To say that I fell off the map in the last few months is
an understatement. Moving to the suburbs has gone from nightlife inconvenience
to the real estate equivalent of faking your own death. For months I have
championed our new time slot which ends our radio show at 11pm instead of 10pm,
since it didn't disrupt my already arduous train schedule. But it appears I
underestimated the toll it has taken on my social life.
So it was with this in mind that I agreed to join my
friend Brian Westbrook out at a bar after the show. He is in town from Seattle
and beseeched me to join him and his friends at Mickey Spillane's, a sports bar
on the corner of 49th and 9th, mere steps from my radio
studio. Since his cute friend Jon was certain to be there too, it seemed
impossible to refuse. Besides, as my regular nightlife friends have drifted
away to boyfriends and IndieGoGo campaigns, I have scrambled to make new
friends. So far Stephen from December has been a huge asset on Facebook but
decidedly absent in person. If I am to
prevent the Grey Gardens scenario I have joked about for months, I am going to
have to get back out there.
I ran down to the bar after the show and Brian was there
with Jon, along with the news that Jon has a husband. Oh well. I still like
looking at cute people. In fact, I probably like it more than anything given
how many handsome friends I have and how little sexual interest I have in them,
despite their obvious good looks. But I wasn't staying long. Just one drink and
then off to the 11:47pm train. Barely enough time to reminisce about the last
time Brian was in town (which neither of us could remember) before I had to make
a mad dash for the door.
But it was in the madness and the dashing that my story
of the evening was born. Because even though I have made quite a few literary silk
purses out of sow’s ear nights out on the town, tonight the gruel up to this
point was so thin, there was barely enough for we three, let alone leftovers to
share with the world. But then I saw Frank Conway outside the bar and my
evening was made.
After waving good bye to Brian and Jon, I exploded out of
the bar onto the street, screeching and caterwauling my way into Frank's cozy
group that included Bobby and three men I had never seen before. "Your voice
cuts through everything," was how one of the other men greeted me and in an
instant I knew I'd have plenty to write about later. As if Frank's greeting of "I
just watched you in a porno!" pitched to the third balcony wasn't enough to
convince me this would be an encounter to remember.
This is the sad truth. If anyone has seen me lately, it
is from my (all too brief) cameo in the new Michael Lucas porn opus "Kings Of New York." I ran into the film's editor at The Hookies last month, and he told me that I was very
funny and I made him laugh. This is high praise indeed because you know their eyes
and ears weld shut after the millionth time they have cut together a scene,
even when it involves hot naked people.
The hottest of the guys with Frank Conway quizzed me
about the film and then confessed it didn't sound like it would be to his
liking. He was very handsome so I suppose if I had the option to be in a
different porn film just to get his interest, well so be it. Then again, at
this stage of my career, being asked to do anything is an honor. And by asked, I mean, emailing the organizers
of The Hookies and begging them to have me back this year. Or agreeing to play a version of yourself in a porn movie who apparently had a lot of plastic surgery even though you haven't had any and you are the only one in the movie with no make-up on.
It seems Frank and company had all been to 54 Below to see Barbara Cook sing her heart out. This is the exchange we three had:
Frank: Barbara Cook. 85 years old and she can still sing!
Bobby: And eat! She came out in a two-piece-
Derek: -and a biscuit?
I had a train to catch and they were all on their way
home. That adorable kid from the La Cage tour was also on the street, but he
didn't recognize me or remember that we had met before. More than once. To be
fair he was drunk. The first time we met and possibly tonight too for all I
know. And I meet people all over the place and never remember them either, but
then again, my voice cuts through everything. It should even cut through the
fog of a boozy haze.
As we walked down the street, them to their lovely
Manhattan apartments, me to my commuter train back to nightlife obscurity, the
one who commented on my voice (prodded helpfully by Bobby) put two and two
together and figured out who I was.
"Of course. That's the voice I hear in my car."
He stated it with some measure of relief and I suddenly
felt like Kathleen Turner, recognized by voice print alone. "See. My voice has
to cut through everything," I assured him, "It has to cut across the whole
United States!" Although by then, it was time to let it rest. My work here was
done. And the only thing I needed to cut through was Times Square on my way back
home.
