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Friday, January 22, 2010

Mundane tales of the city


So I recently heard a mildly interesting story from a friend. He told me this because the current Late Night Wars reminded him of it. Most names are changed (or omitted) to protect me from lawsuits, angry recriminations, or unvitations to future parties.

The friend, B., was into coke some years back. 5 years? 6? I forget how many--I just remember receiving a lot of strange texts from him at 4 AM, usually on Wednesday mornings, for some reason.

B. had been urged not to go so hard on the coke, mostly by friends who were annoyed at having their cell phones going off at all hours. B.'s friends, like all true friends, had only their best interests at heart, and those interests were to keep B. away from his cell phone at 4 AM on a Wednesday, or at least away from the coke inspiring him to text.

This, by the way, is a true story.

B. couldn't afford his own coke so he'd do what most moderately hot gay guys in NYC were doing 5-6 years ago: He'd advertise on Craigslist. Using the subject line, "Hot 28 y/o bttm boi 4 party," B. somehow managed to develop a coke addiction without ever spending a dime on actual coke. I suppose technically that made him a whore, in that he'd meet other cokeheads, exchange sexual favors for a few bumps of their coke, and... yeah, right, that definitely made him a whore. Weird.

Anyway.

One night, B. put up his usual craigslist ad, and got a response, and made a connection, and hopped into a cab to meet the connection. Midtown.

The apartment was nice--tasteful couch, framed memorabilia, bookshelves, a balcony, plush rugs, coordinated shower curtain/toilet cover. "Big bed," B. told me. "I hate thin mattresses. This was a dense, sink-into mattress. And on the tv in the bedroom was the connection's paused head--he'd actually been watching himself do some segment on O'Reilly when I came in, and had paused it." We'll call the connection [C.], because I love using brackets, and because c is an apropos letter.

The coke was on a small mirror on the nightstand next to the dense bed. B. didn't care about the coke, tho--he was much more interested in the frozen face on the television at the foot of the dense mattress. He was much more interested in why [C.]'s head was on the television screen.

"Why are you...?" B. began.

"I'm trying to convert my clips to DVD, but I've no idea how to do it." There were several vhs tapes scattered at the foot of the television stand, and a vcr/dvd combo. B. told me he didn't know how many times [C.] had been on O'Reilly but "they'd probably seen each other's falafels."

"I ended up naked on his balcony," B. told me. "And while he sucked me off, he still couldn't stop talking about Bill O'Reilly. Very awkward."

So. Yeah. Here's the fun part: [C.] was an entertainment lawyer. He represented Jimmy Fallon. And [C.] owned a bar. Because why be a lawyer in NYC, and a Fox contributor, if you don't also own a bar?

Here's B.'s summation: Dude owned a bar. No shit. I was sucking him off, right, and he can't get hard because that's what coke does, it makes you... it distracts your penis, so I'm spending the entire time going 'Fox News?' and thinking what an asshole, and I'm also like "Mmmm, blow," because I like cocaine, right, and here's some free blow. But I'm blowing him and we're snorting the shit, and then he tells me he owns this bar on 9th Ave just a few blocks down. Wanna go, he asks, and I'm like no I don't wanna go because we're doing this. But whatever--he clearly wants to go, and I don't want to seem like a pussy, so I go with him. The bar's one of those, you know, low ceiling, some dingy-ass lights, and he introduces me to the bartender, and the bartender says, 'Yo, cool, you know he's Jimmy Fallon's lawyer. Entertainment Lawyer.' And I suddenly realize why he's always on Fox. Dude is an entertainment lawyer.

Hm. B.: not very bright. It took three people (including himself) telling him that [C.] was an entertainment lawyer before he got the point.

B. continued--and keep in mind B. has been off coke for a long time, and is telling me a story that happened 5-6 years ago: The bartender gives me a drink. I didn't want the drink, but what happened was, me and [C.] walk into this bar, and [C.] yells out my name, and he tells the bartender that I'm to get whatever I want. Some people move up to [C.], and they protest, saying "Dude, what the fuck," but I'm really fucked up so I don't process. Right. And [C.] didn't just go up to the bartender--he climbed on the fucking bar and decreed that I shall henceforth receive as much alcohol as I want, like he was Moses Barfly or something. So when [C.] tells the bartender I get a free drink, I feel kinda special, and take the drink, and then I don't remember much else.

And then this:

Jimmy Fallon. No shit. I'm drinking this drink, and I realize Jimmy Fallon is talking to [C.], with a concerned tone, and Jimmy is looking at me as if I'm the whore invited to the wedding. Some of [C.]'s friends come up to me and all like So what do you think of the bar, and I'm pretty much gone from whatever's in the drink so I just say Nice lights, because they were nice lights--multicolor Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling, and those lights are about the only thing I can see. So. "Nice lights" I tell [C.]'s friends. Also, I'm looking at Jimmy Fallon and thinking, "I know that guy--who the hell is that?" And he's looking at me, the whore at the wedding, and talking to [C.] and gesturing around. He looks concerned, you know. He looks like he's concerned for [C.], and I recognize that he's concerned, but I'm also losing bits of my short-term memory at the same time so I can't keep anything in my mind. "Nice lights." That's about it.

"Jimmy Fallon is treating you like a whore?" I ask.

"Yes," B. tells me. "I'm at this bar, and drinking this drink, and fucked up, and I've got Jimmy Fallon staring at me as if he's my mother's best friend, who hates me because she's a Jesus nut."

Jimmy Fallon. Kinda impressive. I mean, B. hooks up with some guy via craigslist.com, looking for coke, and ends up at a bar on 9th Av, being disapprovingly stared at by Jimmy Fallon.

The thing is, Jimmy Fallon's disapproval worked--B. gave up coke right there. As he tells it: Jimmy Fallon convinced [C.] to leave the bar. Just left me there, stranded, ridiculous, coked up and woozy. Jimmy put his arm around [C.] and lead him out of his bar. I hung around for a bit but they didn't come back. I'd never felt so, what, so absurd. I stared at the nice lights and thought, oh man you've really taken a wrong turn somewhere in life when even Jimmy Fallon is advising people to stay away from you.

[C.] is still doing Fox--bad slots, but still on the network--and Jimmy now has his own show. But B. posted his final "Hot 28 y/o bttm boi 4 party" that night. He hasn't done coke in a while, or wanted to, really, because after you've done coke with a Fox entertainment lawyer, you can never go back. You've hit rock bottom, and either have to grab a shovel and keep digging down, or claw your way back up.

B. left the bar, confused, high, and with a weird Jimmy Fallon appreciation. He even bought 'Taxi' on Blu-Ray.

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