, the composer of her film Yentl, who did not let his Oscar from the hands sat together. Swifty And, as host, this lively little man with the really big glasses, gave me a kiss, as I said goodbye to him.
So there I stood in a vestibule at the top of the landing, wondering if I order a taxi or simply one of the below should grab at the door waiting limousines, when a young, vulnerable black, his eyes hidden behind large sunglasses, contrary came straight to me: I recognized him immediately, of course, it was Michael Jackson. All alone, no bodyguard, or any other accompaniment.
He stood next to me said "Excuse me, politely took off his sunglasses, his white gloves, but he kept, and asked a stranger in his low, clear voice, though I wonder if Barbra was still there. Barbra Streisand. Yes, I replied that she is sitting back with Jack Nicholson at the table of the host. Then he took me gently by the arm - just like that and asked me: Please, can you accompany me? Can you guide me please?
Of course! Of course! What could I have the same answer. Only a tiny moment, I was perplexed. But then I felt the adrenaline of a reporter took possession of my body happiness, my heart was beating wildly, my smile, I had to check, lest it derailed at a blissful grin.
When we walked arm in arm through the nearly empty room, he wanted to know my name and where I came from, and soon we had arrived at the table by Barbra and Jack and Swifty. Shirley MacLaine was already gone, but her brother, Warren Beatty, was still there, embracing Michael, had been done of the stiffly with him, I saw that he was deeply unpleasant.
This is Beatrice, a friend from Germany, Michael Jackson asked me before the round. I could have kissed him! A friend from Germany. What a lie, what an excuse, what a compliment for me, I still remember that I then shook his head when he said that. Swifty Lazar, the host, who knew so, that I was a journalist, just took me aside and said: You are welcome, Beate, but I count on your discretion. You are welcome, but I trust in your discretion. Then he asked me, on the empty chair beside him and Michael Jackson to sit down. The Oscar from Jack Nicholson stood in front of me, within fingers reach. Nicholson saw my glance, and pressed it into my hand - when I could greet him years later as a producer of the Golden Camera in Berlin, I wondered briefly whether I should put me in mind. I did it and he grinned and said: That was a noteworthy night, a remarkable night. There were some nice girls around / There were also a few nice girls.
As I sat at this table and was able to grasp the happiness of the moment, no. What I experienced was one of the most relaxing evenings of my entire career reporter, possibly the best laugh ever - and just chat with these people who were my heroes - and are. They clapped as the washerwomen on neighbors and staff, through colleagues and children about money, yachts, Aston Martins and other passions. And I gave up and starting to formulate my mustard to it, I can if I want sharp. As Swifty Lazar eventually told me I did not know that a German reporter can not be so quick-witted / did not know that a German reporter can be as quick-witted, I blushed and started to sweat. Yes, Michael Jackson saw that and gave me a clean white, handgesäumtes handkerchief I did not wash for many years and have kept as a treasure, until I gave it to a friend who was ill and her only comfort, and a few moments of lightness in music was held by Michael Jackson.
It was straight much champagne and bourbon drinking that night, but Jackson stayed at orange juice with Schweppes tonic water and I shared with an unknown beauty who was so discreet that I was able to give as a nobody, a grand Chateau Lafite, vintage 1978, the first and only of my life.
Michael Jackson's shyness, which he had apparently prevented from passing through the space in the Morton's alone, and by which he gave me the pleasure of the evening was gone at the moment, as if he had let himself down in the round, and he giggled like a little boy whispered something in her ear and kissed Barbra Streisand La again and again the hand and was happy and could find no end.
It was after four, when all started out, damned late for Hollywood, where so everyone loves his beauty sleep. Michael Jackson took me by the arm again, when we came down the stairs. I thought Jack Nicholson's Oscar even now in the hand. He also amused himself magnificently. When I finally returned him his trophy, he kissed me on the forehead. Jack Nicholson kissed me on the forehead ... Bunte-to be a reporter, I was at that moment, was the dream job in itself.
Michael Jackson asked me into his limousine, on this evening there was a rather small Mercedes model, the chauffeur, a small Mexican.
During the journey, Michael Jackson told me with his incredibly soft voice that he had actually stolen them from all the people who even then had not deviated from his side. He had the King of Pop, is quietly taken a few hours of freedom. He took me past my hotel, the Beverly Hills, opened myself gallantly the blow, made a wide sweeping gesture, laughed at me and said Thanx, thanks. I was tempted to hug him, but since this distance, I had watched as Warren Beatty grabbed him by the shoulders, these sunglasses, which he then took from her eyes was no longer, these white gloves, and this sadness, this after covered front shoulder as he took his seat in the back of his limousine. I watched him waving as he drove on and had him since that evening closed in my heart.
When I think about this episode, about the time when life seemed to be still rather be in the lot, at least so far that he dared to talk to a stranger, and the isolation in which he spent his final years -- then I feel sick. And I pray for him.
From a German blog.
I liked it
http://beatewedekind50plus.blog.de/2009/06/26/michael-jackson-begegnung-25-jahren-6399982/
Reporter luck - a few unforgettable hours on the side of Michael Jackson
It was after the Oscars, if I remember correctly: 1984. As Colorful reporter at the dinner party I was the star agent Irving Swifty Lazar in Morton's, the then most fashionable restaurant of the Hollywood elite, invited. The year before, I had interviewed for my column Swifty "My Rendezvous," which had brought me the invitation to this most exclusive of all the Oscar parties.
Shortly before two had the table at which I was placed, dissolved: It was, I admit it like to have the press table. But I had good chat with the fellow reporters from around the world, a good time. They were all stars of the guild. Jaime Penafiel, the legendary editor of the Spanish Holà, Andrew Morton from London, later the biographer of Princess Diana, and last but not Dominick Dunne, one of the star writers of the American Vanity Fair least. So I was also at the children's table was in good company, had eyes and ears kept open and made the most delicious observations and saved the details for the next few columns in my memory.
I was tired of all the impressions, even at the Oscars, my first, which I experienced on the red carpet and in the press center at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, I was overwhelmed by the friendliness and readiness for information of the stars. My block was full of scribbled with quotes, I would have liked at once placed at the typewriter and put everything on paper, laptops, there was not then!
But I was not only tired, the intimate round, still sitting there in a few tables, was so high level that I did not trust me associate to do so. Shirley MacLaine and Jack Nicholson, who had received both an Oscar for "Terms of Endearment," Barbra Streisand, with Michel Legrand, the composer of her film Yentl, who did not let his Oscar from the hands sat together. Swifty And, as host, this lively little man with the really big glasses, gave me a kiss, as I said goodbye to him.
So there I stood in a vestibule at the top of the landing, wondering if I order a taxi or simply one of the below should grab at the door waiting limousines, when a young, vulnerable black, his eyes hidden behind large sunglasses, contrary came straight to me: I recognized him immediately, of course, it was Michael Jackson. All alone, no bodyguard, or any other accompaniment.
He stood next to me said "Excuse me, politely took off his sunglasses, his white gloves, but he kept, and asked a stranger in his low, clear voice, though I wonder if Barbra was still there. Barbra Streisand. Yes, I replied that she is sitting back with Jack Nicholson at the table of the host. Then he took me gently by the arm - just like that and asked me: Please, can you accompany me? Can you guide me please?
Of course! Of course! What could I have the same answer. Only a tiny moment, I was perplexed. But then I felt the adrenaline of a reporter took possession of my body happiness, my heart was beating wildly, my smile, I had to check, lest it derailed at a blissful grin.
When we walked arm in arm through the nearly empty room, he wanted to know my name and where I came from, and soon we had arrived at the table by Barbra and Jack and Swifty. Shirley MacLaine was already gone, but her brother, Warren Beatty, was still there, embracing Michael, had been done of the stiffly with him, I saw that he was deeply unpleasant.
This is Beatrice, a friend from Germany, Michael Jackson asked me before the round. I could have kissed him! A friend from Germany. What a lie, what an excuse, what a compliment for me, I still remember that I then shook his head when he said that. Swifty Lazar, the host, who knew so, that I was a journalist, just took me aside and said: You are welcome, Beate, but I count on your discretion. You are welcome, but I trust in your discretion. Then he asked me, on the empty chair beside him and Michael Jackson to sit down. The Oscar from Jack Nicholson stood in front of me, within fingers reach. Nicholson saw my glance, and pressed it into my hand - when I could greet him years later as a producer of the Golden Camera in Berlin, I wondered briefly whether I should put me in mind. I did it and he grinned and said: That was a noteworthy night, a remarkable night. There were some nice girls around / There were also a few nice girls.
As I sat at this table and was able to grasp the happiness of the moment, no. What I experienced was one of the most relaxing evenings of my entire career reporter, possibly the best laugh ever - and just chat with these people who were my heroes - and are. They clapped as the washerwomen on neighbors and staff, through colleagues and children about money, yachts, Aston Martins and other passions. And I gave up and starting to formulate my mustard to it, I can if I want sharp. As Swifty Lazar eventually told me I did not know that a German reporter can not be so quick-witted / did not know that a German reporter can be as quick-witted, I blushed and started to sweat. Yes, Michael Jackson saw that and gave me a clean white, handgesäumtes handkerchief I did not wash for many years and have kept as a treasure, until I gave it to a friend who was ill and her only comfort, and a few moments of lightness in music was held by Michael Jackson.
It was straight much champagne and bourbon drinking that night, but Jackson stayed at orange juice with Schweppes tonic water and I shared with an unknown beauty who was so discreet that I was able to give as a nobody, a grand Chateau Lafite, vintage 1978, the first and only of my life.
Michael Jackson's shyness, which he had apparently prevented from passing through the space in the Morton's alone, and by which he gave me the pleasure of the evening was gone at the moment, as if he had let himself down in the round, and he giggled like a little boy whispered something in her ear and kissed Barbra Streisand La again and again the hand and was happy and could find no end.
It was after four, when all started out, damned late for Hollywood, where so everyone loves his beauty sleep. Michael Jackson took me by the arm again, when we came down the stairs. I thought Jack Nicholson's Oscar even now in the hand. He also amused himself magnificently. When I finally returned him his trophy, he kissed me on the forehead. Jack Nicholson kissed me on the forehead ... Bunte-to be a reporter, I was at that moment, was the dream job in itself.
Michael Jackson asked me into his limousine, on this evening there was a rather small Mercedes model, the chauffeur, a small Mexican.
During the journey, Michael Jackson told me with his incredibly soft voice that he had actually stolen them from all the people who even then had not deviated from his side. He had the King of Pop, is quietly taken a few hours of freedom. He took me past my hotel, the Beverly Hills, opened myself gallantly the blow, made a wide sweeping gesture, laughed at me and said Thanx, thanks. I was tempted to hug him, but since this distance, I had watched as Warren Beatty grabbed him by the shoulders, these sunglasses, which he then took from her eyes was no longer, these white gloves, and this sadness, this after covered front shoulder as he took his seat in the back of his limousine. I watched him waving as he drove on and had him since that evening closed in my heart.
When I think about this episode, about the time when life seemed to be still rather be in the lot, at least so far that he dared to talk to a stranger, and the isolation in which he spent his final years -- then I feel sick. And I pray for him.
