Handbook for an Unpredictable Life: How I Survived Sister Renata and My Crazy Mother, and Still Came Out Smiling (with Great Hair)

by Perez, Rosie

  CHAPTER 27

  BACK ON tour with LL, I had gotten a call from Keenen Ivory Wayans. I had met him at Eddie Murphy’s house parties in New Jersey at his mini-mansion he called Bubble Hill. Keenen had his own show in development on the Fox Network, In Living Color, and wanted me to be the show’s choreographer. Yay! There would be five beautiful girls opening the show with him, à la The Jackie Gleason Show. They would be referred to as the Fly Girls, and he wanted them to dance like real New York dancers. A producer from the show would be calling me in the next few days to work out the deal.

  I never got the call. I kept calling Fox Studios, asking to speak with Keenen, but kept getting derailed to the show’s line producer, Kevin, instead. “We’re looking at other choices, and we’ll let you know.” Kevin called on a Tuesday and told me they’d found someone else. The show debuted without me. I was disappointed, but I moved on. I still had a tour to deal with.

  LL’s tour pulled into the Universal Amphitheater in Studio City, California. Hanging backstage, supervising the performance, I saw two of the Wayans brothers wandering around. Then I saw Keenen with his new girl, Daphne, who later became his babies’ mama, standing in the wings. They were so hot and horny for each other. She was standing in front of him while he was grinding the shit out of her booty, thinking no one was noticing.

  Keenen had called over someone on the crew asking him who choreographed the show. When he told Keenen it was me, Keenen immediately asked to speak with me. I told the crew guy to tell Keenen I was too busy. I didn’t want to endure further humiliation. I don’t remember if it was Marlon or the other brother, but one of them finally came over and asked why I didn’t take the job. Huh? I told him what happened. Keenen came over.

  “I dissed you? You dissed me!” he said.

  “What? I talked to that Kevin guy, and he told me, blah, blah, blah!”

  “You messin’ with me, Rosie?”

  “Nope.”

  “Listen, come to my office tomorrow and we’ll fix this shit.”

  “I can’t just break out on the tour like that!”

  “How much is LL paying you?”

  “Fifteen hundred a week.”

  “I’ll pay you three thousand a week, and if you do well, I’ll double it after three months.”

  “Hmm, let me ask Todd. I don’t want to dis him like that.”

  During a quick changeover, Todd came toward us, stage left, said hi to Keenen. Keenen explained the situation. Todd looked at me and cracked up in my face, telling me, “You better get that TV money.” He gave Keenen a pound, gave me a hug, and jetted back onstage.

  • • •

  First day. I arrived extra early. Rehearsed for two hours alone, nervous yet ready! Keenen called me into his office. “First thing, about Kevin. You’re here, so let it go. Now, we need three numbers per show—an opening, a middle, and an end, each twenty-eight seconds long, and an assist in picking the music. You are in charge of the girls. Make sure they stay looking good—no fat, busted chicks allowed. Work with hair, makeup, and wardrobe. And I want them to dance like MC Hammer’s girls too. If you don’t deliver, bullets will be flying, homie.” He laughed. “That goes for all of the staff, so I hope you don’t catch one. Welcome.”

  “Thank you so much for this opportunity. I won’t let you down. Oh, I usually work with my assistant, Arthur Rainer. That’s cool?”

  “Ask Tamara, the co-executive producer. See if it fits in the budget.”

  “Okay. Oh, another thing. I need to pick the music. And I don’t do ‘Hammer.’ ”

  “What’s wrong with Hammer?”

  “Nothing. If you want Hammer, hire him.”

  He laughed his ass off.

  The girls were pretty cool, though a few resented that I took the other choreographer’s place and that I used street vernacular (“… And then you spin all around, and boom, stop on the down beat …”). These were technically trained dancers and were thrown by me. Their eyes would discreetly roll, some would chuckle. “You mean pirouette, and stop on the last four count of the second bar.” Here we go again. I understood, but whatever. I liked these girls and I liked their work ethic even more.

  Their hip-hop skills were severely lacking. I was tough with them, making them do the numbers over and over until it seemed second nature to them. I remember making all of them stand in front of the mirror and just bop their heads to the drummer’s beat until their necks were sprained. I wanted everything to come off as innate. The worst thing I hated most about hip-hop dancers was that forced “street” vibe, looking like a satirical portrayal of a low-level corner drug dealer. Hated it. They never fully got it. The girls just couldn’t get that swag down like I needed them to. I decided to combine their technique with hip-hop and precision dancing from cheerleading, and threw in a lot of Ann-Margret (love) via Viva Las Vegas. And the Fly Girls were born!

  After a few weeks of completely exhausting work, I knew I had to get Arthur in there with me. I had to have someone take some of the pressure off and to have my back. I was hesitant to ask the co-executive producer after what happened with Kevin, so I just brought him in on my own, paying him out of my salary, promising him that I’d get him the job soon enough. After the first week with Arthur, being ahead of schedule and not all stressed out, Keenen came down to rehearsals one day to praise me for a job well done.

  “This is Arthur, my assistant I told you about. He’s been helping out tremendously. But he’s not on pay yet.”

  “Cool. Arthur, welcome, you’re hired.” Yay!

  Arthur and I put in approximately ten hours a day—me, sometimes more. We would always come in two hours before the Fly Girls’ call time, working on new routines. Man, those were the best times, so much fun dancing, messing up, figuring it out, taking five and telling stories, cracking jokes in between, getting back into it—arguing over steps, and then cracking some more jokes. By the time the girls got there, we were spent but hyped—the freedom and opportunity Keenen gave us was so exciting that we would get recharged in an instant!

  When I was choreographing, I wasn’t thinking about my mother. I wasn’t thinking about what had happened in the past. Working all hours into the night after the girls had gone home, meticulously deciding on what songs to pick, editing them down perfectly, brought me so much joy that there wasn’t time for dwelling on things.

  Things started to ease up between the girls and me, mostly because of Arthur. I was too shy to engage in chitchat, honestly, and Arthur was an easy icebreaker. During our lunch breaks we would sometimes sit in a circle, and Arthur would start telling jokes, softening the room. He allowed me to feel comfortable enough to join in the fun. Unfortunately, I couldn’t participate too much. I still had to deal with the music too.

  The show was pretaped in advance of some of the artists’ release dates. I had to be ahead of radio, ahead of Billboard, and ahead of the dance trends. The show would tape for two weeks and be off the third, then back the following two weeks, and so on. That third week, I’d fly myself back to New York (on my own dime, thank you) and go deep inside the hip-hop club scenes—clubs like Carwash, MK’s, the Tunnel, the Building—to scope out who or what was hot or not. I’d meet with Russell Simmons, Lyor Cohen, Tommy of Tommy Boy Records, Tommy Mottola, Andre Harrell, Puffy (now head of A&R for Uptown Records—believe that!), to name a few, and figure out momentum in the business. The best help I got was from Rhonda Cowan, who worked for Russell Simmons at Def Jam.

  Rhonda doesn’t remember the first time I met her, but I surely do. Rhonda was at one of Eddie Murphy’s house parties in New Jersey. She was messin’ with Eddie’s brother, Charlie, at the time and was in the middle of a heated argument with him, yelling, “I know this motherfucker is not trying to tell me what to do! He better stay in his lane and shut the fuck up and buy me some new shoes.” I died laughing. She turned around, looked at me, and said, laughing, “I can buy my own damn shoes, but you know what I’m saying. Motherfucker better act like he knows.” Hilario
us. I loved her the moment she opened her trash-talking, intelligent, and opinionated mouth—crazy as a loon and fly as shit. Without Rhonda’s help and friendship, I would have had a more difficult time getting what I needed to do my job well. And she made hanging out fun—crazy fun.

  Rhonda Cowan, Tracy Waples, and April Walker—that was my hang-out crew in New York City. These were my girls! We went everywhere: pop clubs, ghetto clubs, lounges, Rucker playgrounds, house parties, premieres, dinner parties, you name it. Shit was mad fun.

  I was hanging out at this pop-up club, Carwash, where I saw this new group called Leaders of the New School and was totally blown away. This gave me the idea of featuring acts on the show. I thought to myself, If I book these guys, this is going to blow up like crazy, and In Living Color is going to look hip as shit. Keenen wasn’t with it at first. The producers were worried about the cost. I wouldn’t stop asking, I was a pest. Then Keenen finally gave in, told me I had one shot. I couldn’t get Leaders on because the ink wasn’t yet dry on their recording contract. And the record companies weren’t biting with their established acts—too much of a risk on a new show was their thinking. I went with Def Jef, a rapper, who was only known locally in Los Angeles. That didn’t go so well with the response from the viewers. I begged Keenen for another try.

  Rhonda introduced me to Shakim of Flavor Unit, who managed Queen Latifah—love! Keenen loved her too and let me put her on the show. After her performance at the top of the second season, every hip-hop act wanted to be booked. I mostly had carte blanche, but Shawn Wayans, who had a very different musical taste from mine, wanted a say-so. So I booked most of the acts, but there were a few I didn’t, which bothered me like hell, but it was a Wayans production, and they were very good to me, so I fell back out of respect. Kind of.

  • • •

  Wait for it … I got nominated for my first Emmy for my choreography—holla! The cast and crew got nominations too! Everyone was excited, kind of. Keenen called me up to his office. Oh snap. What the hell did I do now?

  “Close the door.”

  “Am I fired?”

  “No. (laughs) Just wanted to tell you that the girls come up here almost every day asking me to fire you. Saying that you curse all the time, are too strict, and push them to their physical limit. What the fuck are you doing to them?”

  “Huh?” I eked out, tearing up. I thought we were getting along.

  Keenen laughed in my face. Now, I wasn’t choking up because I was hurt—trust me—okay, I was a little bit, but who’s counting.

  “It’s not funny. Yes, I’m strict! Yes, I push them! Do you see how everyone’s talking about these girls? Everyone! We got the damn nomination, for Christmas’ sakes! And the music guests that I have picked—forget about it!”

  “Calm down. You’re not fired. I’ll take care of the girls. Get back to work, silly.”

  “Thank you, Keenen. Oh, one more thing. Can I talk to the director? I hate how the numbers are cut. They don’t show off the dancing or the girls properly.”

  “Tell you what, you direct the segments yourself. You can work with the editor too. Now, if you fuck it up, bullets will be flying, homie.”

  Keenen and the show won big that year. But I lost to Paula Abdul—so I wasn’t too disappointed.

  I started to ease up a bit on the girls and not take everything so seriously. Carrie-Ann Inaba and Deidre Lang were the first of the Fly Girls to come around. Cari French, I never had a problem with, no one ever did. She was hilarious too—made me laugh almost every day with her dry wit. Lisa-Marie Todd started to soften a bit too, but kept her distance. Michelle Whitney-Morrison, she was pretty cool, she was always respectful.

  This was good because I started to see them differently. I started to see who they were as people and as dancers. I was so impressed with Deidre’s technique that she gave me the idea of giving the girls solo numbers. Carrie-Ann was a great dancer with great poise and a goofy sense of humor. When she would do her own thing, her lyrical, sexy moves were original and so freaking cool. She introduced me to the up-and-coming choreographers and dance groups in Los Angeles and the different dance styles that were emerging. She may not know this, but she gave me the idea to feature different dance crews on the show, like the Soul Brothers and Two for Two, who later became the recording artists the Pharcyde. Lisa-Marie had style and inspired me to ask Michelle Cole, the wardrobe designer, to dress them even sexier. Gosh, she was so amazingly beautiful.

  Michelle Whitney-Morrison was different. I liked her a lot, but she and Arthur would go at it. She had been antagonizing Arthur while I was away filming this television series that I desperately wanted off of. When I came back, tensions were thick. One day, while I was in the editing room working on the dance numbers, one of the girls came rushing in: “Arthur and Michelle are fighting!” We bolted to the rehearsal room. As I whipped open the door I saw Michelle fall backwards, like timber!

  “Arthur!” I screamed.

  “Bitch called me a nigga! Then tried to slap me! So I popped her ass!” Arthur shouted back.

  Jeez. Out of pure shock, I let out an inappropriate nervous laugh. Michelle, pissed, ran up to Keenen’s office, demanding that he fire Arthur and me instantly. When Keenen found out the whole story, she was the one who got fired. Was it completely fair? No—not at all. I was very upset with Arthur. I told him violence toward women was not acceptable on any level and if he ever did it again we couldn’t work together.

  Gosh, it was difficult watching Michelle pack her things. The whole situation was messed up. I truly felt bad for her. Dra-ma … on the high seas!

  So we had to find a new girl. I hated every one of Keenen’s picks. He hated every one of mine, said they were not sexy enough for prime time.

  “What the hell does that have to do with their talent, Keenen?”

  “We’re not doing some ghetto show, Rosie. We’re doing national television,” he snidely answered.

  “And? The Fly Girls’ number-one audience is prison inmates!”

  “Exactly. What fuckin’ prisoner wants to sit there looking at some busted-looking chick?”

  The search for a new Fly Girl was on. By the time we pulled into New York for our first round of auditions, it had turned into a media frenzy! Thousands and thousands of girls were wrapped around the block. Keenen, worried that it would take forever to see each one, decided that I should cancel out the “busted”-looking ones on sight. I told him that wasn’t a good idea—this was New York, and these girls were not professional dancers and would not, probably did not, understand the concept of typecasting. We’d get our asses beat in a hot second. Keenen wrote my warning off and decided to take charge. He got started: “Next, next, you stay, next.…” He got to this one girl:

  “Next.”

  “What, motherfucker?” she said, with her hand on her hip.

  Keenen replied, “Girl, take that hand off your hip,” laughing in her face.

  In quick, rapid ghetto-style punches, the girl started swinging. Bodyguards came rushing in. I cracked the fuck up in Keenen’s face. He couldn’t do anything but laugh with me—hilarious.

  Second day, we still had nothing. Then I saw this curvy, heavy-set, big-ass, beautiful girl. She wasn’t the best dancer, but definitely had an immense amount of star quality and a stunning face. Keenen said no, said she couldn’t dance as well as the other girls, called her chubby and corny. We started to argue. I lost.

  We went back to Los Angeles empty-handed and held more auditions. I gave in to Marlon and Shawn’s pick: this girl named Carla, a very nice, good technical dancer, but too virginal in her expression to stir the likes of prison inmates. Keenen knew it too. After a few episodes, Keenen finally told me to fire her. Man, that was hard to do—she took it hard too, but was classy and dignified about it.

  “Keenen, I say we call that Puerto Rican girl from the Bronx and offer her the job.”

  “Who?”

  “The one with that big ass and the star smile. We’ll hit g
old, Keenen. I promise.… Please?”

  “I don’t know. Girl needs to drop at least twenty pounds.”

  “I’ll make sure she does.”

  “And we’ve gotta cut her hair, give her some edge.”

  “Are you crazy? I can’t ask a Puerto Rican girl to cut her hair! You ask her!”

  “Fine. But you take care of the rest, and if she doesn’t deliver …”

  “I know, I know, ‘bullets will be flying, homie.’ ”

  Jennifer Lopez was hired. Keenen took all the credit—I didn’t care. Unfortunately, he did make her cut her hair! I was devastated for her. At first she charmed everyone—the girls, the talent, the producers, and me. I was very happy. But within less than two weeks, every day almost, all of the girls were coming into my office complaining how she was manipulating wardrobe, makeup, and me, all to her advantage. And they didn’t appreciate all the attention I was giving her. Huh? I had to give her attention so she could catch up—technically she wasn’t up to their level.

  When I asked Jennifer about it, she told me the girls were cold, ostracizing, and jealous of her. Oh boy. I decided to let them work it out themselves. After a while, other departments started to chime in with their own complaints about her being pushy and opinionated. Hmm. Still, I didn’t do anything.

  I saw how the constant pressure I was applying was taking its toll on her and didn’t want to add to it. Keenen was hard on Jennifer too, although she didn’t have a clue. He would always call me on the red phone reserved for producers during live and pre-tapings, telling me to take her out of a certain number if he thought she looked fat that week or too clunky in her moves—true story, folks. And of course, I couldn’t tell her it was Keenen’s decision. I was the choreographer, he was my boss, and that was that. Boy, the hurt I saw on her face was hard to dismiss. She sucked it up like a pro for a while—then she finally broke.