I have spent my last seven days on a book tour. I have been promoting my very own Salinger-esque literary masterpiece Chloe Does Yale. When I heard I would be spending a couple weeks “on the road,” I was beside myself with excitement. I was going to spread the gospel, let everyone across this great nation know that Yalies are fucking like bunnies. Smart little fur balls with prophelatics.
First, I was excited by the prospect of staying at a handful of chic W hotels. But, upon turning the lights on in my double-bed-non-smoking room, I realized that my digs were a little more post-Eloise cracked-out Plaza than a BrAngelina vacation getaway.
No matter, I figured—I’m on tour. Badass. Totally VH1, Behind the Music badass. In fact, that’s how I prepared for my crosscountry jaunt. I watched countless hours of Axl Rose engage in his playboy chicanery in the November rain. I watched New Edition, the original boy band, make their way to the top—all the while knowing Johnny Gill couldn’t even dance! I watched Steve Tyler and Joe Perry shoot each other up with heroin (that was kind of hot) and Dre duke it out with Shug Knight (also hot). Tour was gonna be RAD.
I looked forward to a week of life as a Hair Band. I wanted to travel across the country with groupies grabbing at my slender ankles, willing to give anything to make out with me. Furiously make out with me. I wanted to be forced to check into my hotel using a clever pseudonym like Wilma Flinstone or Mr. Peanut. I wanted to grab bottles of Veuve from a stacked mini bar and shake them, ecstatically spraying hundreds of dollars worth of sweet, sweet champagne all over any hot body in a thirty-foot radius.
I wanted unadulterated indulgence to make me famous. Again, like Fabian Basabe (see previous column when I refer to him as “personal hero.”)
Well guess what. I ain’t famous. And its no wonder Tom “Geriatric” Wolfe can still read read read his way from Minneapolis to Mineola—book tours are not that cool.
I have no entourage. I have no groupies. I don’t even have long hair. The only people coming to my readings are gay black men. None of them want to make out with me. Not even if they’re feeling experimental. I asked. One did, on the other hand, confide in me that he’s partial to the Gilmore Girls.
That’s the reason he came to the reading. He thought I was a Gilmore Girl. Seriously.
I have no private jet with platinum sinks. But I do know the inner workings of the private lives of several cab drivers in both Chicago and San Francisco. Manny is traveling to New York with his wife next week, he’s really excited to paaaaaaaaaaarty. Steve loves the race track—almost more than women—but less than fishing. Worms cost 30 bones a pound. Expensive, no? And Rick’s “woman” only wears dresses. “Woman” doesn’t even own a pair of jeans. She’s so dressed up she’s like a female Matlock.
Even my boy, Joey R. (yeah, that’s the pope, and yeah we’re totes on a nickname basis, he calls me Naughty K) gets more action giving mass than I have on my anti-tour de force.
So I’ve come up with a solution, a way, if you will, to rock out with my cock out.
I do that sometimes.
Starting next week I’m touring with Jane Fonda. Her life so far involves sitting on tanks in Vietnam (we all know what that‘s a metaphor for) and the first time she sat on Ted Turner’s l’il tanky, he squealed “hot dog!” Even Robert Vadim showed her how to bring a little something extra in the bedroom. And by “something extra” I mean “threesomes.” That’s what they were called back in the day.
Bottom line, I’ve clearly got a lot to learn. Whaddaya say Jane? How about Chloe Does Yale Does Jane? You get the champagne. I’ll take my pants off.
And together, we’ll read out loud.