I could spend
opining about journalistic integrity or common sense. I’d rather not! Instead, I have an announcement for my editors, future employers, and the entire fucking internet.If I have one job—interview Rihanna—and I come unprepared, without a single tweet draft or Notes app scribble to show for myself: Please fire me. I’m begging you! I will expunge every last secret I have, embarrass my family, and even get myself canceled if I could scrounge a noteworthy blog from the experience.
At the Bel-Air, a hostess shows me to a small courtyard table tucked behind the trunk of a century-old sycamore. I’m sitting under its dappled canopy when Rihanna arrives. She sweeps in quietly, enveloping the area and probably the swans outside in an invisible cloud of her famous scent—an intoxicating olfactory assault that, in the words of Lil Nas X, “literally smells like heaven.” We order Champagne.
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