Thursday, October 04, 2007
A NEW YORK NIGHT
Every blue moon, I have that perfect Manhattan night – I call it a “Carrie Bradshaw” moment - that reminds me of what a magical city I live in.
Let me explain:
Last evening, I attended a memorial service for downtown legend Dean Johnson. For those not in the know, Dean was a six-foot-six bald headed part-time club promoter, part-time prostitute, part- time rock star and full-time nice guy who died mysteriously from a drug overdose while trafficking a group of prostitute twinks to a wealthy closet case Saudi in Washington DC.
Yes, truth is stranger than fiction.
Dean would have been happy with the turn out. Past and present downtown royalty held court in his honor. Seen mingling were Rupaul, Lady Bunny, Debbie Harry, David Bowie, the cast of Shortbus.. .and a slew of aging club kids from my Limelight and Tunnel past. Oh, and a chubby and very aged Lady Miss Kier from Deelite.
Amidst all of this downtown glamour, I noticed a pudgy-faced sweat suit clad soccer mom yelling my name.
Who was this woman?
It was an old makeup artist nemesis from Minneapolis who I had not seen in years. Turns out she was in town shooting a catalog for Kohl’s. The stylist (a former go-go boy I knew from my Club USA days) had taken her to this event.
While I tried to listen to the many mourners who shared twisted tales of Dean’s infamous lifestyle, she bored me with pictures of her cross-eyed kid and tales of small town life. After a few beers, she suddenly turned ugly and accused me of sabotaging her career. Apparently, 14 years earlier I had called her clients in Minneapolis and had her blacklisted. My friends were rather shocked at her accusations and were anxious to hear my response. Now I had no memory of doing this, and quite frankly, I hate being blamed for things that I wish I had done in the first place.
I looked her dead in the eye and said: "Yeah, I did it and I'd do it again."
I guess it will be another 14 years before I talk to her again.
After a few more air kisses and stabs in the back, we headed to Mary Ann’s – a dive Mexican restaurant –and drank margs and nibbled nachos and talked about the good old bad days of clubbing in the East Village.
When my buddies taxied home, I was far from tired - and feeling fat from my Mexican feast - I decided to hit the gym. And yes, it was my lucky night – the kick boxer in all his muscled sweaty glory was pounding the bag, and, of course, he ignored me.
Oh, the magic of Manhattan.
Posted by THE ORAL REPORTER at 10:23 PM