Letter From New Delhi

I know it has been awhile since my last post. I have been doing my best to stay out of the political discussion. And while I do find myself obsessed with Sarah Palin, I have been biting my tongue as it were and decidedly not writing about her. But then I realized that I love her. L-O-V-E her.

I love everything about her except the anti-gay thing, the pro-life thing even in the case of incest or or rape and I am totally against cosmetic companies and politicians testing their products on animals. No matter how ugly those animals might be. And let me just say for the record, pit bulls are ugly in any shade of lipstick. I do, however, admire and am jealous of the fact that she gets to fire anyone who gets on her nerves. I want that kind of power. I also believe, and I have for some time now, that Washington DC really needs another unwed teenage mother. But at least Sarah has the decency to force her daughter into a marriage based on a lesson in abstinence gone bad. I believe that the perfect way to protect the sanctity of marriage is to force two teenagers to wed for all the wrong reasons so they can get a divorce in just a few years. And I am absolutely mad about the fact that her future son-in-law is a “fucking redneck” who will “kick your ass” and likes to “shoot at stuff” and I sincerely think we need more people like him with access to the White House and President. Its like I always say; We need more guns in Washington. We need more concealed weapons. After all, they might need them to protect all the new Meth labs.

But Meth labs are a good thing and I am confident that the sale of illegal drugs can help stimulate the economy and pull it out of this nasty little slump its in. Or at least get people loaded to the point where they just don’t care. They might be homeless and unemployed, but God bless them, they'll be high. Ah, the land of dreams and hallucinogenic drugs. But most importantly, I think what the US and world really need is a hockey mom playing backseat driver to McCain’s Mr. Toad as they travel the wild road to nowhere. The only thing that really scares me about her is the fact she uses MAC. I use MAC. What does that say about me? Maybe I need to switch to Dior 80/60 cream.

But I have no time for politics these days. I have bigger things on my mind. You might want to sit down for this one, because I have news. In case anyone has missed this little point about me, I have a thing for the stage. And not only the stage, the spotlight, pulled in tight as I break into my own song which of course will end in thunderous applause. Well, some dreams take longer to come true than others, but last Tuesday I was cast in a play. Let me say that again - last Tuesday, I was cast in a play. It all started many months ago at “Ouch” with Danielle, Anjali and Lata, Anjali’s mom and source of all her fabulousness. Anjali and Lata dabble in the arts and they mentioned they were in the first stages of a musical and thought there might be an interesting little part for me. Now, when someone says little part, I think of entering stage left with just enough hair and make-up to get by, but no real attention to detail, nothing memorable, delivering a line or two and exiting.

After that discussion I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t forget about it, but as we showbiz types like to say, “That’s showbiz!” Then Monday, I was sitting at home in the very spot I now find myself planted when my phone rang. It was Lata. Could I stop by the next evening and meet the director and discuss the play to see if I was interested and if the director thought I was right for the part. She may as well have told me I was in the final three to become America’s Next Top Model. I as excited beyond belief. On my way to Lata’s the next night, I started to panic. Would I be required to sing something? Like at an Idols audition? Ten minutes before arriving at Lata’s I decided I better be prepared. I searched my iPod for anything from a musical and the only one I had was “Wicked”. I wondered if singing a part from the witch would be the right way to go and worried I might not sound green enough. But that was all for naught. I was the first to arrive and Lata told me a bit about the play. A small part, she said. I didn’t care. Just to be back in the theatre, I would do pretty much anything. I miss that life. Not that it was ever MY life, but I miss being in that environment.

To make a long story as short as possible, I got the part. And it is not just one line, I have actual pages. I have emotions to convey, a journey of self discovery and a solo. A SOLO! I get full hair! I get full makeup! Cut to me, a couple of months from now, flowers filling the air on their way to the stage. The cries of “bravo!” and “encore!” filling the auditorium while I stand there looking humble and meek saying in a low voice “I owe it all to pasta…” The movie deals. The endorsements. The Lindsay Lohan like erratic driving to dodge the paparazzi. The rehab. The comeback. The book deal. Fun times!

But that is not all the news I have this week. The cosmos have been very busy smiling down on me these past days. Just this evening, I got a message on Facebook which included the following little ditty: “I was having drinks with my friend Valentina the other day (she works here for the US Vanity Fair) and said she almost prefers your blog to mine.” I almost fell off my chair. Vanity Fair is my favorite magazine. I have been reading it since I was a teenager. The Proust Questionnaire. Nan Darien. Vanities. Dominic Dunne. The Vanity Fair Oscar Party.

Back in 2002, I spent a year working for Rem Koolhaas, who among other things was on the board of Conde Nast. It was pretty much a miserable job working closely with one of the most miserable people I have ever come across in my life. But one day the most magical thing happened. Two, count them, TWO tickets to the Vanity Fair Oscar Party came across my desk. I had to read them 3 times. I went to the men’s room to avoid the embarrassing urinating-in-the-pants-from-excitement thing and when I came back, I read them again just to be sure. I happened to have a brand new case of OGO Portable Oxygen Cans at my desk and had to inhale two of them just to keep from fainting. I knew Rem wouldn’t go. At the time the office had recently finished work on the Prada Epicenter in New York. I had been there just a few weeks before and knew I could get a discount on a Prada tux. And if that didn’t work, I had contacts at Prada in Milan. My plotting and planning started.

The only obstacle was that the invites themselves don’t really mean anything. It was the guest list I needed to be on. I had Graydon Carter’s number in my mobile. I wondered if I could simply transfer the invites from Rem to me. I was meant to go. I was meant to be there with Judi Dench, Halle Berry, Denzel, Ethan Hawke, Sophie Dahl, Selma Blair, Ellen Barkin, Megan Mullally, Kelly Lynch and the rest. Nicole Kidman was nominated. I already knew what I was going to say, how I was going to get her to offer her cheek to me for a congratulatory buss. Fortunately, or maybe not, I had just finished reading “How to Lose Friends and Alienate People” by Toby Young. Toby had my dream job and he blew it every chance he got. I was jealous. If you are going to crash and burn, what a way to go. I thought of crashing the party, but security is very tight and this was just the first Academy Awards after 9/11. I decided not chance it. It’s one thing to be rejected from a party, another to risk being put in jail as a security risk. But for just a few moments, I held the keys to the kingdom.

So imagine what it was like to know that not only do I read Vanity Fair, Vanity Fair reads me.

The Porn Files

Yesterday I picked up the recent issue of Marie Claire India Edition. It was the cover story “The X-Files- Porn Films in India” that caught my attention. I was with my friend Ankit at Select Citywalk at the time and when I showed him he merely said “There is no porn in India!” I reminded him of my Palika experiences, walking through the DVD section being offered TV shows, movies and porn where the man and the woman make very nice the hanky panky. But there it was, one of my favorite words on the cover of a magazine.

I jumped into the back of my car and ripped open the magazine wrapping freeing the smooth, milky white cover from its binds. I began to breathe deeper and faster as my fingers gingerly swept across the silver letters sending shivers of anticipation racing through my body. I could wait no longer, I had to go in. I opened the magazine up like a cheap tabloid and to the casual observer, I perhaps looked like it was my first time. But it wasn’t. I had done that before, with countless magazines spanning a wide variety of topics and target audiences, but this was the first one since the Madonna covered Vanity Fair from last month, so you ca imagine the built up tension. Finally I found what I was looking for and let my eyes linger before devouring the article in reckless abandon.

It was like rewinding to the early 70’s. It was focused mostly on a woman named Shakeela, a “vacuous buxom woman” who performed extreme fellatio. What, I asked myself, is extreme fellatio? A blow-job with teeth? A Lorena Bobbit? Reading the rest of the article was a bit bland with all the usual clichés one uses when writing about porn.

Now this may come as a surprise, but I have danced with the idea of doing porn and on several occasions have actually been approached. The first time I was 18. I was desperate to be an actor and so answered an ad in a local LA paper looking for young men. Undaunted I drove up to LA and found myself on the lot of Paramount Pictures. I had hit the big time. The guard could not find my name on the list, but let me onto the lot and pointed me to a place for further directions. It was my first time on a major film studio. Any film studio for that matter, but this was Paramount, home to Indiana Jones and there I was wandering around just knowing that a director was going to pop out and promise to make me a star.

However, my dreams were soon to be smashed on the cold hard reality that is Hollywood. I was at the wrong studio. I need the dodgy looking building down the street. I hung my head my shame and drove off the lot, pausing for just a few minutes so anyone driving by would get a good view of me leaving the lot. I was scared that perhaps my 15 minutes of fame had happened without me. I arrived at the other studio, had a very nice interview with the nicest man who was full of smiles and compliments. Then he asked me to take off my clothes. There I was, virgin me (2 years before that status would change) being asked to shuck the shorts. I was just over the trauma of displaying my belly button on the beach. I turned seventy five shades of red and left.

Fast forward to several years later, a more confident me in my mid 30’s. I had been working out hard at the gym for about 2 years, just had my braces off and there I was in Palm Springs sunning it by the pool. I had decided to let Sparky and the boys out for a little fresh air and some local color. A few minutes later and I was talking to a guy from Falcon. Then there was the man representing Titan and Hot House. They each asked if I would be interested in a screen test and then most likely a movie. A movie. Me! I was already casting the other parts in my mind and videos from porn movies past looped through my head. Pictures and names swirling around. I had no idea where I would start, but I didn’t really care. I was as excited as a boy with a new bike "look ma, no hands!"

I got back home to the Hague and got in touch with another studio that wanted me to go to Berlin. It was too much. I was in demand. Then I decided I was going to do it. I made the arrangements to go to Berlin and also made an appointment back in California with one of the previous studios. I was ready and willing to be objectified. I wasn’t looking for a career, I was interested in the experience. I just wanted to experience it once. I wanted to know what it would be like to do such a thing. Of course I decided that the experience would be at least one chapter in the book I will one-day author.

But soon the attraction wore off. It was enough for me that they were interested. It was confirmation that I was indeed a little hottie they thought could melt some celluloid. And believe me, I would have. However I decided that some fantasies are better left just as they are.