Fame Won't Get You Everywhere in This City

"Everybody has their inner cunt, and a labia major and labia minor in their life. I think everyone has something that needs to be rubbed. I think everyone has a feminine side to them that needs to be developed on some [level]. I kind of believe that." - Kevin Aviance, answering the question of whether everyone has a pussy. Like, inherently. Spiritual almost. Why the hell did I need to ask that? Who knows. I did, though.

Most people assume those buildings at Rockefellor Plaza are excluively occupied by entertainment biz offices. Not so - there are all kinds of offices in there, including dentists, physicians, etc. So yesterday I went to visit one of those offices (a groundbreaking oral surgeon who did a little something on me last year), and as with most upscale NYC buildings - especially those with entertainment offices - you have to check in on the ground level, pass security, and get handed a little badge that you scan to get into the elevator area. Waiting at the desk, with increasing impatience and frustration and an indignant scowl, was a hipster. "I'm from Julian Schnabel's studio," he told the guards yet again. I like Julian Schnabel, at least his films like Basquiat and Before Night Falls (a queer biopic I urge everyone to see). I once went to his art studio for a big party back when I was co-writing the "Ferber & Sabo" gossip column for Gay City News. Brushed shoulders with Willem Dafoe and David fucking Bowie. And I have to say, that aside, I was quite amused by the hipster's dilemna. I mean, he really was proud of this Schnabel association. It probably got him laid a few times in Williamsburg. Yet these guards didn't know Schnabel from Schindler. At one point, one of the guards called up to whatever office this guy was trying to get to, and the guard went into the phone "I have a guy here from George Schnabel," which sent the hipster into a tizzy. "JULIAN!" he came within a decibel of screaming.

I patiently waited for my security clearance while this transpired, and decided not to say a thing to the hipster about liking Schnabel. Had he been more understanding or patient, or looked less like Norman Reedus, I might have made small talk. But ick.

He was wearing the same latex Vans as I was.

L