Showing posts with label Ben Andrews. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ben Andrews. Show all posts
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Friday, June 5, 2009
Key To The Shitty
Life in Manhattan is just a series of overlapping circles, looping around and around, giving the illusion of movement and change. But in the end, you always end up back at the same place you started. Every once in a while a new circle begins and everyone rushes to twirl in its path in the hope that it will finally take them somewhere new. Well, more to the point, they hope it will take them to someone new. Because at a certain point, if you are a man of any age with arms of any notoriety, you quickly discover that there is no one new left to meet. And then you are forced to choose between a repeat visit or moving to Los Angeles.
There is a new party in town called Key Klub. Brandon Voss is one of the promoters. You know, the other Brandon Voss who isn’t the former editor of HX and doesn’t have wild party boys crashing his apartment in the middle of the night. Or maybe he does, but that doesn’t mean he invited them. In any event, he has already launched the successful, if instantly familiar Rockit on Fridays and is now branching out. New Night! New Faces! The second claim can not be backed up as readily as the first, though in retrospect how new is Thursday?
Derek is the doorman and though we share a name and I have met him hundreds of times he doesn’t know me. All he knows is what he sees, which is new each time, and based on my appearance he knows I am neither famous, nor important, nor hot, and therefore, I can wait in line and not get comped at the door. It always bothers my roommate that I don’t assert a “don’t you know who I think I am!” in these situations, but I prefer the honest realism of his assessment. If he floated me in past everyone else like a star, I might for a second think my arms are big enough or my soul worthy. And we can’t have that can we? After all, feeling self-conscious and unworthy is the cornerstone of any successful nightclub, alcohol problem, or mid-week sexual hook up. And fair is fair. If he wasn’t working the door, he would be standing in line too. Don’t kid yourself. The bullied becomes the bully.
Matt Kugelman was there, my faithful bar standby. I honestly don’t know what I or my blog would do without him at this point. When did I come to depend on him so utterly for nights out on the town? We were both there to meet Danny’s new boyfriend also named Matt. (For the love of Christ, can we please have an end to all gays named after apostles? I’m over it.) New Matt is tall and thin and on his way to being a doctor. He should be comped at the door, instead of that 23 year old steroid monkey, the over processed bottle blond, with two-tone tan and last year’s faux hawk. You know who you are, so there is no point in searching for your Facebook profile. Everyone knows who you are. But this is the world we live in. And as much as I bitch about the steroid monkey, he was kind of adorable in a use and lose kind of way. If only there was a gay recycling center where all of the boys you fucked could go to be sorted, washed and reused. Oh wait there is. Fire Island.
I told Danny that the troubled looks on most of the faces were just them thinking about which tank tops to pack for this weekend. After all, it is Thursday night. And after the well vodka settles and the lube is washed off, they will all be carefully folding their tiniest outfits into their cutest satchel , and hoping they don’t forget to shave their feet and asshole before departing their PR job and boarding the Long Island Railroad at the crack of noon. And magically a short two hours later, there they will be. Surrounded by all the same men in all the same tank tops who were just wandering past them at the Key Klub while they dreamt of waves crashing at the Pines and the promise of true love in the Meat Rack.
Ben Andrews was there, tall and angular in a hoodie. Kugie’s roommate was there, almost unrecognizable under new hair, which I suppose is a good way to keep things fresh (though I did think he looked much hotter with his old wavy hair). The hot real estate agent who used to be Tag Ericsson the porn star was also wandering around. That was almost new. Haven’t seen him in a year or so. As I was waiting to leave, the guy who didn’t sleep with Michael Lucas walked in and the circle was complete. I hadn’t seen him since the In The Life pride party last year. Well, enough is enough. Time to head home.
I piled into a cab only to have it stalled in traffic a block later, stymied by the filming of a crappy new Nicholas Cage thriller “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.” They were filming it all of last month right next to my office, which was annoying enough. But now, I had a train to catch and the entirety of Sixth Avenue was blocked. Finally it cleared and we slowly made our way down 21st Street toward Eighth Avenue. And just ahead of us, the camera car with a station wagon mounted on it, two dim figures (male and female) in the front seats. Probably Nicholas Cage, I shrugged, annoyed yet devoid of any real feeling at the same time. The camera car was circling around the block to film again, and I was circling up and around to get back to my office and the train. And back at the Key Klub, the circling continued, around and around, massive arms and tiny shirts, go-go boys and drag queens, porn stars and nobodies, and always the same sameness swirling around in the bowl waiting to be flushed away. See you next week!
There is a new party in town called Key Klub. Brandon Voss is one of the promoters. You know, the other Brandon Voss who isn’t the former editor of HX and doesn’t have wild party boys crashing his apartment in the middle of the night. Or maybe he does, but that doesn’t mean he invited them. In any event, he has already launched the successful, if instantly familiar Rockit on Fridays and is now branching out. New Night! New Faces! The second claim can not be backed up as readily as the first, though in retrospect how new is Thursday?
Derek is the doorman and though we share a name and I have met him hundreds of times he doesn’t know me. All he knows is what he sees, which is new each time, and based on my appearance he knows I am neither famous, nor important, nor hot, and therefore, I can wait in line and not get comped at the door. It always bothers my roommate that I don’t assert a “don’t you know who I think I am!” in these situations, but I prefer the honest realism of his assessment. If he floated me in past everyone else like a star, I might for a second think my arms are big enough or my soul worthy. And we can’t have that can we? After all, feeling self-conscious and unworthy is the cornerstone of any successful nightclub, alcohol problem, or mid-week sexual hook up. And fair is fair. If he wasn’t working the door, he would be standing in line too. Don’t kid yourself. The bullied becomes the bully.
Matt Kugelman was there, my faithful bar standby. I honestly don’t know what I or my blog would do without him at this point. When did I come to depend on him so utterly for nights out on the town? We were both there to meet Danny’s new boyfriend also named Matt. (For the love of Christ, can we please have an end to all gays named after apostles? I’m over it.) New Matt is tall and thin and on his way to being a doctor. He should be comped at the door, instead of that 23 year old steroid monkey, the over processed bottle blond, with two-tone tan and last year’s faux hawk. You know who you are, so there is no point in searching for your Facebook profile. Everyone knows who you are. But this is the world we live in. And as much as I bitch about the steroid monkey, he was kind of adorable in a use and lose kind of way. If only there was a gay recycling center where all of the boys you fucked could go to be sorted, washed and reused. Oh wait there is. Fire Island.
I told Danny that the troubled looks on most of the faces were just them thinking about which tank tops to pack for this weekend. After all, it is Thursday night. And after the well vodka settles and the lube is washed off, they will all be carefully folding their tiniest outfits into their cutest satchel , and hoping they don’t forget to shave their feet and asshole before departing their PR job and boarding the Long Island Railroad at the crack of noon. And magically a short two hours later, there they will be. Surrounded by all the same men in all the same tank tops who were just wandering past them at the Key Klub while they dreamt of waves crashing at the Pines and the promise of true love in the Meat Rack.
Ben Andrews was there, tall and angular in a hoodie. Kugie’s roommate was there, almost unrecognizable under new hair, which I suppose is a good way to keep things fresh (though I did think he looked much hotter with his old wavy hair). The hot real estate agent who used to be Tag Ericsson the porn star was also wandering around. That was almost new. Haven’t seen him in a year or so. As I was waiting to leave, the guy who didn’t sleep with Michael Lucas walked in and the circle was complete. I hadn’t seen him since the In The Life pride party last year. Well, enough is enough. Time to head home.
I piled into a cab only to have it stalled in traffic a block later, stymied by the filming of a crappy new Nicholas Cage thriller “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.” They were filming it all of last month right next to my office, which was annoying enough. But now, I had a train to catch and the entirety of Sixth Avenue was blocked. Finally it cleared and we slowly made our way down 21st Street toward Eighth Avenue. And just ahead of us, the camera car with a station wagon mounted on it, two dim figures (male and female) in the front seats. Probably Nicholas Cage, I shrugged, annoyed yet devoid of any real feeling at the same time. The camera car was circling around the block to film again, and I was circling up and around to get back to my office and the train. And back at the Key Klub, the circling continued, around and around, massive arms and tiny shirts, go-go boys and drag queens, porn stars and nobodies, and always the same sameness swirling around in the bowl waiting to be flushed away. See you next week!
Saturday, February 14, 2009
The Maritime Of My Life
Getting a bunch of gays together in one place is no easy task. The expression “herding kittens” comes to mind. As our major LGBT lobbying organizations long ago learned, our community is no monolith and it is never more evident than on a Friday night when competing personalities have different ideas of what makes a fun night out on the town.
Michael Bond is visiting this weekend from Boston. He started assaulting my Facebook Wall more than a week ago with demands for an audience and the opportunity to play a little “Gay Chicken.” Bond is adorable, as everyone knows, so a quick Friday night make out session never seems like a bad idea. Unfortunately, Bond has a terrible habit of coming to town, getting blind drunk and then becoming very difficult to pin down (in both location and at the shoulders up against a wall). I knew that if I wanted to win at Gay Chicken, it was going to take a little extra effort on my part.
Several weeks ago, Matty and I were at a party (you remember, the one with the awful furniture and good art) and while we were in the ad hoc coat check area in the hall outside a cute gay approached us and invited Matty (and by default, me) to his birthday party on the 13th. So I knew there was a party somewhere, but that was all I knew. Earlier this week when I grilled Matty about it, he remembered the encounter but not whose party it was. Then Thursday night, out at Matty’s Park party, Joe let me know that it was Micah, who I was so hostile to some weeks ago at The Ritz. Fortunately, on our second encounter, he was too drunk at both to connect the dots. This small mercy is what keeps me afloat in Manhattan gay social circles.
As my show wound down on Friday night, Roommate texted me and let me know he was hanging out around the corner at Barrage, our original Manhattan staple when I lived on 42nd Street back at the beginning of my NYC adventures at the start of the century. I tried to convince him to go down to Chelsea, or worse, south of Houston for Micah’s party, but he was adamant. After going to bed at 5:30am the night before and working all day, he was only in the mood for a quick beer and then an express train to slumberland. I headed down to Barrage to try to convince him in person, while texting with Bond to see where he was. Bond planned to join Michael Warner’s bar crawl and in the interim was pre-cocktailing at a friend’s apartment in the heart of Chelsea.
To no one’s surprise, Roommate finished his Blue Moon and headed for the 11:10pm train. I hopped on the E Train, bound for Chelsea, while Matty texted me from Micah’s party way downtown wondering where I was and when we were coming. Still hopeful that I could pull Bond out of the pending bar crawl, I joined him at his friend’s tastefully standard Chelsea apartment for a surprisingly delicious vodka cranberry. There was some smooching, some hand-holding, and at one point, he even licked my face. “Should I have one more? I don’t want to get too drunk.” He asked as I wiped the saliva off my face. I told him to have two. He was already over the line, what difference did it make if he had two or two hundred?
More gays arrived at the apartment and all of them looked like they were churned out of the Play-Doh Chelsea Boy Maker by Hasbro! All trim plaid shirts, smooth haircuts and zero body fat. Apparently we each took a jump on the super accurate scale in the bathroom, though I was the only one there with the shock of recognition on his face when he came out moments later. After a group photo destined for Facebook glory, we all decamped around the corner to Ate Ave (which I think used to be Food Bar). Michael Warner was climbing into a modified luxury SUV, on his way to Splash, which as usual, only sounded appealing to Bond and the other gays visiting from Boston. Inside, I ran into HX photog Jeff Eason, Ben Andrews in full porn star mode (razored haircut and no Clark Kent glasses), and Amanda Lepore, more and more a Japanese robot fuck doll every day.
While still debating a trip much further downtown than I ever like going, I got a single word text from Matty: Maritime. Glory be! A bar around the corner. I tried once again to convince Bond to join me and Matty at Maritime but now his drunken heart was set on Splash. We made our way through the chaotic mess at Ate Ave and made our sloppy good byes outside. Moments later, I was in the familiar throes of Maritime with Matty, Joe and our returning champion Andrew. I discovered that part of the secret to Andrew’s insanely narrow physique was his recent adventures in marathons and, slightly more to my liking, half marathons. “What are you running to or from?” I queried to Joe’s delight and no answer from Andrew. He was in a contemplative mood, but as it turns out, not very self-reflective.
My time at Maritime was terribly short. Too short. But I did have to commend myself on a job well done. It isn’t easy seeing three different people in four different locations in only three hours. And even though it was a week of pure junk food (chicken fingers at Moonstruck, the most amazing onion rings at NY Burger Co., Valentine’s Day cupcakes, a package of Twizzlers, Michael Bond), I rewarded myself at Grand Central with a hot dog smothered in sauerkraut and mustard. And on my walk to the train, I hung my own “Mission Accomplished” banner over my head. True, I wasn’t able to bring everyone together, but I did get a little piece of each of them, and that made my evening complete.
Michael Bond is visiting this weekend from Boston. He started assaulting my Facebook Wall more than a week ago with demands for an audience and the opportunity to play a little “Gay Chicken.” Bond is adorable, as everyone knows, so a quick Friday night make out session never seems like a bad idea. Unfortunately, Bond has a terrible habit of coming to town, getting blind drunk and then becoming very difficult to pin down (in both location and at the shoulders up against a wall). I knew that if I wanted to win at Gay Chicken, it was going to take a little extra effort on my part.
Several weeks ago, Matty and I were at a party (you remember, the one with the awful furniture and good art) and while we were in the ad hoc coat check area in the hall outside a cute gay approached us and invited Matty (and by default, me) to his birthday party on the 13th. So I knew there was a party somewhere, but that was all I knew. Earlier this week when I grilled Matty about it, he remembered the encounter but not whose party it was. Then Thursday night, out at Matty’s Park party, Joe let me know that it was Micah, who I was so hostile to some weeks ago at The Ritz. Fortunately, on our second encounter, he was too drunk at both to connect the dots. This small mercy is what keeps me afloat in Manhattan gay social circles.
As my show wound down on Friday night, Roommate texted me and let me know he was hanging out around the corner at Barrage, our original Manhattan staple when I lived on 42nd Street back at the beginning of my NYC adventures at the start of the century. I tried to convince him to go down to Chelsea, or worse, south of Houston for Micah’s party, but he was adamant. After going to bed at 5:30am the night before and working all day, he was only in the mood for a quick beer and then an express train to slumberland. I headed down to Barrage to try to convince him in person, while texting with Bond to see where he was. Bond planned to join Michael Warner’s bar crawl and in the interim was pre-cocktailing at a friend’s apartment in the heart of Chelsea.
To no one’s surprise, Roommate finished his Blue Moon and headed for the 11:10pm train. I hopped on the E Train, bound for Chelsea, while Matty texted me from Micah’s party way downtown wondering where I was and when we were coming. Still hopeful that I could pull Bond out of the pending bar crawl, I joined him at his friend’s tastefully standard Chelsea apartment for a surprisingly delicious vodka cranberry. There was some smooching, some hand-holding, and at one point, he even licked my face. “Should I have one more? I don’t want to get too drunk.” He asked as I wiped the saliva off my face. I told him to have two. He was already over the line, what difference did it make if he had two or two hundred?
More gays arrived at the apartment and all of them looked like they were churned out of the Play-Doh Chelsea Boy Maker by Hasbro! All trim plaid shirts, smooth haircuts and zero body fat. Apparently we each took a jump on the super accurate scale in the bathroom, though I was the only one there with the shock of recognition on his face when he came out moments later. After a group photo destined for Facebook glory, we all decamped around the corner to Ate Ave (which I think used to be Food Bar). Michael Warner was climbing into a modified luxury SUV, on his way to Splash, which as usual, only sounded appealing to Bond and the other gays visiting from Boston. Inside, I ran into HX photog Jeff Eason, Ben Andrews in full porn star mode (razored haircut and no Clark Kent glasses), and Amanda Lepore, more and more a Japanese robot fuck doll every day.
While still debating a trip much further downtown than I ever like going, I got a single word text from Matty: Maritime. Glory be! A bar around the corner. I tried once again to convince Bond to join me and Matty at Maritime but now his drunken heart was set on Splash. We made our way through the chaotic mess at Ate Ave and made our sloppy good byes outside. Moments later, I was in the familiar throes of Maritime with Matty, Joe and our returning champion Andrew. I discovered that part of the secret to Andrew’s insanely narrow physique was his recent adventures in marathons and, slightly more to my liking, half marathons. “What are you running to or from?” I queried to Joe’s delight and no answer from Andrew. He was in a contemplative mood, but as it turns out, not very self-reflective.
My time at Maritime was terribly short. Too short. But I did have to commend myself on a job well done. It isn’t easy seeing three different people in four different locations in only three hours. And even though it was a week of pure junk food (chicken fingers at Moonstruck, the most amazing onion rings at NY Burger Co., Valentine’s Day cupcakes, a package of Twizzlers, Michael Bond), I rewarded myself at Grand Central with a hot dog smothered in sauerkraut and mustard. And on my walk to the train, I hung my own “Mission Accomplished” banner over my head. True, I wasn’t able to bring everyone together, but I did get a little piece of each of them, and that made my evening complete.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
My Life On The F List
I am not really that famous. True, I host a radio show on SIRIUS Satellite Radio but so do about 700 other people. It is hard to feel special in that kind of environment. There is Howard Stern, and then there is everyone else, and then there is me. Romaine and I have been hosting this show since April 2003, almost five years now. It has been a lot of fun for us, and I hope the listeners too. There have been some high moments for me (dancing with Charo, meeting Olivia Newton-John, being called a “faggot” by my beloved Meredith Vieira) and some low moments (interviewing Amy Sedaris was worse than a root canal). But overall, I think it is a body of work that I can look back on with a certain amount of pride in accomplishment. After all, it is the second longest running talk show at SIRIUS (Mike is the longest) and it can’t be that bad if we are still around.
This doesn’t mean we haven’t received our fair share of criticism over the years. The former head of programming at SIRIUS famously predicted early on that our show would be the first one on the OutQ Channel to wash out (we didn’t). In the outside world, Datalounge.com in particular has been filled with some genuine and for us even hilarious vitriol. I particularly enjoyed the gay face vs. carb face debate about me some years ago, and who among us can forget when they said of Romaine pictured in the Long Beach Pride Parade, “I didn’t know whales rode in convertibles.” More recently they have taken aim at my gay voice and my obnoxious laugh, two points that while I would probably not start a datalounge thread about, I am generally in agreement on (and if you want to know what I am packing datalounge.com, drop me an email). But the hatred really kicked up a notch when we announced this week that we would be co-hosting the GayVN Awards this year.
From the beginning of our show, we have had porn stars on with us. Our closest and longest running porn friendship has been with John Rutherford of Colt Studio, dating back to the summer of 2003. John’s boyfriend Tom is a long time SIRIUS subscriber and he encouraged John to take a listen and then to have Colt stars on our show. Colt even did an early ad buy on our show for Buckleroos, and the on-air interview about the film spurred listener phone calls that encouraged John to make Big Rig under his Buckshot Productions line. John even offered us both cameo roles in the film, of which mine, the lascivious motel manager who tries most unsuccessfully to bed Colby Taylor, earned me a GayVN nomination last year. I lost in a tie to industry favorites Paul Barresi and Savanna Samson.
This was not our first brush with the GayVNs though. We did a broadcast of the 2005 GayVNs on our show when it was hosted by Chi Chi La Rue. From that original recording, we captured Chi Chi’s desperate attempts to keep the drunken show moving with a wide variety of line readings on the word “alright!” which now populate our canned phrases database on the show. Since then, Chi Chi has also become a SIRIUS subscriber and frequent listener of the show (and as you have seen from my previous blog entries something of a delightful travel companion for me).
After several years as host, Chi Chi would appear to be done with the duties for the time being and offered to help the GayVN folks find another host. The bar was set insanely high last year with comedian Kathy Griffin, so almost anyone after that was bound to feel like a letdown. And that was the moment Romaine opened her big mouth. John Rutherford was a guest on the show and we got to talking about this year’s show and talk turned to the search for a host. Ever the egomaniac, Romaine naturally suggested us, which sparked John to call Chi Chi who called the GayVN folks. The next day I got a call from Chi Chi asking us if we would like to do it in the company of another host, ideally one in a dress. In a way, Romaine and I are perfect non-political hosts for the show, I thought. We are supportive of the industry but unlike other better known names inside the industry (Jason Sechrest, Tim and Roma, etc) we have no built in associations and allegiances. Even Michael Lucas likes us! Plus we have the added advantage of a national radio show to help promote the awards on. I knew we would be a disappointment after the Griffin, and as I could tell from my GayVN appearance last year, porn stars are not early adopters of satellite radio, but I wasn’t quite prepared for how rapidly we would be sent down the river.
During the show tonight, I got an IM from Jason Sechrest, who we have had a long and very mildly complicated relationship with. I first met him in 2003 in Chicago (which he won’t remember) when he and Chi Chi (who also wouldn’t remember it) were hanging out in a VIP room at some nightclub. I tried to introduce myself to him and to Chi Chi, but I never got past Jason. Our show was completely unknown and SIRIUS had fewer than 200,000 subscribers at the time, and his icy reception reflected our very low status on the media totem pole. Since then, as our subscriber base and profile have risen, so has Jason’s warmth toward us. It is a version of celebrity geometry I became quite familiar with when I lived in Hollywood and I don’t take it personally. Most recently, Jason facilitated booking Ben Andrews and Jonathan Vargas on the show, both of which were great additions to the show and I am much appreciative of him in his efforts.
His IM tonight during the show was one of quick apology. He wanted to assure me, as he already had posted online, that his video blog about us as the new hosts of the GayVNs was all in good fun. We don’t have sound in the studio so I had to wait until after the show to give it a good viewing. Romaine and I sat upstairs and watched it and frankly, he didn’t say anything I wouldn’t have said about it myself. He held his hands out over and over weighing the two shows. On the one hand Kathy Griffin. On the other, Derek and Romaine. No comparison! Even with the addition of Lady Bunny, the unconfirmed additional host (who I adore), still no comparison. Kathy Griffin is a gay icon (despite her recent awkward run-ins with the community)! Jason’s video blog was all in good fun and we got that (as he knew we would), but it was the posting on TheSword.com that he knew was going to piss us off.
Written anonymously, and clearly by someone who (like Jason) had never heard our show. They had done nothing but read our show one sheet and my latest blog entry and pronounced sentence on us. Romaine was a “steroidal puffin” and I am “Reichen-fawning”, and both of us are interchangeable houseplants. Wow. Bold choice calling a woman who had a baby six months ago fat in an anonymous web posting. But what they said about Matthew Shepard was really below grade. I know you are upset about not getting to host the porn awards (that must be the end of the world), but is it necessary to discount the work someone did on a global scale to combat homophobia? You know, to make the streets safe for a low life piece of shit like you. Oh and she had a fucking baby! What have you done with your life? Frosted your tips? Finally fit into a size 32 pair of jeans? Got out of bed this morning? Sorry she has been too busy to have an eating disorder or a meth habit, she is raising a baby and hosting a national radio show. And by the way, I know Romaine can be a pain in the ass, loud-mouthed bitch sometimes, but she came out as a lesbian at 13. In Wyoming. Still the only openly gay person in her high school's history. Then she got to endure the death of her brother, her father and her friend all within a matter of a couple of years. But you didn't get to host The Pornies, so I guess it's all even now.
Our little radio show is not for everyone. Hell, most days, I don’t think it’s even all that worth listening to. But we have been doing it for five years. And even if I don’t always think its great, do you know who did? Time Magazine. They said our show was “suggestive of radio’s party days, before big radio ate the AM/FM dial… and sucked the fun right out of the control booth.” Oh and the Washington Post. They said our show was “frisky, freewheeling… a distinctly different brand of radio.” The New York Times even called me “handsome” and my ego has been dining on that for five years now. What have they said about you? And what will we say about you when we get on stage at the GayVN Awards? I guess you will just have to come by on February 16th and find out. If you dare show your face. Tickets are still available!
This doesn’t mean we haven’t received our fair share of criticism over the years. The former head of programming at SIRIUS famously predicted early on that our show would be the first one on the OutQ Channel to wash out (we didn’t). In the outside world, Datalounge.com in particular has been filled with some genuine and for us even hilarious vitriol. I particularly enjoyed the gay face vs. carb face debate about me some years ago, and who among us can forget when they said of Romaine pictured in the Long Beach Pride Parade, “I didn’t know whales rode in convertibles.” More recently they have taken aim at my gay voice and my obnoxious laugh, two points that while I would probably not start a datalounge thread about, I am generally in agreement on (and if you want to know what I am packing datalounge.com, drop me an email). But the hatred really kicked up a notch when we announced this week that we would be co-hosting the GayVN Awards this year.
From the beginning of our show, we have had porn stars on with us. Our closest and longest running porn friendship has been with John Rutherford of Colt Studio, dating back to the summer of 2003. John’s boyfriend Tom is a long time SIRIUS subscriber and he encouraged John to take a listen and then to have Colt stars on our show. Colt even did an early ad buy on our show for Buckleroos, and the on-air interview about the film spurred listener phone calls that encouraged John to make Big Rig under his Buckshot Productions line. John even offered us both cameo roles in the film, of which mine, the lascivious motel manager who tries most unsuccessfully to bed Colby Taylor, earned me a GayVN nomination last year. I lost in a tie to industry favorites Paul Barresi and Savanna Samson.
This was not our first brush with the GayVNs though. We did a broadcast of the 2005 GayVNs on our show when it was hosted by Chi Chi La Rue. From that original recording, we captured Chi Chi’s desperate attempts to keep the drunken show moving with a wide variety of line readings on the word “alright!” which now populate our canned phrases database on the show. Since then, Chi Chi has also become a SIRIUS subscriber and frequent listener of the show (and as you have seen from my previous blog entries something of a delightful travel companion for me).
After several years as host, Chi Chi would appear to be done with the duties for the time being and offered to help the GayVN folks find another host. The bar was set insanely high last year with comedian Kathy Griffin, so almost anyone after that was bound to feel like a letdown. And that was the moment Romaine opened her big mouth. John Rutherford was a guest on the show and we got to talking about this year’s show and talk turned to the search for a host. Ever the egomaniac, Romaine naturally suggested us, which sparked John to call Chi Chi who called the GayVN folks. The next day I got a call from Chi Chi asking us if we would like to do it in the company of another host, ideally one in a dress. In a way, Romaine and I are perfect non-political hosts for the show, I thought. We are supportive of the industry but unlike other better known names inside the industry (Jason Sechrest, Tim and Roma, etc) we have no built in associations and allegiances. Even Michael Lucas likes us! Plus we have the added advantage of a national radio show to help promote the awards on. I knew we would be a disappointment after the Griffin, and as I could tell from my GayVN appearance last year, porn stars are not early adopters of satellite radio, but I wasn’t quite prepared for how rapidly we would be sent down the river.
During the show tonight, I got an IM from Jason Sechrest, who we have had a long and very mildly complicated relationship with. I first met him in 2003 in Chicago (which he won’t remember) when he and Chi Chi (who also wouldn’t remember it) were hanging out in a VIP room at some nightclub. I tried to introduce myself to him and to Chi Chi, but I never got past Jason. Our show was completely unknown and SIRIUS had fewer than 200,000 subscribers at the time, and his icy reception reflected our very low status on the media totem pole. Since then, as our subscriber base and profile have risen, so has Jason’s warmth toward us. It is a version of celebrity geometry I became quite familiar with when I lived in Hollywood and I don’t take it personally. Most recently, Jason facilitated booking Ben Andrews and Jonathan Vargas on the show, both of which were great additions to the show and I am much appreciative of him in his efforts.
His IM tonight during the show was one of quick apology. He wanted to assure me, as he already had posted online, that his video blog about us as the new hosts of the GayVNs was all in good fun. We don’t have sound in the studio so I had to wait until after the show to give it a good viewing. Romaine and I sat upstairs and watched it and frankly, he didn’t say anything I wouldn’t have said about it myself. He held his hands out over and over weighing the two shows. On the one hand Kathy Griffin. On the other, Derek and Romaine. No comparison! Even with the addition of Lady Bunny, the unconfirmed additional host (who I adore), still no comparison. Kathy Griffin is a gay icon (despite her recent awkward run-ins with the community)! Jason’s video blog was all in good fun and we got that (as he knew we would), but it was the posting on TheSword.com that he knew was going to piss us off.
Written anonymously, and clearly by someone who (like Jason) had never heard our show. They had done nothing but read our show one sheet and my latest blog entry and pronounced sentence on us. Romaine was a “steroidal puffin” and I am “Reichen-fawning”, and both of us are interchangeable houseplants. Wow. Bold choice calling a woman who had a baby six months ago fat in an anonymous web posting. But what they said about Matthew Shepard was really below grade. I know you are upset about not getting to host the porn awards (that must be the end of the world), but is it necessary to discount the work someone did on a global scale to combat homophobia? You know, to make the streets safe for a low life piece of shit like you. Oh and she had a fucking baby! What have you done with your life? Frosted your tips? Finally fit into a size 32 pair of jeans? Got out of bed this morning? Sorry she has been too busy to have an eating disorder or a meth habit, she is raising a baby and hosting a national radio show. And by the way, I know Romaine can be a pain in the ass, loud-mouthed bitch sometimes, but she came out as a lesbian at 13. In Wyoming. Still the only openly gay person in her high school's history. Then she got to endure the death of her brother, her father and her friend all within a matter of a couple of years. But you didn't get to host The Pornies, so I guess it's all even now.
Our little radio show is not for everyone. Hell, most days, I don’t think it’s even all that worth listening to. But we have been doing it for five years. And even if I don’t always think its great, do you know who did? Time Magazine. They said our show was “suggestive of radio’s party days, before big radio ate the AM/FM dial… and sucked the fun right out of the control booth.” Oh and the Washington Post. They said our show was “frisky, freewheeling… a distinctly different brand of radio.” The New York Times even called me “handsome” and my ego has been dining on that for five years now. What have they said about you? And what will we say about you when we get on stage at the GayVN Awards? I guess you will just have to come by on February 16th and find out. If you dare show your face. Tickets are still available!
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Bitter Gay Men
My birthday is on Sunday and it is hard to hide my irritation. I tried to talk about it on the air the other day and I just don’t have any words for how I feel about my impending birthday. Why is 38 such a flashpoint for me? Perhaps it is the dangerous proximity to forty. I have been joking that 38 is the new 55, and I really am starting to mean it. Because, in the gay community, you can get old, you just can’t get older.
If you go out to an event or a gay bar and you see an eighty year old guy, it’s sweet. The gays will buy him a drink and hear about the time he saw Judy Garland perform live at the Palladium. But if a 42 year old guy walks into that same gay bar, it’s sad. Doesn’t he know when to quit? It’s not a gay sin to be old, but it is downright criminal to grow older. And where are the gay men in their 40s and 50s supposed to go? They can’t all hide out in Palm Springs until the Social Security checks start to arrive. But when I look around, increasingly I am the oldest person in the room and I start to wonder what will happen when the dot on my palm turns red and I need to run.
Hanging out with Terry Goldman and his new squeeze, ten years his junior, we got to talking about gay men who get older and turn bitter. Earlier I had spoken to Lucas Entertainment exclusive Ben Andrews, with his 22 year old skin and 11 inch cock. He had just returned from the Lance Bass book party and saw Debbie (excuse me, Deborah) Gibson there. “I didn’t even know who she was.” he admitted, “Except, you know, what I saw on VH-1.”
No surprises there, except perhaps the idea of someone so young watching Vh-1. He was still in diapers when she danced on the sand with a denim jacket sliding off her shoulders and a scrunchy in her hair. When Reagan died, Sean, who was born at the end of his first term, told me that he didn’t know until that moment watching CNN that Reagan had been an actor. “They never taught us that in history class.” It’s enough to make anyone over the age of 35 contemplate suicide. Or the survivors turn bitter.
Terry started in on the interns at work, who when he told them that there wasn’t internet when he was a kid, looked as surprised as if he had said he didn’t have electricity or indoor plumbing. He tried to explain what a BBS was and they looked at him like he worked his way through college delivering ice from a horse-drawn wagon. “Don’t tell them you didn’t have your first cell phone until you were almost thirty.” I urged him, and then prompted him to ask his new guy if he had ever been to a Fotomat.
Remember the Fotomat? That was one shit hole of a teen job. I still shudder when I think of those kids with nothing but a transistor radio and some comic books to pass the time inside the familiar A-frame structure. Even before digital, the Fotomat was an arcane dinosaur, with the Polaroid camera coming out of the sky like an earthbound comet to wipe them off the face of the planet. Now even the Polaroid seems quaint. And this is where the bitterness comes in.
I have said many times that you know you are old when you start talking about places that don’t exist anymore. I never appreciated the song “Come Up To My Place” from On The Town until I got older and realized I could also rattle off an old guidebook full of destinations as distant to twenty-something gays as the Hippodrome is to me. No wonder you feel like the party is over, the place where they used to hold the party closed years ago and now it’s a condo complex. I would say internet café, but even those are fading into the ever rapid distant past.
My mom has a theory about why it seems that time speeds up as you get older. While waiting for your birthday between the ages of four and five, a quarter of your whole life has to pass to make it to that point. But when you are going from 50 to 51, it’s only 2% of your life. It turns out (in a move that defies the laws of physics) that the more you accumulate over time, the faster you travel. This might explain why so many people retire just so they can sit in one place, not moving, for extended periods of time. The world is just travelling so fast at that point, there is nothing you can do but just hang on. Which leads me finally to the wisdom of Tennessee Williams:
“What is the victory of a cat on a hot tin roof?” Brick asks Maggie, their empty life together at a crossroads, on the eve of Big Daddy’s final birthday.
“Just staying on it, I guess. Long as she can.”
If you go out to an event or a gay bar and you see an eighty year old guy, it’s sweet. The gays will buy him a drink and hear about the time he saw Judy Garland perform live at the Palladium. But if a 42 year old guy walks into that same gay bar, it’s sad. Doesn’t he know when to quit? It’s not a gay sin to be old, but it is downright criminal to grow older. And where are the gay men in their 40s and 50s supposed to go? They can’t all hide out in Palm Springs until the Social Security checks start to arrive. But when I look around, increasingly I am the oldest person in the room and I start to wonder what will happen when the dot on my palm turns red and I need to run.
Hanging out with Terry Goldman and his new squeeze, ten years his junior, we got to talking about gay men who get older and turn bitter. Earlier I had spoken to Lucas Entertainment exclusive Ben Andrews, with his 22 year old skin and 11 inch cock. He had just returned from the Lance Bass book party and saw Debbie (excuse me, Deborah) Gibson there. “I didn’t even know who she was.” he admitted, “Except, you know, what I saw on VH-1.”
No surprises there, except perhaps the idea of someone so young watching Vh-1. He was still in diapers when she danced on the sand with a denim jacket sliding off her shoulders and a scrunchy in her hair. When Reagan died, Sean, who was born at the end of his first term, told me that he didn’t know until that moment watching CNN that Reagan had been an actor. “They never taught us that in history class.” It’s enough to make anyone over the age of 35 contemplate suicide. Or the survivors turn bitter.
Terry started in on the interns at work, who when he told them that there wasn’t internet when he was a kid, looked as surprised as if he had said he didn’t have electricity or indoor plumbing. He tried to explain what a BBS was and they looked at him like he worked his way through college delivering ice from a horse-drawn wagon. “Don’t tell them you didn’t have your first cell phone until you were almost thirty.” I urged him, and then prompted him to ask his new guy if he had ever been to a Fotomat.
Remember the Fotomat? That was one shit hole of a teen job. I still shudder when I think of those kids with nothing but a transistor radio and some comic books to pass the time inside the familiar A-frame structure. Even before digital, the Fotomat was an arcane dinosaur, with the Polaroid camera coming out of the sky like an earthbound comet to wipe them off the face of the planet. Now even the Polaroid seems quaint. And this is where the bitterness comes in.
I have said many times that you know you are old when you start talking about places that don’t exist anymore. I never appreciated the song “Come Up To My Place” from On The Town until I got older and realized I could also rattle off an old guidebook full of destinations as distant to twenty-something gays as the Hippodrome is to me. No wonder you feel like the party is over, the place where they used to hold the party closed years ago and now it’s a condo complex. I would say internet café, but even those are fading into the ever rapid distant past.
My mom has a theory about why it seems that time speeds up as you get older. While waiting for your birthday between the ages of four and five, a quarter of your whole life has to pass to make it to that point. But when you are going from 50 to 51, it’s only 2% of your life. It turns out (in a move that defies the laws of physics) that the more you accumulate over time, the faster you travel. This might explain why so many people retire just so they can sit in one place, not moving, for extended periods of time. The world is just travelling so fast at that point, there is nothing you can do but just hang on. Which leads me finally to the wisdom of Tennessee Williams:
“What is the victory of a cat on a hot tin roof?” Brick asks Maggie, their empty life together at a crossroads, on the eve of Big Daddy’s final birthday.
“Just staying on it, I guess. Long as she can.”
Monday, September 10, 2007
The Life Of Riley
I have a lot of empathy for my friend Chi Chi La Rue. Last year, I was in New Orleans for Southern Decadence and I went up to the VIP room and Chi Chi was there. That year, I was hanging out with Roman Heart, who spent most of the weekend gingerly stepping over glasses and spilled drinks in between half-hearted dance moves on top of the downstairs bar at the Bourbon Pub. When I ran into Chi Chi, she was screaming for her cardboard box. Suddenly, there it was. A non-descript cardboard box labeled “For Chi Chi Only! Touch It And Die!” This was the box of giveaway porn and I recognized it immediately. When Romaine and I travel for the show, we also have “the box” and while it is sometimes filled with porn, it is more likely to be stuffed with t-shirts or mardi gras beads. It was in that moment at the Bourbon Pub that I realized how similar my life on the road was to Chi Chi’s and how grateful I was that I didn’t have to do it in a dress, wig and heels.
Chi Chi has a powerful personal effect on people. I have wondered for quite some time now just what it is about Chi Chi that creates the opportunity for them to do things they would never otherwise do. I think it is her utter exuberance about everything. She is just so enthusiastic, and when someone is cheering you on so vigorously, it is hard to say no. I suppose it is a combination of this aspect of her personality and my empathy for her that turns me into her personal assistant whenever I see her lately. And it’s not Chi Chi demanding that I wait on her hand and foot. But there is just something about her that makes me happy to get her a fresh cocktail or carry her suitcase full of CDs around. I did it a bit in Minneapolis during pride and was back at it again tonight.
Chi Chi is in town this weekend to DJ at the HustlaBall. Now I had never been before, but it is exactly what it sounds like. It is a big party/event featuring dozens of porn stars and escorts mingling and having fun with three packed floors of potential customers. The HustlaBall staff just assumed I was Chi Chi’s assistant, which was fine with me. This weekend when I go to Dallas, I won’t be able to walk down the street without being recognized. It’s nice to spend an evening being not just an ordinary person, but even better, an unimportant one. I only wish it hadn’t been such a struggle to get a free drink, but I guess that is the trade off.
The only people at the event tonight who knew I even had a real job were prior guests on the show. It felt like everyone was there tonight. Barrett Long, who was also in New Orleans last weekend was there with new roommate Jason Crew, whom I first met on the set of Big Rig two years ago. That’s a lot of trouble for one household. The third musketeer was the ever delicious Rod Barry. He was upset about something and after some shots started getting belligerent. We danced a bit until his playful punching got too painful and I pawned him off on Barrett Long, who seemed to have more experience with unhappy Rod. Michael Lucas was there and apparently was one of the performers on stage (I heard he planned to pee on someone so I skipped the show). I kept running into him all night and he kept looking at me expectantly but I can’t for the life of me figure out what it was that he wanted me to say. Chi Chi was effusive in her praise of Michael on stage. Yes, she was almost too nice, like Robert Blake gushing about his great wife at the restaurant moments before she got shot. “Did you hear how nice I was to Michael tonight? Tell everyone how nice I was.” Duly noted, Chi Chi.
Lucas exclusive Ben Andrews was there in his eyeglasses and hoodie with no shirt underneath. I think Ben has a Superman/Clark Kent thing about his glasses, like somehow no one will realize he is porn star Ben Andrews if he doesn’t take them off. Colton Ford was also there, preparing to sing later at the event. I spent a few minutes talking to Colton, and Ben, and it was nice to have a private conversation with them for a change since nearly everything else we have ever said to each other has been broadcast live on the radio. RuPaul was Chi Chi’s other guest for the evening (aside from me), but he didn’t stay long. He just dropped by to say hi to Chi Chi and then headed home. It was too bad because Ru was one of the few people there that I wish I had gotten more time with.
A huge number of those porn star/escort types at the HustlaBall were brought in by Howard from FabScout. I met Howard two years ago the first time we did Fort Lauderdale Pride and I kind of really like him. Porn agents generally have a bad reputation. Well, why be so narrow? Agents generally have a bad reputation. Porn performers are consistently and depressingly messed up and flaky. Tonight in the DJ booth Chi Chi and I waxed poetic about the former Gus Mattox and how nice it is to see a hot man who also is reliable, smart and fun. “If only all porn stars could be forty-five…” I thought out loud. Unfortunately most of them are 22, or younger, and don’t know what they want to do with their lives yet and don’t know what it means yet to have a job. So, I don’t envy Howard’s job (or Chi Chi’s for that matter), although he does have lots of cute guys to look at so it could be worse.
One of Howard’s boys was a porn star named Riley Burke. Riley is a delectable blond with a thick of chest hair and a willing personality. If given half the chance, I would desert us on an uninhabited island and fuck his brains out forever. Unfortunately, my three and a half year old niece has a better grasp of her own emotional state than he does, and tonight was especially messy. He spent most of the time hanging out with adorable Seth, the “hung Czech” personal assistant, future lawyer, certified massage therapist. Seth has a flawless body, which was on full display during his 20 minute nude massage in the VIP lounge, and he was totally sweet and fun. Not to mention that years of yoga have paid off to the point where he can put both of his legs behind his own head. However try as we might, there just wasn't any real sexual chemistry between us. Riley on the other hand, had my attention at all times. One minute sweetly standing with me at the bar telling me his hopes and dreams, the next getting his ass eaten out by a stranger. The munching must have been fantastic because as soon as the guy was done, Riley was unzipping the stranger’s pants, barely getting “where do you live” out of his mouth before the stranger’s cock went in it. What a lesbian.
Riley’s self-esteem was falling faster than prices at Wal-Mart. This made me want to rescue him but fortunately I am old enough now to know what a complete waste of time that is. Riley kept asking Chi Chi, who had directed him in one of his most recently movies, how he looked. It didn’t matter how many times Chi Chi said he looked great, he asked again and then caught another disapproving glimpse of himself in the mirror. When I tried to say good bye later, he smiled wanly and brushed me away. Seconds later he burst into tears, surrounded by the comforting arms of two muscle bound escorts. I guess the evening was just too much for him and he snapped. Riley had said earlier in the evening that he thought Howard was too hard on him, but now I am thinking maybe Howard wasn’t tough enough with him. He is a beautiful guy but if he can’t pull himself together he won’t last six more months in this industry and he’ll be dead before thirty.
We left the HustlaBall and headed into a cab. Chi Chi and I were both hungry for a classic slice of NYC pizza. In the cab ride back to her swank hotel none of the pizza places were open, so I volunteered to run to the corner and pick up a slice for her while she got out of those painful heels. Sixteen blocks later and nothing, including the all night pizza joint with the “Open 24 Hours” sign, was open. Ugh. Doesn't anyone in Chelsea eat greasy food in the middle of the night anymore? Then it started to drizzle. That was the end of that. I love Chi Chi but it’s not like she promised me a kidney. I performed above and beyond the call of duty. It was fun, but now it was 2:15 in the morning on a school night! Time to wrap things up. I picked up a couple of sandwiches and a bag of chips and returned finally to Chi Chi’s room, where I think she had given up all hope of ever seeing me again. “Postcards From The Edge” was playing on her TV and we bonded a bit more over our shared love of the movie. “I love ‘these are the options? Lana, Joan and you?’” Chi Chi declared, quoting her favorite line.
In the car on the way home, I thought about my favorite line from the movie. “Never let ‘em see ya ache. That’s what Mr. Mayer always used to say. Or was it ‘ass?’ ‘Never let ‘em see your ass.’” Tonight I saw Riley’s ache and his ass, and I think I speak for everyone when I say, I’d rather see his ass.
Chi Chi has a powerful personal effect on people. I have wondered for quite some time now just what it is about Chi Chi that creates the opportunity for them to do things they would never otherwise do. I think it is her utter exuberance about everything. She is just so enthusiastic, and when someone is cheering you on so vigorously, it is hard to say no. I suppose it is a combination of this aspect of her personality and my empathy for her that turns me into her personal assistant whenever I see her lately. And it’s not Chi Chi demanding that I wait on her hand and foot. But there is just something about her that makes me happy to get her a fresh cocktail or carry her suitcase full of CDs around. I did it a bit in Minneapolis during pride and was back at it again tonight.
Chi Chi is in town this weekend to DJ at the HustlaBall. Now I had never been before, but it is exactly what it sounds like. It is a big party/event featuring dozens of porn stars and escorts mingling and having fun with three packed floors of potential customers. The HustlaBall staff just assumed I was Chi Chi’s assistant, which was fine with me. This weekend when I go to Dallas, I won’t be able to walk down the street without being recognized. It’s nice to spend an evening being not just an ordinary person, but even better, an unimportant one. I only wish it hadn’t been such a struggle to get a free drink, but I guess that is the trade off.
The only people at the event tonight who knew I even had a real job were prior guests on the show. It felt like everyone was there tonight. Barrett Long, who was also in New Orleans last weekend was there with new roommate Jason Crew, whom I first met on the set of Big Rig two years ago. That’s a lot of trouble for one household. The third musketeer was the ever delicious Rod Barry. He was upset about something and after some shots started getting belligerent. We danced a bit until his playful punching got too painful and I pawned him off on Barrett Long, who seemed to have more experience with unhappy Rod. Michael Lucas was there and apparently was one of the performers on stage (I heard he planned to pee on someone so I skipped the show). I kept running into him all night and he kept looking at me expectantly but I can’t for the life of me figure out what it was that he wanted me to say. Chi Chi was effusive in her praise of Michael on stage. Yes, she was almost too nice, like Robert Blake gushing about his great wife at the restaurant moments before she got shot. “Did you hear how nice I was to Michael tonight? Tell everyone how nice I was.” Duly noted, Chi Chi.
Lucas exclusive Ben Andrews was there in his eyeglasses and hoodie with no shirt underneath. I think Ben has a Superman/Clark Kent thing about his glasses, like somehow no one will realize he is porn star Ben Andrews if he doesn’t take them off. Colton Ford was also there, preparing to sing later at the event. I spent a few minutes talking to Colton, and Ben, and it was nice to have a private conversation with them for a change since nearly everything else we have ever said to each other has been broadcast live on the radio. RuPaul was Chi Chi’s other guest for the evening (aside from me), but he didn’t stay long. He just dropped by to say hi to Chi Chi and then headed home. It was too bad because Ru was one of the few people there that I wish I had gotten more time with.
A huge number of those porn star/escort types at the HustlaBall were brought in by Howard from FabScout. I met Howard two years ago the first time we did Fort Lauderdale Pride and I kind of really like him. Porn agents generally have a bad reputation. Well, why be so narrow? Agents generally have a bad reputation. Porn performers are consistently and depressingly messed up and flaky. Tonight in the DJ booth Chi Chi and I waxed poetic about the former Gus Mattox and how nice it is to see a hot man who also is reliable, smart and fun. “If only all porn stars could be forty-five…” I thought out loud. Unfortunately most of them are 22, or younger, and don’t know what they want to do with their lives yet and don’t know what it means yet to have a job. So, I don’t envy Howard’s job (or Chi Chi’s for that matter), although he does have lots of cute guys to look at so it could be worse.
One of Howard’s boys was a porn star named Riley Burke. Riley is a delectable blond with a thick of chest hair and a willing personality. If given half the chance, I would desert us on an uninhabited island and fuck his brains out forever. Unfortunately, my three and a half year old niece has a better grasp of her own emotional state than he does, and tonight was especially messy. He spent most of the time hanging out with adorable Seth, the “hung Czech” personal assistant, future lawyer, certified massage therapist. Seth has a flawless body, which was on full display during his 20 minute nude massage in the VIP lounge, and he was totally sweet and fun. Not to mention that years of yoga have paid off to the point where he can put both of his legs behind his own head. However try as we might, there just wasn't any real sexual chemistry between us. Riley on the other hand, had my attention at all times. One minute sweetly standing with me at the bar telling me his hopes and dreams, the next getting his ass eaten out by a stranger. The munching must have been fantastic because as soon as the guy was done, Riley was unzipping the stranger’s pants, barely getting “where do you live” out of his mouth before the stranger’s cock went in it. What a lesbian.
Riley’s self-esteem was falling faster than prices at Wal-Mart. This made me want to rescue him but fortunately I am old enough now to know what a complete waste of time that is. Riley kept asking Chi Chi, who had directed him in one of his most recently movies, how he looked. It didn’t matter how many times Chi Chi said he looked great, he asked again and then caught another disapproving glimpse of himself in the mirror. When I tried to say good bye later, he smiled wanly and brushed me away. Seconds later he burst into tears, surrounded by the comforting arms of two muscle bound escorts. I guess the evening was just too much for him and he snapped. Riley had said earlier in the evening that he thought Howard was too hard on him, but now I am thinking maybe Howard wasn’t tough enough with him. He is a beautiful guy but if he can’t pull himself together he won’t last six more months in this industry and he’ll be dead before thirty.
We left the HustlaBall and headed into a cab. Chi Chi and I were both hungry for a classic slice of NYC pizza. In the cab ride back to her swank hotel none of the pizza places were open, so I volunteered to run to the corner and pick up a slice for her while she got out of those painful heels. Sixteen blocks later and nothing, including the all night pizza joint with the “Open 24 Hours” sign, was open. Ugh. Doesn't anyone in Chelsea eat greasy food in the middle of the night anymore? Then it started to drizzle. That was the end of that. I love Chi Chi but it’s not like she promised me a kidney. I performed above and beyond the call of duty. It was fun, but now it was 2:15 in the morning on a school night! Time to wrap things up. I picked up a couple of sandwiches and a bag of chips and returned finally to Chi Chi’s room, where I think she had given up all hope of ever seeing me again. “Postcards From The Edge” was playing on her TV and we bonded a bit more over our shared love of the movie. “I love ‘these are the options? Lana, Joan and you?’” Chi Chi declared, quoting her favorite line.
In the car on the way home, I thought about my favorite line from the movie. “Never let ‘em see ya ache. That’s what Mr. Mayer always used to say. Or was it ‘ass?’ ‘Never let ‘em see your ass.’” Tonight I saw Riley’s ache and his ass, and I think I speak for everyone when I say, I’d rather see his ass.
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