O. Henry once famously said of New York “It’ll be a great place, if they ever finish it.” More than 100 years later, the place still isn’t done changing. I suppose that is both the best and the worst part about the city. On the one hand there is always something new and exciting going on. On the other hand, there is the constant inconvenience of scaffolding or being awakened to the sound of jackhammers.
For me the hardest change is when good friends leave the city. As hilarious as The Onion article about everyone deciding to the abandon the city simultaneously was (and it really, really was), the truth is that once you live in New York, it is really hard to imagine living anywhere else. It's the city of more. Everything happens here. When Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada dresses down her frumpy assistant, chronicling the genesis of her sweater from a kernel of an idea in Manhattan to a dusty sale bin in a discount store, she isn’t just talking about fashion, she is talking about the whole world. Everyone comes here because this is where things start. The people here make the decisions that alter the course of humanity and that is no small thing. Even with the shackles of winter, the noise, the near constant smell of urine, the inconvenience, expense and a million other vicious slices that make the death of a thousand cuts look like child’s play, the decision to walk away from it all is not an easy one.
Showing posts with label Michelle Collins. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Michelle Collins. Show all posts
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Surprise Part(l)y
Today is Christopher’s birthday so his wonderful boyfriend Kevin plotted a surprise party for him. This apparently took a lot of effort. Chris is smart so it took serious subterfuge on Kevin’s part. A couple of weeks ago we all got separate emails letting us know about the party tonight at Bamboo 52 but also to help “accidentally” suggest there was a surprise party on Thursday. This would throw Christopher off the scent. I told Kevin tonight that if he really wanted to surprise Christopher he should also go ahead with the surprise party tomorrow night too. Nothing like a double fake out.
I did my part in keeping the secret although I nearly helped Kevin botch it all. Two weeks ago we were all at their apartment playing Buzz on the PS3 and one of the answers was the Blondie song “Atomic” and no one had heard of it. Not the boys. Not Michelle from BestWeekEver.TV. Not even Jonathan who seems to know everything I know. So I told them I would email the song to them later. So a few days ago, I sent the song and a short email. I was going to include Christopher on the email with a “See you on Thursday” coda but then thought better of the idea. Maybe that wasn’t a subtle enough accident. So I just emailed Kevin, Michelle and Jonathan and said at the end “See you on Wednesday.” Well, Kevin didn’t read the whole email before starting to read it aloud to Christopher and when he got to the end he suddenly heard himself saying “See you on wen- wasn’t that nice of Derek to send us that.” As close a call as you want when plotting a big surprise.
After the show, I raced down to Bamboo 52 to make sure I was sequestered in back with the rest of the gang before Christopher left the Broadway theatre where he is performing in Shrek The Musical. He steals the show, by the way, in case anyone was wondering. While waiting I ran into dreamy Steven DeLuca’s boyfriend Carl who by chance was there having dinner with friends. I told him to join us back there when he was finished and then headed for a banquette in the corner. I recognized a few people from my two trips to Kevin and Christopher’s island but by and large we don’t have a lot of friends in common.
Christopher was dutifully surprised when he walked in and soon the room was buzzing with cocktail chatter and clever Broadway bon mots. I felt like I was in All About Eve but everything was in color and there was a fight on to be Margo Channing. Kevin complained to me about how loud it was. I assured him that it is because half the people can’t hear anymore and the other half demand to be heard no matter what. “It’s all loud from here.” I told him referring to the domino effect of our birthdays: Kevin, then Christopher, then me, but in retrospect, I think that might make a good book title. Hmmm. I will store that idea away for later.
My pal Eddie from LA was there but left quickly for Florida. Then Adam Jay flew in direct from London with barely a moment to shake the dust of the West End off himself. Suddenly, Steven DeLuca popped into the room, no doubt encouraged by Carl who was still out in the restaurant talking at the sushi bar. Steven and I caught up, and when we spent a few moments with Christopher, he reminded him of when they met so many years ago while Christopher was doing a show in his theatre called “Avow.” Names of shows and actors and directors flew between them and past me like a newspaper headline montage in a 1930s movie. I gave it my best Joan Blondell perplexed and tried to keep my mouth clamped around fists full of sushi as much as possible. When I am in a crowd of strangers, I eat like Shelley Winters and Dom Deluise fighting over the last piece of chicken in the bucket. And tonight was no exception.
I hate surprises myself. And it’s a good thing too because I don’t think anyone could effectively throw a surprise party for me. Maybe I keep it this way, but I am the only person who knows everyone I know. It would probably take four or five of my friends who don’t even know each other well to actually piece together the guest list. And as lazy as my friends are, that isn’t happening anytime soon. But I do have a big birthday coming up this year, so I suppose I will have to do it up right. I have been thinking of a birthday in NYC and one in LA. Why not? And as for surprises, well I promise you that no one will be as surprised as me that I am turning as old as I am. In any event, I hope by then that I have had so much Botox that I will look surprised no matter what.
I did my part in keeping the secret although I nearly helped Kevin botch it all. Two weeks ago we were all at their apartment playing Buzz on the PS3 and one of the answers was the Blondie song “Atomic” and no one had heard of it. Not the boys. Not Michelle from BestWeekEver.TV. Not even Jonathan who seems to know everything I know. So I told them I would email the song to them later. So a few days ago, I sent the song and a short email. I was going to include Christopher on the email with a “See you on Thursday” coda but then thought better of the idea. Maybe that wasn’t a subtle enough accident. So I just emailed Kevin, Michelle and Jonathan and said at the end “See you on Wednesday.” Well, Kevin didn’t read the whole email before starting to read it aloud to Christopher and when he got to the end he suddenly heard himself saying “See you on wen- wasn’t that nice of Derek to send us that.” As close a call as you want when plotting a big surprise.
After the show, I raced down to Bamboo 52 to make sure I was sequestered in back with the rest of the gang before Christopher left the Broadway theatre where he is performing in Shrek The Musical. He steals the show, by the way, in case anyone was wondering. While waiting I ran into dreamy Steven DeLuca’s boyfriend Carl who by chance was there having dinner with friends. I told him to join us back there when he was finished and then headed for a banquette in the corner. I recognized a few people from my two trips to Kevin and Christopher’s island but by and large we don’t have a lot of friends in common.
Christopher was dutifully surprised when he walked in and soon the room was buzzing with cocktail chatter and clever Broadway bon mots. I felt like I was in All About Eve but everything was in color and there was a fight on to be Margo Channing. Kevin complained to me about how loud it was. I assured him that it is because half the people can’t hear anymore and the other half demand to be heard no matter what. “It’s all loud from here.” I told him referring to the domino effect of our birthdays: Kevin, then Christopher, then me, but in retrospect, I think that might make a good book title. Hmmm. I will store that idea away for later.
My pal Eddie from LA was there but left quickly for Florida. Then Adam Jay flew in direct from London with barely a moment to shake the dust of the West End off himself. Suddenly, Steven DeLuca popped into the room, no doubt encouraged by Carl who was still out in the restaurant talking at the sushi bar. Steven and I caught up, and when we spent a few moments with Christopher, he reminded him of when they met so many years ago while Christopher was doing a show in his theatre called “Avow.” Names of shows and actors and directors flew between them and past me like a newspaper headline montage in a 1930s movie. I gave it my best Joan Blondell perplexed and tried to keep my mouth clamped around fists full of sushi as much as possible. When I am in a crowd of strangers, I eat like Shelley Winters and Dom Deluise fighting over the last piece of chicken in the bucket. And tonight was no exception.
I hate surprises myself. And it’s a good thing too because I don’t think anyone could effectively throw a surprise party for me. Maybe I keep it this way, but I am the only person who knows everyone I know. It would probably take four or five of my friends who don’t even know each other well to actually piece together the guest list. And as lazy as my friends are, that isn’t happening anytime soon. But I do have a big birthday coming up this year, so I suppose I will have to do it up right. I have been thinking of a birthday in NYC and one in LA. Why not? And as for surprises, well I promise you that no one will be as surprised as me that I am turning as old as I am. In any event, I hope by then that I have had so much Botox that I will look surprised no matter what.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Mistaken Identities
Halloween night in NYC is just terrific. I don't know why I never noticed before. I suppose it is because I have pretty much skipped active participation in the downtown scene since I moved here from Los Angeles. Halloween in West Hollywood used to be fun, but then it became overwhelmed by people in plain clothes gawking and no one dressed up so much anymore. I blame my dear friend (and long-standing addiction) television for turning us into a nation of lookers instead of doers.
I was most looking forward to Halloween night at my house in the suburbs. We took the night off from the show and finally I had a house in a neighborhood where I could decorate the yard and pass out candy to little kids in cute costumes. I sat there in my cowboy outfit for three hours waiting for a little more than a dozen kids to show up. I had been concerned I wouldn't have enough candy but after I waited an hour for the next batch of kids to come, I instituted a mandatory "take as much as you want" policy lest I get stuck eating my weight in Reese's peanut butter cups and fun size Kit Kat bars. As it was, I powered through at least ten pieces while waiting for the doorbell to ring.
At 8pm I said so long to suburbia and packed up my cowboy hat and duster and headed down to New York City. The train was filled with locals in costume and when it pulled into Grand Central Station suddenly it was like I had arrived at the party. Maybe it was because it was so unseasonably warm or because the holiday landed on a Friday or because the economy is so bad that everyone was desperate for something to take their minds off the misery, but it felt like the entire city had gone all out for the occasion.
I joined Matty and his adorable boyfriend Hanno at Joe's apartment, where the ex-Navy man managed to outfit the cute couple as well as himself and straight girl counterpart Erica in his leftover gear. Matty in a trim khaki suit, Hanno in fatigues, Joe in crisp dress blues and Erica in his dress shirt belted with black leggings. I told her she looked like a stripper. "I look like Pamela Anderson when she married Tommy Lee," she replied. I assured her that that was what I meant.
We cooled our heels at Joe's for a while, consuming champagne, and waiting for others to show up so we could move on to Josh and Chris' party a few blocks away. Finally two girls showed up dressed as an Olsen twin and Amy Winehouse and we ran off into the night. As we sojourned from Chelsea to the West Village, the streets were clogged with revelers, all dressed up with somewhere to go. The Maritime hotel overflowed with Asian flappers and the sidewalks were jammed with all manner of pop culture touchstone.
Outside of the party we ran into playwright Robert Harling who was just leaving, as well as a cute guy dressed as a riff on the woman who claimed someone carved a B in her face, although he had an MJ on his face which had to be laboriously explained to everyone who wasn't dyslexic. This is the trouble with a clever costume. Half the time no one knows what it is, and the other half think it is something else entirely. At Best Week Ever today, Michelle Collins showed up with a crazy wig dressed as Peg Bundy but was instantly mistaken for The Real Housewives Of Atlanta. It's an even bigger problem working in a pop culture crucible because your references have to be so of the moment they are practically predictions of the future.
Inside, it was a very typical gay party. There were four extremely hot shirtless guys in tight football pants dry humping each other, sloppy drunken dancing in the living room to Britney's "Womanizer" and the kitchen was so densely packed it's a wonder the more waifish guests weren't spontaneously expelled from the room like champagne corks every few minutes due to the mounting pressures. Josh and Chris were terrific and welcoming hosts though I spent most of the evening with Joe's girls, not knowing anyone else and being self conscious about what my cowboy hat had done to my hair.
I had really wanted to go to Ronnie's Halloween benefit or even the party that Brian Babst ran off to figuring that me in a cowboy costume might finally be the nudge he needs to make out with me in public. But by the time we got settled it was already too late for me to make it to a third location before the drunk train home. So I settled in to a steady diet of candy corn and cupcakes while trying to avoid all human contact. I danced a little. We escaped briefly upstairs to Mike's apartment (which we called the VIP room). And even capped off the evening on the rooftop deck. The night was cool and still fifty feet above the West Village and if a very drunk and tall Marilyn hadn't stumbled out to smoke, you might almost forget it was Halloween.
I left Matty and Hanno at the party and walked Joe back to his place. Joe's girls had long since departed for a straight bar because quite frankly they hadn't all dressed so slutty and frozen their asses off all night just to go home alone. Joe was so drunk he barely made it down the stairs to the street, let alone the ten blocks back to his place. Earlier at his apartment he had reminded me that we met some weeks ago at Eric's party but in typical fashion I had forgotten. My mind was on other things and another person that night. I tried to look at him there on the street, passing Ugly Betties and a Sarah Palin eating a hot dog, to see if I could conjure a hint of recognition.
As I passed a long sea of sexy kittens and naughty nurses, I thought about how difficult it would be to get my swollen feet out of my boots later after walking all the way back to Grand Central. They may have been made for walking but probably not for a mile or two over concrete. True, my very authentic cowboy drag (happily bought in Dallas, sadly made in China) did get a few catcalls from women and a nice "you look so Brokeback, I love it" from Matty, but it was hardly my only costume of the night. I have been in the same masquerade for months now, putting a happy mask over the man with the broken heart. And as fun as this holiday is, it just isn't the same alone.
I was most looking forward to Halloween night at my house in the suburbs. We took the night off from the show and finally I had a house in a neighborhood where I could decorate the yard and pass out candy to little kids in cute costumes. I sat there in my cowboy outfit for three hours waiting for a little more than a dozen kids to show up. I had been concerned I wouldn't have enough candy but after I waited an hour for the next batch of kids to come, I instituted a mandatory "take as much as you want" policy lest I get stuck eating my weight in Reese's peanut butter cups and fun size Kit Kat bars. As it was, I powered through at least ten pieces while waiting for the doorbell to ring.
At 8pm I said so long to suburbia and packed up my cowboy hat and duster and headed down to New York City. The train was filled with locals in costume and when it pulled into Grand Central Station suddenly it was like I had arrived at the party. Maybe it was because it was so unseasonably warm or because the holiday landed on a Friday or because the economy is so bad that everyone was desperate for something to take their minds off the misery, but it felt like the entire city had gone all out for the occasion.
I joined Matty and his adorable boyfriend Hanno at Joe's apartment, where the ex-Navy man managed to outfit the cute couple as well as himself and straight girl counterpart Erica in his leftover gear. Matty in a trim khaki suit, Hanno in fatigues, Joe in crisp dress blues and Erica in his dress shirt belted with black leggings. I told her she looked like a stripper. "I look like Pamela Anderson when she married Tommy Lee," she replied. I assured her that that was what I meant.
We cooled our heels at Joe's for a while, consuming champagne, and waiting for others to show up so we could move on to Josh and Chris' party a few blocks away. Finally two girls showed up dressed as an Olsen twin and Amy Winehouse and we ran off into the night. As we sojourned from Chelsea to the West Village, the streets were clogged with revelers, all dressed up with somewhere to go. The Maritime hotel overflowed with Asian flappers and the sidewalks were jammed with all manner of pop culture touchstone.
Outside of the party we ran into playwright Robert Harling who was just leaving, as well as a cute guy dressed as a riff on the woman who claimed someone carved a B in her face, although he had an MJ on his face which had to be laboriously explained to everyone who wasn't dyslexic. This is the trouble with a clever costume. Half the time no one knows what it is, and the other half think it is something else entirely. At Best Week Ever today, Michelle Collins showed up with a crazy wig dressed as Peg Bundy but was instantly mistaken for The Real Housewives Of Atlanta. It's an even bigger problem working in a pop culture crucible because your references have to be so of the moment they are practically predictions of the future.
Inside, it was a very typical gay party. There were four extremely hot shirtless guys in tight football pants dry humping each other, sloppy drunken dancing in the living room to Britney's "Womanizer" and the kitchen was so densely packed it's a wonder the more waifish guests weren't spontaneously expelled from the room like champagne corks every few minutes due to the mounting pressures. Josh and Chris were terrific and welcoming hosts though I spent most of the evening with Joe's girls, not knowing anyone else and being self conscious about what my cowboy hat had done to my hair.
I had really wanted to go to Ronnie's Halloween benefit or even the party that Brian Babst ran off to figuring that me in a cowboy costume might finally be the nudge he needs to make out with me in public. But by the time we got settled it was already too late for me to make it to a third location before the drunk train home. So I settled in to a steady diet of candy corn and cupcakes while trying to avoid all human contact. I danced a little. We escaped briefly upstairs to Mike's apartment (which we called the VIP room). And even capped off the evening on the rooftop deck. The night was cool and still fifty feet above the West Village and if a very drunk and tall Marilyn hadn't stumbled out to smoke, you might almost forget it was Halloween.
I left Matty and Hanno at the party and walked Joe back to his place. Joe's girls had long since departed for a straight bar because quite frankly they hadn't all dressed so slutty and frozen their asses off all night just to go home alone. Joe was so drunk he barely made it down the stairs to the street, let alone the ten blocks back to his place. Earlier at his apartment he had reminded me that we met some weeks ago at Eric's party but in typical fashion I had forgotten. My mind was on other things and another person that night. I tried to look at him there on the street, passing Ugly Betties and a Sarah Palin eating a hot dog, to see if I could conjure a hint of recognition.
As I passed a long sea of sexy kittens and naughty nurses, I thought about how difficult it would be to get my swollen feet out of my boots later after walking all the way back to Grand Central. They may have been made for walking but probably not for a mile or two over concrete. True, my very authentic cowboy drag (happily bought in Dallas, sadly made in China) did get a few catcalls from women and a nice "you look so Brokeback, I love it" from Matty, but it was hardly my only costume of the night. I have been in the same masquerade for months now, putting a happy mask over the man with the broken heart. And as fun as this holiday is, it just isn't the same alone.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Garden State
I think that my Dad thinks the Olive Garden is a fancy New York restaurant. Whenever he comes to town, it is where we go to dinner because I love it there. But I don’t think they have them in Utah so I assume it’s a uniquely Manhattan experience to him. That is fine by me. Personally, I see the Olive Garden as a special kind of Americana kitsch. True it has all the homey warmth of a lit can of Sterno, but the bottomless salad is like crack and who doesn’t love an overly salty warm breadstick.
As I travel through life, professing my deep and abiding love for The Olive Garden, I have discovered other unlikely devotees along the way. Michelle Collins was really the first and she is my core Garden demographic. I know that she is always ready at a moment’s notice to split a salad over a couple of strawberry frescos. And the last time we went, she didn’t miss a beat when I walked out with a breadstick in my mouth.
Over July 4th weekend on Kevin and Christopher’s island, we picked up more of them. It was as if we ran a giant alfredo-scented lint roller over the island and chain restaurant loving gays adhered themselves to it en masse. So we planned an island reunion of sorts to commence as soon as possible at our favorite tacky Italian restaurant. Michelle is moments away from a month long adventure in Israel so the clock was ticking. After an abortive effort last week, our new Garden party descended on Times Square tonight in full force.
Joining me and Michelle were original Jonathan who bonded with Michelle on the bus ride over to the island, as well as Kevin and Adam Jay. Kevin joined me at the studio beforehand for a quick tour and then we walked the long two blocks to join the others upstairs. When we arrived, Adam mentioned some other island veterans might drop by but really it was just the five of us for dinner. They seated us in a big round corner table in back which at first seemed like heaven. But moments after sitting down, Michelle realized that the nuclear glow of the M&Ms sign in her eye line was certain to spark the kind of seizure usually reserved for viewers of Anime and the dulcet tones of Entertainment Tonight’s resident siren Mary Hart. She switched seats and then we were all off to the comedy races.
The witting banter flew at a lightning pace, frequently outdone by the kinds of offensive statements you don’t want easily overheard by traumatized tourists one table over. The surprise island veteran was none other than blonde venus Hannah Waddington, looking svelte and gorgeous. I tried to entice her with a free breadstick but they were off to join others for dinner at a real restaurant instead. Hannah is statuesque and while I would love any excuse to hang out with her again, I have to assume that the allure of The Olive Garden doesn’t easily translate across the pond.
After our fantastic dinner, we tried to find a local watering hole for a final night cap before I ran off for my late train. We finally settled in a very chic lounge on the second floor of a Times Square boutique hotel. If the place hadn’t been so deserted we might have felt horribly underdressed and out of place. Plus it was intensely jarring to leave the processed cheese product slickness of The Olive Garden for the modern chic of a midtown Manhattan hotel, but Michelle with her Century 21 shopping bag and Garden take out container charged up to the bar and ordered our drinks anyway. After all, we may have looked and (after almost two hours inside the Olive Garden) smelled like tourists, on the inside we know we are New Yorkers. And as such, we know, we belong anywhere we want to go. Because when you are Manhattan, you’re family.
As I travel through life, professing my deep and abiding love for The Olive Garden, I have discovered other unlikely devotees along the way. Michelle Collins was really the first and she is my core Garden demographic. I know that she is always ready at a moment’s notice to split a salad over a couple of strawberry frescos. And the last time we went, she didn’t miss a beat when I walked out with a breadstick in my mouth.
Over July 4th weekend on Kevin and Christopher’s island, we picked up more of them. It was as if we ran a giant alfredo-scented lint roller over the island and chain restaurant loving gays adhered themselves to it en masse. So we planned an island reunion of sorts to commence as soon as possible at our favorite tacky Italian restaurant. Michelle is moments away from a month long adventure in Israel so the clock was ticking. After an abortive effort last week, our new Garden party descended on Times Square tonight in full force.
Joining me and Michelle were original Jonathan who bonded with Michelle on the bus ride over to the island, as well as Kevin and Adam Jay. Kevin joined me at the studio beforehand for a quick tour and then we walked the long two blocks to join the others upstairs. When we arrived, Adam mentioned some other island veterans might drop by but really it was just the five of us for dinner. They seated us in a big round corner table in back which at first seemed like heaven. But moments after sitting down, Michelle realized that the nuclear glow of the M&Ms sign in her eye line was certain to spark the kind of seizure usually reserved for viewers of Anime and the dulcet tones of Entertainment Tonight’s resident siren Mary Hart. She switched seats and then we were all off to the comedy races.
The witting banter flew at a lightning pace, frequently outdone by the kinds of offensive statements you don’t want easily overheard by traumatized tourists one table over. The surprise island veteran was none other than blonde venus Hannah Waddington, looking svelte and gorgeous. I tried to entice her with a free breadstick but they were off to join others for dinner at a real restaurant instead. Hannah is statuesque and while I would love any excuse to hang out with her again, I have to assume that the allure of The Olive Garden doesn’t easily translate across the pond.
After our fantastic dinner, we tried to find a local watering hole for a final night cap before I ran off for my late train. We finally settled in a very chic lounge on the second floor of a Times Square boutique hotel. If the place hadn’t been so deserted we might have felt horribly underdressed and out of place. Plus it was intensely jarring to leave the processed cheese product slickness of The Olive Garden for the modern chic of a midtown Manhattan hotel, but Michelle with her Century 21 shopping bag and Garden take out container charged up to the bar and ordered our drinks anyway. After all, we may have looked and (after almost two hours inside the Olive Garden) smelled like tourists, on the inside we know we are New Yorkers. And as such, we know, we belong anywhere we want to go. Because when you are Manhattan, you’re family.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Layer Cake
Some places have so many memories in them; it practically chokes you to be near them. Manhattan is getting like this for me. I’ve been in the city for seven and a half years now and the island is awash in memories and flashes from the past. Tonight I headed downtown after the show to Comix to see Michelle Collins on her birthday, and the journey ended up being more like a trip back through time.
I first met Michelle after she blew the doors off PS122, a performance space downtown where Michelle did stand up in something called the WYSIWYG Talent Show, where bloggers get up and read from their blogs. I ended up doing the Talent Show twice myself, once doing a set of truly libelous celebrity stories in front of three people that killed and then later true tales of extreme drunkenness which ended up as the “live” season finale of my video podcast “The So Real Life” as well as the unofficial end of the WYSIWYG Talent Show. But Michelle endures, adding hilarity to our radio show, trips to the Olive Garden and most recently July 4th on Kevin and Christopher’s island.
I love Michelle so it was a given that I would abandon my usual early train home for a not-so quiet drink with her in Chelsea. I took the subway down and now that I live upstate and no longer take the subway, the experience was a revelation for me. I had forgotten the evil efficiency of the subway platform to retain all the cold of winter and all the heat of summer. The train deposited me on 13th Street at 7th Avenue and I walked across 13th toward the comedy club. Along the way I passed the Gay Center, where I ran into Cory out front when I was there to cheer Chip Arndt on when the AIDS Ride returned last fall. Cory, so full of Iowa goodness, who unwittingly helped me through my darkest hour two summers ago with a simple greeting at Therapy. Then it was on past the triangle shaped park that Dan and I walked around endlessly one sunny afternoon while very politely breaking up during the Pride Garden Party, June 2001.
Happily, I had never been to Comix so the ghosts of hot gay men past could not follow me in. True, Hell’s heavy gate was just around the corner, but not close enough to get me this time. Michelle looked beautiful, made up for the stage and wound up like a top. A whirling dervish, she spun fluidly from social friends to college friends to work friends, stopping only long enough to get a genuinely tasty margarita at the bar. As one of her friends pointed out, “The best five dollar drink in town.” I hate margaritas generally but on this one I am forced to agree.
While Michelle bounced back and forth, introducing me with unrealistically lavish praise, from friend “Red Eye” to comic “hilarious” to spouse “MoveOn.org,” my eye kept wandering over to the devastated pile of cake sitting in the middle of the center table. It looked like one of those houses that recently floated down the Mississippi out of Iowa and got stuck up against a metal train bridge. Every time Michelle left me alone for a split second, my fingers dove into the cake for another tiny wedge. “That was my last piece” I kept telling myself while simultaneously reaching in for just one more. I think I might be an addict. But the cake was very good. As usual, the frosting was just too sweet and much for me, but the cake was the real deal.
I couldn’t stay long. I wanted to take the midnight train home and I knew there would be a pile of other memories waiting for me along the way. The pizza place on 14th street where I tried to get a slice for Chi Chi La Rue and failed. Up near Times Square, my old Starbucks near my office at 1440 Broadway, where Tim and I finally made our peace, such as it is. The Mr. Softee truck by Bryant Park where I had to stop for a cone, like I always do. And finally the steps of the New York Public Library, where Dan and I first met, that warm spring day. I was just new to New York and in those glorious months before 9/11 the city was filled with all of the promise of a Sex And The City episode. And there under the watchful eye of the Chrysler Building, leaned up against the stone lion, my first Manhattan crush.
My cone finished, and my journey nearly ended, I wandered into Grand Central Station, as I have a 1000 times before. I used to walk through Grand Central on my way to work, thrilling to the sounds of that woman with the haunting voice who used to sing “Summertime” echoing through the hall. I still get a chill thinking about it. But there is also sadness for me there too. I can’t go down the West corridor without thinking of the horrible dark night Jonathan broke his cell phone. So many memories, rushing around me there, like the magical moment of dancing in The Fisher King.
And then the train home. I wish it was an escape, a way to wash clean those old memories in the calm waters of the Hudson River and start anew in the morning. But the memories, while triggered by places, don’t reside there. Good and bad, you can’t escape them, because they live inside you. And every day in the city is filled with the promise of new memories just waiting to be made. The memories layer, like Michelle’s collapsing birthday cake, mushing into each other, flavors you like on top of ones you don’t. Together a complete taste and experience, and sometimes, just a little too much.
I first met Michelle after she blew the doors off PS122, a performance space downtown where Michelle did stand up in something called the WYSIWYG Talent Show, where bloggers get up and read from their blogs. I ended up doing the Talent Show twice myself, once doing a set of truly libelous celebrity stories in front of three people that killed and then later true tales of extreme drunkenness which ended up as the “live” season finale of my video podcast “The So Real Life” as well as the unofficial end of the WYSIWYG Talent Show. But Michelle endures, adding hilarity to our radio show, trips to the Olive Garden and most recently July 4th on Kevin and Christopher’s island.
I love Michelle so it was a given that I would abandon my usual early train home for a not-so quiet drink with her in Chelsea. I took the subway down and now that I live upstate and no longer take the subway, the experience was a revelation for me. I had forgotten the evil efficiency of the subway platform to retain all the cold of winter and all the heat of summer. The train deposited me on 13th Street at 7th Avenue and I walked across 13th toward the comedy club. Along the way I passed the Gay Center, where I ran into Cory out front when I was there to cheer Chip Arndt on when the AIDS Ride returned last fall. Cory, so full of Iowa goodness, who unwittingly helped me through my darkest hour two summers ago with a simple greeting at Therapy. Then it was on past the triangle shaped park that Dan and I walked around endlessly one sunny afternoon while very politely breaking up during the Pride Garden Party, June 2001.
Happily, I had never been to Comix so the ghosts of hot gay men past could not follow me in. True, Hell’s heavy gate was just around the corner, but not close enough to get me this time. Michelle looked beautiful, made up for the stage and wound up like a top. A whirling dervish, she spun fluidly from social friends to college friends to work friends, stopping only long enough to get a genuinely tasty margarita at the bar. As one of her friends pointed out, “The best five dollar drink in town.” I hate margaritas generally but on this one I am forced to agree.
While Michelle bounced back and forth, introducing me with unrealistically lavish praise, from friend “Red Eye” to comic “hilarious” to spouse “MoveOn.org,” my eye kept wandering over to the devastated pile of cake sitting in the middle of the center table. It looked like one of those houses that recently floated down the Mississippi out of Iowa and got stuck up against a metal train bridge. Every time Michelle left me alone for a split second, my fingers dove into the cake for another tiny wedge. “That was my last piece” I kept telling myself while simultaneously reaching in for just one more. I think I might be an addict. But the cake was very good. As usual, the frosting was just too sweet and much for me, but the cake was the real deal.
I couldn’t stay long. I wanted to take the midnight train home and I knew there would be a pile of other memories waiting for me along the way. The pizza place on 14th street where I tried to get a slice for Chi Chi La Rue and failed. Up near Times Square, my old Starbucks near my office at 1440 Broadway, where Tim and I finally made our peace, such as it is. The Mr. Softee truck by Bryant Park where I had to stop for a cone, like I always do. And finally the steps of the New York Public Library, where Dan and I first met, that warm spring day. I was just new to New York and in those glorious months before 9/11 the city was filled with all of the promise of a Sex And The City episode. And there under the watchful eye of the Chrysler Building, leaned up against the stone lion, my first Manhattan crush.
My cone finished, and my journey nearly ended, I wandered into Grand Central Station, as I have a 1000 times before. I used to walk through Grand Central on my way to work, thrilling to the sounds of that woman with the haunting voice who used to sing “Summertime” echoing through the hall. I still get a chill thinking about it. But there is also sadness for me there too. I can’t go down the West corridor without thinking of the horrible dark night Jonathan broke his cell phone. So many memories, rushing around me there, like the magical moment of dancing in The Fisher King.
And then the train home. I wish it was an escape, a way to wash clean those old memories in the calm waters of the Hudson River and start anew in the morning. But the memories, while triggered by places, don’t reside there. Good and bad, you can’t escape them, because they live inside you. And every day in the city is filled with the promise of new memories just waiting to be made. The memories layer, like Michelle’s collapsing birthday cake, mushing into each other, flavors you like on top of ones you don’t. Together a complete taste and experience, and sometimes, just a little too much.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
The 4th Dimension
Things are rarely better the second time around, but Tamarack Island is the exception to the rule. I was last there over Memorial Day, invited by Kevin and Christopher, even though Kevin was busy lifting swings over his head. This is a Broadway-related happenstance apparently, the kind of occupational hazard that comes with touring in Spamalot. A few weeks ago, all the swings were on stage for a single performance leading to a concern that soon they would need to draft ushers and concession attendants or worse, me, to join the cast. But all those problems were left behind on the shore and a short row boat ride later, we all succumbed to the quiet paradise of Tamarack.
Roommate and I made the long journey out to New Jersey on July 4th with a firm set of goals, to be completed even before we reached the party. We hadn't even left town before we failed at the first one. Mike wanted some coffee but as fate would have it, our local coffee house closed early for the holiday, quite literally in his face. We would get coffee along the way, I promised, along with gas for the car (usually as much as fifty cents cheaper than it is at home) and much to my delight, the new Girl Scout Thin Mint Blizzard at Dairy Queen! I saw an ad for it flash across the screen during the show one night last week as the silent TV in the background was tuned to CNN. After I jumped out of my chair, seizing my chest and throwing myself against the glass wall of the studio, for a moment Romaine thought the world had blown up.
We finally happened upon a Dunkin Donuts in New Jersey, much to the chagrin of the evil calorie counting GPS system that implored us to turn around immediately. I ignored his bland tones and had a Bavarian Cream Fill and a nice French Cruller. Then, as we were leaving, casually drove the long way out so we could get a better look at the hot guy helping his mother with her groceries on the other side of the parking lot. Such a nice boy! Moments later, covered in powdered sugar, I pulled into the Dairy Queen parking lot like I was driving an ambulance to the scene of a horrible accident. Inside they offered up all the old tyme ice cream favorites and even a few new delights I was dying to try, but I stuck to my guns and got what I came for. Fat.
Within minutes, most of my Blizzard was gone along with all of my dignity as we pulled up to the dock. I was a little nervous because along with Mike, I had invited some other friends along to the party. Kevin and Christopher insisted it would be fine, but I brought another bottle of vodka just in case. The friends I had invited joined other friends of the hosts in a bus they chartered to take them from the city. Mark, a handsome massage therapist and regular David Coleman party veteran, spoke with a few people on the bus but mostly read his book. I asked the original Jonathan who was also coming to be on the lookout for Michelle Collins since she said she might be five minutes late so he waited near the front for her arrival. Apparently, it was love at first sight and the two landed at Tamarack an hour later as inseparable best friends forever, like kids on their way to summer camp.
Christopher dispatched Logan to come row us over from the mainland. Logan, the fifteen year old heart breaker from the last party was mercifully less desirable in a polo shirt and sans sunglasses. Although, as his youthful vigor powered us across the lake as effortlessly as one might pull a Kleenex from the box, I had to keep muttering the words "fifteen... fifteen" over and over in my head. Once on the island, I reunited with Kevin and Christopher and all my invited guests and settled in for a good time. The previous party had been centered at the main house but this one was in full swing as we arrived at the guest house. The booze was flowing like everyone already had their next liver lined up. The earlier rain had dissipated and even though it wasn't sunny per se, it was still a perfect day.
The usual Broadway crowd was there, many of them holdovers from Memorial Day. Some of them were so comfortably drunk when we arrived that I wondered if they had ever left. I kept assuring Michelle throughout the party that at any moment it was certain to burst into song. She couldn't wait. I insisted that if she walked into the house, turned off the stereo and hit the middle C on the piano, the crowd would take care of the rest. It never came to that. Rachel, who had been so helpful in naming "Hole-y Board" "glory hole" last time, kept us all in stitches with her rendition of a tone deaf Broadway hopeful nervously auditioning and breaking down in mid-song. Many cocktails later, Christopher dueted with Michelle and for a moment I thought she might just collapse into a hopeless puddle in the middle of the living room.
Mark wanted to take a swim and I decided to join him. I had been dreading being seen in a bathing suit at a gay party all month (Hell, my whole life) but it was such a nice welcoming crowd I figured they wouldn't notice and if they did they would probably be too drunk to remember. It didn't help that insanely adorable little Joel with his perfect 90 pounds of zero body fat toned yumminess was already down there splashing around with the kids. Mark and I changed into our suits and headed down to the water. The lake was wonderful, just the right temperature. And I remembered as I came up for air after my first dive and looked over at the kids playing on the platform in the middle of the lake that I hadn't been swimming in a lake in 20 years. Not since Nanny and Poppy took me out to the lake they used to summer on when my mother was a kid. Suddenly I was eighteen, feeling the warm silt squish between my toes like it was the first time all over again.
Meanwhile on shore, Mike and Jonathan and Michelle got into a heated game of Holey Board (renamed this time as "cock rings and glory holes") with Logan, for whom Michelle more appropriately shared our inappropriate desire. And to be fair, at the party he was the perfect man: simultaneously handsome and feverishly anxious to make sure you never ran out of drinks. Turns out Jonathan is as sore a winner as I am, and things got a little heated but soon hot dogs from the grill and more cocktails from Logan made it all better again.
As the sun went down, a rumor of fireworks on the lake circulated through the party. The hours of food, merriment and mostly drink had started to take its toll. Mark, now drunk and swirling away in the hammock, decided that he wanted to watch the fireworks from on the lake. So, we borrowed the orange paddle boat and the two of us paddled out to the middle of the lake. It was so still and lovely on the lake, truly a perfect night. And there, mere feet away from us, the rockets fired off and exploded over our heads. It was magical. It was amazing. It was perfect. Behind us, the drunken party goers cheered and inside the boat the warmth of the night, the delight of the show, enveloped us.
And isn't that just the problem with life. It seems like just at the moment that you get used to how perfect something can be, the moment is over and it is time for the next thing. Minutes after we returned to the island from our paddling adventure, the daunting task of pouring the drunks out of the party into little row boats and then into the bus back to the city began in earnest. Christopher herded Mark, Michelle, Jonathan and the others out with the kind of ambition that wins elections, no doubt born of the past experience of waking up to find a heretofore unknown party guest passed out in the bushes and in need of a way back to civilization.
After most of the guests were safely on their way back to that other, less interesting island Manhattan, we settled into a more subdued but no less delightful party coda with Kevin and Christopher. Their work done, the teens decided it was time to swim, so off they went. Moments later, they returned dripping wet and nearly naked. I suppose I should applaud the kind of progress we have made that allows hot straight teen boys to feel comfortable enough in a room full of gay men to parade around in a wet bathing suit so low slung that it leaves nothing to the imagination, but at the risk of once again betraying my gay brethren, I wish they hadn't. Especially that scruffy blond one with the hot, sweet girlfriend. Him especially. All I could hear in my head when he walked back in from the lake was "There's sweet tea on the counter. I just have to put this laundry in the washer and I'll be right out."
Soon enough it was way past time for us to leave. Logan was off somewhere being half naked and handsome so Kevin offered to row us back to shore. It was probably for the best. I think if Logan had taken us back shirtless he would have only asked why I was crying the whole time and I just don't feel emotionally centered enough to tell him why. The ride home was an eventful adventure through every imaginable weather hazard including blinding rain and fog, sometimes at the same time. That seemed particularly fitting. Visiting the island is magical but it is a distinct place and time, far removed from the real world and I suppose not unlike Fantasy Island, with a lesson or two to be learned along the way. It isn't just tropical drinks and welcomes by the dock. It is also an opportunity for a little personal growth and adventure, and yes, even errands. Today Mike noticed how clean the car was after the torrential downpour on the way home from New Jersey. "Now we don't need to get the car washed." Another problem solved, another desire fulfilled, all in a day at Tamarack.
Roommate and I made the long journey out to New Jersey on July 4th with a firm set of goals, to be completed even before we reached the party. We hadn't even left town before we failed at the first one. Mike wanted some coffee but as fate would have it, our local coffee house closed early for the holiday, quite literally in his face. We would get coffee along the way, I promised, along with gas for the car (usually as much as fifty cents cheaper than it is at home) and much to my delight, the new Girl Scout Thin Mint Blizzard at Dairy Queen! I saw an ad for it flash across the screen during the show one night last week as the silent TV in the background was tuned to CNN. After I jumped out of my chair, seizing my chest and throwing myself against the glass wall of the studio, for a moment Romaine thought the world had blown up.
We finally happened upon a Dunkin Donuts in New Jersey, much to the chagrin of the evil calorie counting GPS system that implored us to turn around immediately. I ignored his bland tones and had a Bavarian Cream Fill and a nice French Cruller. Then, as we were leaving, casually drove the long way out so we could get a better look at the hot guy helping his mother with her groceries on the other side of the parking lot. Such a nice boy! Moments later, covered in powdered sugar, I pulled into the Dairy Queen parking lot like I was driving an ambulance to the scene of a horrible accident. Inside they offered up all the old tyme ice cream favorites and even a few new delights I was dying to try, but I stuck to my guns and got what I came for. Fat.
Within minutes, most of my Blizzard was gone along with all of my dignity as we pulled up to the dock. I was a little nervous because along with Mike, I had invited some other friends along to the party. Kevin and Christopher insisted it would be fine, but I brought another bottle of vodka just in case. The friends I had invited joined other friends of the hosts in a bus they chartered to take them from the city. Mark, a handsome massage therapist and regular David Coleman party veteran, spoke with a few people on the bus but mostly read his book. I asked the original Jonathan who was also coming to be on the lookout for Michelle Collins since she said she might be five minutes late so he waited near the front for her arrival. Apparently, it was love at first sight and the two landed at Tamarack an hour later as inseparable best friends forever, like kids on their way to summer camp.
Christopher dispatched Logan to come row us over from the mainland. Logan, the fifteen year old heart breaker from the last party was mercifully less desirable in a polo shirt and sans sunglasses. Although, as his youthful vigor powered us across the lake as effortlessly as one might pull a Kleenex from the box, I had to keep muttering the words "fifteen... fifteen" over and over in my head. Once on the island, I reunited with Kevin and Christopher and all my invited guests and settled in for a good time. The previous party had been centered at the main house but this one was in full swing as we arrived at the guest house. The booze was flowing like everyone already had their next liver lined up. The earlier rain had dissipated and even though it wasn't sunny per se, it was still a perfect day.
The usual Broadway crowd was there, many of them holdovers from Memorial Day. Some of them were so comfortably drunk when we arrived that I wondered if they had ever left. I kept assuring Michelle throughout the party that at any moment it was certain to burst into song. She couldn't wait. I insisted that if she walked into the house, turned off the stereo and hit the middle C on the piano, the crowd would take care of the rest. It never came to that. Rachel, who had been so helpful in naming "Hole-y Board" "glory hole" last time, kept us all in stitches with her rendition of a tone deaf Broadway hopeful nervously auditioning and breaking down in mid-song. Many cocktails later, Christopher dueted with Michelle and for a moment I thought she might just collapse into a hopeless puddle in the middle of the living room.
Mark wanted to take a swim and I decided to join him. I had been dreading being seen in a bathing suit at a gay party all month (Hell, my whole life) but it was such a nice welcoming crowd I figured they wouldn't notice and if they did they would probably be too drunk to remember. It didn't help that insanely adorable little Joel with his perfect 90 pounds of zero body fat toned yumminess was already down there splashing around with the kids. Mark and I changed into our suits and headed down to the water. The lake was wonderful, just the right temperature. And I remembered as I came up for air after my first dive and looked over at the kids playing on the platform in the middle of the lake that I hadn't been swimming in a lake in 20 years. Not since Nanny and Poppy took me out to the lake they used to summer on when my mother was a kid. Suddenly I was eighteen, feeling the warm silt squish between my toes like it was the first time all over again.
Meanwhile on shore, Mike and Jonathan and Michelle got into a heated game of Holey Board (renamed this time as "cock rings and glory holes") with Logan, for whom Michelle more appropriately shared our inappropriate desire. And to be fair, at the party he was the perfect man: simultaneously handsome and feverishly anxious to make sure you never ran out of drinks. Turns out Jonathan is as sore a winner as I am, and things got a little heated but soon hot dogs from the grill and more cocktails from Logan made it all better again.
As the sun went down, a rumor of fireworks on the lake circulated through the party. The hours of food, merriment and mostly drink had started to take its toll. Mark, now drunk and swirling away in the hammock, decided that he wanted to watch the fireworks from on the lake. So, we borrowed the orange paddle boat and the two of us paddled out to the middle of the lake. It was so still and lovely on the lake, truly a perfect night. And there, mere feet away from us, the rockets fired off and exploded over our heads. It was magical. It was amazing. It was perfect. Behind us, the drunken party goers cheered and inside the boat the warmth of the night, the delight of the show, enveloped us.
And isn't that just the problem with life. It seems like just at the moment that you get used to how perfect something can be, the moment is over and it is time for the next thing. Minutes after we returned to the island from our paddling adventure, the daunting task of pouring the drunks out of the party into little row boats and then into the bus back to the city began in earnest. Christopher herded Mark, Michelle, Jonathan and the others out with the kind of ambition that wins elections, no doubt born of the past experience of waking up to find a heretofore unknown party guest passed out in the bushes and in need of a way back to civilization.
After most of the guests were safely on their way back to that other, less interesting island Manhattan, we settled into a more subdued but no less delightful party coda with Kevin and Christopher. Their work done, the teens decided it was time to swim, so off they went. Moments later, they returned dripping wet and nearly naked. I suppose I should applaud the kind of progress we have made that allows hot straight teen boys to feel comfortable enough in a room full of gay men to parade around in a wet bathing suit so low slung that it leaves nothing to the imagination, but at the risk of once again betraying my gay brethren, I wish they hadn't. Especially that scruffy blond one with the hot, sweet girlfriend. Him especially. All I could hear in my head when he walked back in from the lake was "There's sweet tea on the counter. I just have to put this laundry in the washer and I'll be right out."
Soon enough it was way past time for us to leave. Logan was off somewhere being half naked and handsome so Kevin offered to row us back to shore. It was probably for the best. I think if Logan had taken us back shirtless he would have only asked why I was crying the whole time and I just don't feel emotionally centered enough to tell him why. The ride home was an eventful adventure through every imaginable weather hazard including blinding rain and fog, sometimes at the same time. That seemed particularly fitting. Visiting the island is magical but it is a distinct place and time, far removed from the real world and I suppose not unlike Fantasy Island, with a lesson or two to be learned along the way. It isn't just tropical drinks and welcomes by the dock. It is also an opportunity for a little personal growth and adventure, and yes, even errands. Today Mike noticed how clean the car was after the torrential downpour on the way home from New Jersey. "Now we don't need to get the car washed." Another problem solved, another desire fulfilled, all in a day at Tamarack.
Friday, November 9, 2007
I'll Take Manhattan
I never look at the weather before I leave the house. It’s a terrible habit I picked up while living in Los Angeles. In LA, the weather just never changes. Today’s weather report in Hell: 72 degrees and sunny, just like every other day. Sure, there are a couple of rainy days in January. But just looking out the window you can tell what the weather will be like for at least the next 48 hours. Besides, everyone drives. So even if it does rain, everyone has an umbrella (along with a sweatshirt and rollerblades) in the trunk just for emergencies. In fact, the flat line weather is such a cliché in Southern California that Steve Martin made it a significant plot point in L.A. Story. It is for this reason that I was caught unawares by the rain in Manhattan tonight on my way home.
Earlier in the day, when I was frantically tearing the house apart looking for my iPod so I could rip Britney’s terrific new CD into it, I noticed my umbrella sitting on the sideboard in my dining room. It came into focus as if a piece of crucial evidence in a Hitchcock movie: a folded newspaper on a motel room nightstand, the flicker of a lighter in a pair of eyeglasses, and now my umbrella lying dormant under a window, a cloudy sky foreshadowing in the background. But I ignored the umbrella to pursue my missing MP3 player. It turns out the iPod was in my backpack all along, right where my umbrella had been until I tossed it out after wearily carrying it around for two unpredictably dry months.
Today I wore my favorite grey wool coat that I picked up last fall at the Barney’s Warehouse Sale. It is a short, fitted jacket that makes me feel like one of the Von Trapp boys in The Sound of Music, my tribute to Gwen Stefani and her “Wind It Up” video. Unfortunately only an old sheep dog smells worse wet than a wool coat. So I ran as quickly as I could through the rain, Britney’s ridiculously hot “Toy Soldier” song urging me along, as I wove a delicate race between umbrella-carrying tourists and the dangerously slippery metal grates strewn about the sidewalks like land mines waiting to fell the unsuspecting with their cruel slickness. Diagram that sentence, bitch!
Britney and Los Angeles were both on my mind as I ran from Rockefeller Center to Grand Central Station. Earlier in the day, Michelle Collins emailed me to let me know that she had quoted me on her Best Week Ever blog. Yesterday on the show, she was raving about Britney’s new album, although with the caveat that it was processed to the point that on some of the songs she sounds like Gwen Stefani. After hearing “Toy Soldier,” I said that it was as “processed as a Kraft single.” Michelle couldn’t believe that I made it up in the moment and expounded on the theory (even further in her blog entry about it), perfecting it for the audience. Her rabid enthusiasm drew me to the Virgin Megastore after the show last night to experience Britney’s collective Blackout for myself. And Michelle is right. It is good. Arguably, the best Britney album ever, especially given how utterly shitty most of her work is.
I will be in Britney’s adopted town of Los Angeles this weekend. I read on PerezHilton.com that she has a new Mercedes SUV, which is good to know. If I see one coming, I will pull over immediately, like when an ambulance is going by. I am in town for my high school reunion. It’s been just over twenty years since I walked out of that school for the last time. It is strange for me to be going back this week since it is also the twentieth anniversary of my lost virginity. What does one give as a gift for that anniversary? A shop-worn, empty box?
All I really care about is looking better than everyone else who comes to the reunion, which is the only reason to go. I remember Cindy Crawford bringing her House of Style crew to her ten year high school reunion and thinking that there is no finer revenge, or better use of a television crew. No doubt her former classmates ran around telling everyone what good friends they had been with the supermodel, only to have those lies ripped to shreds right there on TV for everyone to see. Cindy confronted all of the popular girls who had been so mean to her, and cornered the boys who had refused to ask her out. And she killed them with kindness, a brand of torture porn the makers of the Saw movies could only aspire to. People were more relaxed at the Nuremburg trials. Cindy is my hero.
I don’t have a camera crew to follow me around, nor do I have a TV show. It is unlikely that anyone in my suburban LA high school would be impressed with my lowly satellite radio career. It’s not like I am in the movies or something, as most of them doubtlessly are, even if it is below the line. Then again, I still look pretty good for my age, mostly the product of vanity, no kids, and lots of product. I have a cute suit to wear and I am approximately the same weight I was in high school. Unfortunately, there isn’t anyone from my school that I care to torment. I wouldn’t mind seeing the guy I lost my virginity to. And our pompous class president. Neither of them came to the ten year reunion. Oh well. At least I will get a meal out of it, and a long weekend in Los Angeles. I hope it doesn’t rain though. I already packed nothing but shorts and t-shirts, and true to form, I didn’t bother to check the weather.
Earlier in the day, when I was frantically tearing the house apart looking for my iPod so I could rip Britney’s terrific new CD into it, I noticed my umbrella sitting on the sideboard in my dining room. It came into focus as if a piece of crucial evidence in a Hitchcock movie: a folded newspaper on a motel room nightstand, the flicker of a lighter in a pair of eyeglasses, and now my umbrella lying dormant under a window, a cloudy sky foreshadowing in the background. But I ignored the umbrella to pursue my missing MP3 player. It turns out the iPod was in my backpack all along, right where my umbrella had been until I tossed it out after wearily carrying it around for two unpredictably dry months.
Today I wore my favorite grey wool coat that I picked up last fall at the Barney’s Warehouse Sale. It is a short, fitted jacket that makes me feel like one of the Von Trapp boys in The Sound of Music, my tribute to Gwen Stefani and her “Wind It Up” video. Unfortunately only an old sheep dog smells worse wet than a wool coat. So I ran as quickly as I could through the rain, Britney’s ridiculously hot “Toy Soldier” song urging me along, as I wove a delicate race between umbrella-carrying tourists and the dangerously slippery metal grates strewn about the sidewalks like land mines waiting to fell the unsuspecting with their cruel slickness. Diagram that sentence, bitch!
Britney and Los Angeles were both on my mind as I ran from Rockefeller Center to Grand Central Station. Earlier in the day, Michelle Collins emailed me to let me know that she had quoted me on her Best Week Ever blog. Yesterday on the show, she was raving about Britney’s new album, although with the caveat that it was processed to the point that on some of the songs she sounds like Gwen Stefani. After hearing “Toy Soldier,” I said that it was as “processed as a Kraft single.” Michelle couldn’t believe that I made it up in the moment and expounded on the theory (even further in her blog entry about it), perfecting it for the audience. Her rabid enthusiasm drew me to the Virgin Megastore after the show last night to experience Britney’s collective Blackout for myself. And Michelle is right. It is good. Arguably, the best Britney album ever, especially given how utterly shitty most of her work is.
I will be in Britney’s adopted town of Los Angeles this weekend. I read on PerezHilton.com that she has a new Mercedes SUV, which is good to know. If I see one coming, I will pull over immediately, like when an ambulance is going by. I am in town for my high school reunion. It’s been just over twenty years since I walked out of that school for the last time. It is strange for me to be going back this week since it is also the twentieth anniversary of my lost virginity. What does one give as a gift for that anniversary? A shop-worn, empty box?
All I really care about is looking better than everyone else who comes to the reunion, which is the only reason to go. I remember Cindy Crawford bringing her House of Style crew to her ten year high school reunion and thinking that there is no finer revenge, or better use of a television crew. No doubt her former classmates ran around telling everyone what good friends they had been with the supermodel, only to have those lies ripped to shreds right there on TV for everyone to see. Cindy confronted all of the popular girls who had been so mean to her, and cornered the boys who had refused to ask her out. And she killed them with kindness, a brand of torture porn the makers of the Saw movies could only aspire to. People were more relaxed at the Nuremburg trials. Cindy is my hero.
I don’t have a camera crew to follow me around, nor do I have a TV show. It is unlikely that anyone in my suburban LA high school would be impressed with my lowly satellite radio career. It’s not like I am in the movies or something, as most of them doubtlessly are, even if it is below the line. Then again, I still look pretty good for my age, mostly the product of vanity, no kids, and lots of product. I have a cute suit to wear and I am approximately the same weight I was in high school. Unfortunately, there isn’t anyone from my school that I care to torment. I wouldn’t mind seeing the guy I lost my virginity to. And our pompous class president. Neither of them came to the ten year reunion. Oh well. At least I will get a meal out of it, and a long weekend in Los Angeles. I hope it doesn’t rain though. I already packed nothing but shorts and t-shirts, and true to form, I didn’t bother to check the weather.
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