Saturday, November 12, 2011

One Missed Fall

The easiest way to get me to write about you is to say something interesting, or do something memorable. Or you could be like Matty and just flat out demand it. “I want to be prominent. In bold.” This is a welcome change from some people at Industry tonight who apparently didn’t like that I wrote about them in the past. And who knows what all the new men I met tonight will feel about it. I guess if it is really important, they will tell me. But tonight, Matty wanted to tell me what he thought about what I wrote about myself.

“I read every page,” he declared adamantly of my latest narcissistic page turner When Nightlife Falls. “It was edited! Your life was missing from it. It wasn’t in there.” This was a bit of a surprise, especially given the conversation I had with ADD Jeff earlier as we left the show. He just finished the book too. “I really feel like I know you now as a person, not just as someone on the radio,” he told me. I suppose the truth lies somewhere in between.

Friday, November 11, 2011

Cross Gown Rivals

Madonna has a new Kraft single out. To say that it is terrible would be purely out of spite. After all, American Life is truly terrible and to be fair, Madonna has been slowly clawing her way back up to musical relevance steadily ever since that creative low point. Her latest is not bad, it just isn’t age appropriate. It sounds like Avril Lavigne covering Debbie Gibson covering The Shirelles. And Madonna still rhymes like a second grader, which aside from close-up shots of her hands, is the worst thing about her.

She is also on the cover of Harper’s Bazaar, another relic of another century. I saw a shot of her standing behind another woman with her arm poised around the lady’s neck. First thought: she is a vampire who will suck the essence out of you! Remember when she kissed Britney Spears and then Britney’s career collapsed and they finally reluctantly replaced Brit with a Japanese sex robot? Maybe almost none of that actually happened but sometimes, in that drowsy part of waking where dreams still seem so real around you, it feels true.

Friday, November 4, 2011

Candy Everybody Flaunts

Fittingly enough, It’s A Small World began as a ride at the New York World’s Fair. Because when you are in New York, you notice how truly small the world is. In a small town, the world feels small, because you can reach out your arms and turn in a slow circle and touch it all. But it looks like there is more world out there, beyond the moon, behind the rain. But when you finally get to the big city and do a slow turn, you realize it isn’t as big as it once seemed.

“Was this really worth getting off at 9:40pm?” Ryan White asked, half-joking, his sly smile betraying the half-serious side of the question. He didn’t mean my hanging out with him. That is always worth escaping the studio a few minutes early for. We have only known each other a few weeks since our first fateful meeting in the back of a taxi, but Ryan is a delightful fast friend. He is good company and he knows it.

Tonight we met out at Therapy, which I used to love but the bloom is off the rose since the place became infested with lackluster stage shows on that tiny elevation in front of the fireplace on the second floor. What had once been a charming getaway to meet friends after work or contract mono from a stranger over communal nachos, has lately become that casual meeting with friends spontaneously interrupted by someone loud and wholly unwelcome collapsing on your table.

I thought at first that we had escaped unscathed. Ryan and I spent our first half hour or so engaged in polite conversation, our ears unmolested by shrieking comedians or bad amateur singing contests. But then while I was at the bar picking up a fresh vodka soda for Ryan, I realized suddenly that I was not on line at Zabar’s and the tiny woman in the bad wig waiting for her mocktail was, in fact, the night’s entertainment.

We had already been talking about the psychological power of drag and the grip over which it holds the gay community. And then this woman appeared, dressed literally in drag, to host a stripper contest. Well, at least I think that is what it was supposed to be. It started with her singing a couple of songs very badly and then encouraging some audience members to also get up and sing badly. This I thought (beyond the obvious) was a bad idea. Are you trying to get strippers or singers? Or singers who strip? People are drunk, lady. If you aren’t clear in your instructions, you are in for a very messy ride.

The area near the fireplace started to take on the kind of frenzied chaos less reminiscent of Broadway's Miss Saigon than Saigon's actual fall. This woman "performer" stripped layers off and warbled and berated the audience for understandably ignoring her. Honey, if you are on stage, and you aren’t more compelling than whatever pops up on someone’s cell phone during your show, that’s on you.

Right on cue, Jeffrey strolled in with his handsome friend Christopher. Christopher, it turns out, works across the street from me and his cousin I think works with Julie James in my office. How small world is that? Pretty damned small. I am pretty sure we have met before but I can't for the life of me remember where or when. Doesn't matter. We've met now.

Jeffrey asked me if I had any Twizzlers on me, recalling fondly our first meeting downtown where I did have candy in my pocket and I was happy to see him. Of course, since Halloween, I have Twizzlers all over my house and office like a hoarder, and could have kicked myself for not having them with me at Therapy (but I don’t have that kind of flexibility). In my own defense, I didn’t know he was coming.

As the karaoke go-go strip show rapidly cascaded downhill nearby, I spotted my Ukrainian pal Vitaliy, on a NYC layover between Utah and London, in the audience. He is all muscle-packed like Jeffrey but shorter. And I noticed he liked hovering near the equally ripped wait staff, including the shot boy who was either wearing a horrible duck-tailed wig or hasn’t been out of a cowboy hat since Brokeback Mountain. I guess since Vitaliy is visiting from out of town, it isn’t a problem for him to (as Ryan so vividly put it tonight) shit where he eats. I entreated Vitaliy to jump on the stage, remove his shirt and win the $100 prize but he giggled shyly and backed away. I don’t understand working out like crazy and then not dropping your clothes at a moment’s notice. It’s like getting a face lift and then always wearing a veil. If you want to wander aimlessly through life in a bulky sweater, just go ahead and get fat like everyone else. You can start by eating a pack of Twizzlers. They're 240 carb-loading calories in the blink of an eye.

In the future, I will always walk around with a pack of Twizzlers in my pocket. I do owe Jeffrey some after all and it is well known that I don’t care what people think of me. Obviously no one on the stage cared what anyone thought of them either, especially the loud screeching host lady with the terrible Rona Barrett wig. Maybe if she had Twizzlers in her pocket, the audience would have cared what she had to say. Besides, as accessories go, Twizzlers, like strippers and drag queens, are candy everybody wants, just not always at the same time.