MYOB: Mind Your Own Botox

I really didn’t want to go out tonight. I got five hours of sleep last night, staying up late to catch the emotional and ultimately satisfying conclusion to this season of Project Runway. Unfortunately, I had to get up at the (for me) ungodly hour of 8am to try to get a parking ticket dismissed. I was unsuccessful, although the fine was essentially cut in half and I did get some good fodder for the show. But the fine wasn’t the only thing essentially cut in half when I got far less than my usual nine to ten hours of sleep.

My new sister Laura called me today and we both waxed poetic on our shared love of sleep. It is to what I attribute what little youthfulness I have left. Yes, I have turned my body over to science and I am always open to whatever crazy surgical options are out there, but my primary defense against aging is enormous amounts of sleep. It is why, when the original Jonathan started texting me during the show, I initially begged off his demands to hang out tonight.

I like going out with him, and he is right. We have finally gotten into a groove. So who am I to kill the momentum? But he does like to go out a LOT more than I do, mostly in his perpetually endless quest to get laid. I suppose what he really wants is a boyfriend, but Jonathan is in the prime of his life with a hot set of abs. He practically has a duty to the gay community to make himself frequently available in tight t-shirts for casual perusal and the occasional proposal. So I reluctantly agreed to give him five minutes at Therapy, which in my head was thirty minutes, and in his head was two hours with at least one round of shots included.

After the show, I tossed off my Digg.com hoodie and threw on my coat and raced out the door. Therapy is not far from my office and I know now to the minute how long it takes to walk from one to the other across the northern reaches of Times Square, even when Wicked or Mamma Mia is letting out along the way. Naturally, I was the first to arrive, and as always I was greeted with the up and down stares by the up and down stairs that are part and parcel with being the latest chunk of fresh meat to pass the threshold. The looks didn’t last long and I was able to mercifully return to anonymity while waiting for Jonathan to arrive with his posse.

He spotted me through the door and broke into a half-hearted trot like he was hurrying the whole time. Jonathan was hanging out for the evening with his friend Will, and had run into Mark and Rob along the way. That’s the nice thing about Hell’s Kitchen now. You can collect gays like lint on a roller as you walk around the corner from The Ritz or Vlada to Therapy. I barely spoke to Mark and Rob, but then again, I was only there for thirty minutes so it is disingenuous to say I really got to know anyone.

Jonathan spent most of my precious time there updating me on his current life situation. This is my kind of friend. After talking for four hours straight, it is so nice to hang out with someone who wants to talk about themselves for a few minutes. I wish I could say the same about Will, who was very tight-lipped about himself. He generously bought me a drink but was less forthcoming about the details of his career, preferring to leave it at “entertainment.” Handsome as he was, I assumed lawyer or agent, because “entertainment” is usually what someone says when they work in the industry but they don’t fall into one of the customary artistic disciplines. Plus he was wearing a suit at ten pm. He will likely be a very successful agent because he has a trait unique to the profession: Will is able to look you square in the eye with complete intensity while looking over your shoulder at the same time.

For the first time in a long time Jonathan caught part of our show this past week and of course it was the most tired part of it: Romaine for the 1000th time accusing me of having had botox. It is such a lame and dull bit and it amazes me sometimes how willing she is to fall into again. As we were discussing it a man walked through our group and then circled back, “Did I hear you say Botox?” When I affirmed the topic he insisted I was far too young to have it yet. “Are you even thirty yet?” he asked, which is more plausible as a flirtation than a reality, even in the moody lighting of Therapy.

And as much as I would have liked to get complimented a little more, I really had to leave. I had committed to myself that I was taking the 11:10 train and that meant leaving even in the middle of my favorite topic of conversation: myself. It is true that I could have stayed for hours more, and even had a cocktail or three. But sadly, the world is not as dimly lit as Therapy and I am not getting any younger. Yes, botox is definitely in my future and it won’t be the only thing on the menu I order. But in the meantime, a full night’s sleep is just what the doctor ordered.

Down The Rabbit Hole

It seems like I am always running late. I don’t know why time consistently slips away from me, but the older I get, the more it seems to evaporate before my very eyes. Over the years, I have had jobs that have barely required me to show up at an office, let alone at a specific time. I used to joke during my years at America Online that I worked dry cleaning hours: In by ten, out by four! Even that was an improvement in structure after working from home for two years. Since coming to SIRIUS, I am required to physically remain in one place during very specific hours. This has been the hardest challenge for me. I just don’t know that it is in my nature to be on time.

I was watching a documentary a while ago about Marilyn Monroe, a woman notorious for being horrendously late. She apparently arrived at her last photo shoot before her death only two hours late, which was early for Marilyn. When she sang for President Kennedy, Peter Lawford introduced her as “the late Marilyn Monroe” an irony brought home weeks later when she died. During the shooting of “Some Like It Hot” a few years earlier, she was eight hours late to the set. Director Billy Wilder was exasperated but not surprised. “I got lost on the way to the studio,” she declared of the studio lot she had worked on for more than a decade. I figure as long as I am never that bad, I am money ahead.

Last night after the show, I had agreed to attend a Project Runway premiere party, hosted by my new friend Jack Mackenroth. The TV show started promptly at 10pm of course, which also happens to be the exact moment my radio show ends. So it was physically impossible for me to travel from my studio in midtown Manhattan to Greenwich Village is the blink of an eye. I warned in advance that I would be late, but even still. It just seems so like a diva to stroll in late for a live show. Especially when claiming your own celebrity as the excuse for such bad behavior. But it is the nature of the beast. It also happened to be the last day of work for our show producer Dan. I entreated everyone to not have the going away festivities on that night because I knew I wouldn’t be able to stick around, so that is exactly when they scheduled them. So then I got to look like a complete douche running out on everyone. But when you live a story, I guess people around you want you to live it too. Consistency, however annoying, is more important than perfection.

The party was in a converted carriage house and I must say it was a delightful living space. NYC is the best place to go for unusual homes and I was most impressed by how simultaneously modern and antiquated the place was. When I arrived the door to the street was wide open and a hundred attractive men were squeezed into the upstairs watching a flat panel 70 inch screen on the wall. I made amazing time, arriving just 20 minutes into the show, but still, I was too late to mix, mingle, or talk to Jackenroth. I watched the show there (and again when I got home), and I am definitely looking forward to this season. However, I hated most of the clothes. Just blah. And Jack’s model walked like a lumberjack carrying an axe uphill. Jack’s dress was cute, a perfect Barbie ensemble, that I half expect closed in the back with a large metal snap at the neck. But then, Lumberjack Barbie started trudging down the runway and I thought he should have swapped out her sexy purse from Bluefly.com with a nice redwood log.

While the show was going on, a cute guy named Ben started up a conversation with me. He was adorable with a rocking body and we seemed to be hitting it off. Then, Michael Lucas met my eye and started over toward me. “Do you know Michael?” I asked. Ben let out a declarative bleat and beat it on the lam. Michael was in rare form, air kisses and broken English filled the air like perfume. He lifted his shirt several times to show his amazing abs, which were quite impressive. It must be hard in the winter time to have a sensational body and have to hide it under so many layers. His abs popping out made me sad that I love ice cream more than physical perfection, but then I remembered that I get to eat ice cream and no one has to see me naked in order to have a career. It turns out that Michael and Ben had shared an awkward moment earlier in the evening when Michael introduced himself and Ben reminded him that Michael had fucked him three months ago. “I did not remember him, “Michael purred as he gazed at Ben’s perfectly formed back from across the room, “but then I saw his ass and it all came back to me.” I have to admit that Ben did have, in jeans, one of the most perfect asses I have ever seen. “He also has a huge cock” Michael assured me, his head nodding carefully in approval.

Moments later, lurid creep Baby Chic entered the party which caused Michael Lucas to bristle like he had just wandered into a smoldering dump. You may recall that Baby Chic tried to molest me and Ben Harvey at Vlada some months ago, while Ben was trying to make nice with Jonathan of the famous Biscuits and Bath Jonathans. I remembered Baby Chic’s clammy hands all too well and did everything in my power to escape his clutches. Michael and I parted company and I think he was more successful at getting away than I was since seconds later Baby Chic was grabbing my chest as I pushed my way through the kitchen. I was trying to meet Jack but his adoring fans had him completely surrounded and pinned up again the stove. He didn’t seem to mind at all.

Jack is so pretty, and as one of the contestants pointed out on Project Runway, he looks like a superhero. He seemed to be in his element last night, a gorgeous tipsy doll swirling through a glamorous party of attractive men and waif thin girl models. We chatted in the kitchen and he introduced me to the other contestants from the show. It was fun to meet all these people just at the beginning of fame, not after they had already been cast aside by the cruel fate of reality television. Jack also pointed out a beautiful blond model named Megan who had been on America’s Next Top Model, although during that reality stint, she was Meg, the rocker chick with the brown hair and bold-faced attitude. She was giving us full tilt Grace Kelly though as she slipped away from the crowd and down the stairs.

Unfortunately, my own time at the party was drawing short. Even though I am late all the time, the train home to the suburbs doesn’t wait for middling radio personalities, no matter what their reputations. So I made my good bye to Michael Lucas and to sexy Jack Mackenroth. I tried to say good night to Ben but I think my obvious friendship with Michael Lucas had tainted me for him. He was in the midst of a conversation about fisting with a sexy blond named Chris, who like me, had not had sex with Michael Lucas. Ben related a tale of fisting a guy once, pushing down, down, down, finally getting in up to his mid-forearm. “There is an artery right there and it sort of squeezes around your hand tight and you can feel their body. It’s so intense.” That was my cue to leave. I love intensity in life as much as the next person. But if I want to feel blood racing through an artery it’s because I am in a panicked dash through Grand Central Station trying to catch my train home to Normal Town, USA.