VOL. 7, NO. 2
Sunday, Aug. 31, 1997 4:15pm
I know this is violating the quid pro quo rule, starting another letter before you’ve replied, but hey, what can I say. I’m sitting in here at work on a Sunday, listening to Pavement on my CD Walkman, looking out the window from Lucy’s desk (my computer has crapped itself yet again) at the spire of the Art Centre and the refuse on the roof of a nearby building. I think there are squatters living there. Larry my boarder has gone away for the weekend and I spent all day yesterday cleaning and refreshing my fruit bowl with fruit most exotic. I think having a housemate is starting to tell on me a little. I haven’t really done anything exciting to tell you about. I did see a good film though – ‘Metropolitan’, by Whit Stillman. Rent it sis, it’s quite good.
Monday, Sept. 1 1997 8:30am
Oh my God. Diana’s dead! How about that? It happened yesterday while I was walking to work I guess. God. I didn’t find out until about 6:30pm, about four hours after it happened. Do you think it’s going to be one of the JFK things? Where were you when Princess Diana died? Heavy. What’s it like in England? Are people wailing in the streets? I saw some news footage last night of a couple of people having a bit of a keen, but I can’t help wondering if some of them were paid off by the journos. Cynical, I know. And speaking of journos, it looks like that’s where the inevitable blame will lie. I thought it was highly amusing last night, watching the news anchors solemnly laying the blame at the feet of the photographers like they themselves were absolutely free from guilt. Mind you, I bet Camilla’s pleased. No obstacles to that throne now. I wonder if she’ll make William and Harry call her Mummy?
I think they should have Charles and Camilla’s wedding at Diana’s funeral, save on costs. And best of all, they could have the casket in between Charles and Camilla so they could actually get married over her dead body.
And step right up please Miss Rhys-Jones, there are some glass slippers waiting here for you. Snort! I can imagine her jamming a bloodied foot into a glass slipper saying Edward come help me while Edward pirouettes in the background saying Well they fit me just fine. Do you think she’s wearing Di’s clothes yet? Practicing that downward glance, the faux shyness, the halting speech? Do you think anyone will really take her place? She was top of the global tree in regards to womanly fame. I think now is the time for Latoya Jackson to ascend to her rightful place as the world’s most famous woman. Still, joking aside, it’s not nice. I know I’m prone to taking cheap shots, but I’m not glad she’s dead. It’s pretty sad really. Her kids will be fucked up. Even more so, I should say.
And how about the one who took photos of her dying in the car? Chaa-aarming. Do you think anyone will print them? What a stupid question, of course someone will print them. They’ll definitely make it onto the internet. It’s a taste-free zone, the internet, isn’t it? Now there’s a good topic for a thesis: “The amorality of the internet.” Probably already been done a thousand times. Apparently the death scene photos are being offered around for $1m. Would you look at them if they were put in front of you? I don’t know if I would or not. It might seem a little hypocritical to go all sanctimonious now. But that’s what people will do. They’ll apologize for their supporting the industry that killed her by putting their noses in the air at the last moment like that makes it all OK. May as well see it through to the bitter end maybe. And just you watch the tabloids play the freedom of speech card. Just watch them say We’re just meeting the demands of our readers. Yeah, but who created those appetites? It’s like saying Hitler gassed all the Jews because every single German wanted him to do exactly that from the very start. You pander to the lowest common denominator and go from there. Goodness, how very evangelical of me.
So do you think they’ll do something about the privacy laws now? It’s the perfect time for it, like PORT ARTHUR and the gun laws. France has got some pretty tough privacy laws. It’s ironic that it’s there that she died in flight from them. Apparently a host of Hollywood stars are considering moving to France because of the privacy laws. I think you have to actually have their permission to take the photograph. I think Jodie Foster and Sharon Stone have houses in France.
And what a funeral! Do you think it will match the wedding in scale? Open coffin? Not likely. I wonder how this will affect the children’s attitude to the press. It’s a devil’s pact, innit? Those Royals need the press to keep them in the public eye to keep the charity money rolling in, because their charity pull is really the only useful thing they do.
I saw Tony Blair’s message on the TV. He came across as quite warm and human. I did wonder if he’d practiced though. What do you think will happen to Kensington Palace now? Will it go back to the Royal family? Will it go to her brother? Did you see her brother’s statement? Just bitter enough, I thought. And why is he living in South Africa?
And now we’ll see the Diana Death Industry power up. Just you wait and see. Do you think they’ll tour her smashed car around like James Dean’s Porsche? They could slip in Princess Grace’s crumpled wreck as well for an Automotive Hall of Maim.
And on a different note, thank fucking god the footy tipping season is over. Finals now. Oh fuck, how sick was I of hearing a detailed analysis of the fucking football for half a fucking hour, book-ending every week Monday morning and Friday afternoon? Now I just have to get through the tedium of finals and it’s cricket season. Cricket doesn’t bother me so much. Everyone’s barracking for the same team – Australia, and there’s less of that pissy ersatz tribalism that goes along with it. Bett was joint winner of the comp by the way. Her new husband Bill dropped into the office half an hour after receiving the news with a bunch of flowers and a kiss on the cheek. Bett was so pleased with life she did a little dance. Last time I was so happy I had to dance was when ‘Jan the Man’ got fired about four years ago. I think that says a lot.
It’s the first day of Spring here. I saw birds flirting in the undergrowth outside Qantas House on the way to work. It was duly noted.
Tuesday, Sept. 2 1997 8:31am
Well I don’t know what it’s like over there with you but it’s total Di-saturation here. Mind you, I just can’t get enough, which runs counter to my usual feeling about “media events”. Like the Olypmics, or Port Arthur. Normally I’m so dead sick of it after the first day that I want to shoot my telly, Evlis style, but Larry and I sit there and flick from one Di Special to another, sniffing out the best footage. One State here aired an old special that was made before she died and throughout the whole show they kept referring to her in the present tense. And because they didn’t have that specious respect for the dead, there was some really inappropriate things in there about her affairs and expense accounts (“Diana has been known to spend up to £10,000 on hair-grooming alone…”) and so on. At the time it was made it would have been seen as “balancing” all the adoring footage that preceded it, but now it just seems in poor taste.
Well, that’s my two pages used up, Sis. Gotta get going. Work work and more work.