Feature

All about Eva

It happened like this:

I stepped away from the crowded DNC floor Thursday night and managed to carve out a little quiet space to collect my thoughts. Believe me, between the secret service goons and the frothing delegates, this was no small task.

And wouldn’t you know it, no sooner did I settle in to a small nook to write down my thoughts, but I suddenly realized I was mere feet from the diminutive dish from Desperate Housewives, the spunky Spur-free Latina of Wysteria Lane, Eva Longoria.

She was on the phone with her agent, and because I was Mickey Spillane enough to activate my iphone recording feature, her speaker phone conversation went like this (warning: some of the language involved a tad salty):

Eva: “So give it to me straight, Barry, how much will this tax hike on the rich I just promoted in front of the world cost me?”

Barry: “Well, if it passes and goes into effect in ’13 you’re looking at somewhere in the neighborhood of $65-90K, depending on where we shuffle your funds, excluding any network offers.”

Eva: “Holy shit, yer kidding me? So much for my year off. Okay, well what does it really mean?”

Barry: “It means you might want to reconsider that Italian Vogue offer.”

Eva: “Oh, f*%& me, are you serious?”

Barry: “They’re willing to do it in L.A. if you don’t wanna go to Florence.”

Eva: “They said that?”

Barry: “They said that.”

Eva: “Shit. Alright. But not two days, okay? Just one.”

Barry: “I’ll tell ’em.”

Eva: “That it?”

Barry: “That get’s you $50k – but the Maxim offer is still on the table and that’s $125,000.”

Eva: “What did we tell them?”

Barry: “Told them to blow it out their asses and stop calling.”

Eva: “That’s right. Okay. Tell them we’ll do it, but it has to be at the Sunset Marquis and I want three suites for the whole weekend and they can have me for 30 minutes.”

Barry: “That’s my girl. I’ll call ’em now.”

Eva: “I gotta go, Biden’s almost done.”

Barry: “How’s the Convention going?”

Eva: “Eh, pretty dreadful – you wouldn’t believe how fat people are in North Carolina. So gross.”

Barry: “I can get you on the red-eye, sweetheart.”

Eva: “Nah, I’ll take one for the team. But could you call the hotel and tell them to set my air conditioning at 73 and make sure there are at least seven bottles of Fiji water and a chilled ceviche salad and melba toast waiting for me?”

Barry: “Doing it now.”

And then, boom, she was gone. Back to the Convention hall to mingle with the unwashed, leaving behind her sweet scent of vanilla and Coach bag leather; leaving me to ponder what I should write about.

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