While this very special episode of
Diff’rent Stokes
was taking place in the club bathroom, the hot guy was outside knocking on the door.
“You OK in there?” the hot guy asked.
I opened the door and replied:
“Yeah, I am fine.
Just hashing out a few things with Nancy Reagan.”
He looked dumbfounded.
“Pretty good shit, huh?” he asked.
Good shit indeed.
We partied the night away.
Cocaine was fabulous for me because while taking it, I could drink as much alcohol as I wanted without getting drunk or sick.
It was like a miracle drug and I wondered why more people didn’t do it. That is until the next morning.
I awoke the next morning wondering what I had done wrong to deserve feeling the way I felt.
I felt as if someone had dropped a ton of bricks on my head and left me for dead.
My head was spinning and I felt as if I my heart was going to stop at any moment.
I told myself that I was never going to drink or do drugs ever again, but that night rolled around and it was time to party again.
Alex and I had cleverly decided that from then on we were going to have themed nights of going out.
Every night of the week we would dress up in a different theme.
It seemed to be the perfect way to try and find a new boyfriend.
Heroin chic was a favorite, where we would temporarily dye our hair black, put black eyeliner on and tight jeans and look like crack heads.
For whatever reason, we thought this look was attractive; but, after a while, I realized we didn’t even need the makeup anymore.
We were pretty much crack heads.
One night before Christmas during freshman year of college, Alex and I decided that it would be fun to try acid. I had done mushrooms in high school and was told that the effects were similar but acid was even more potent.
The two of us went to a club and danced and drank and had a gay old time.
After a few hours of dancing, Alex put a tab of acid onto my tongue and I immediately cased the club for Nancy Reagan.
I couldn’t find her, but I did see a drag queen in a red pillbox hat that bared a striking resemblance to her.
I guess Nancy had given up on me – I was a lost cause now.
I had reached the point of no return, although I did tell myself I would never smoke crack or shoot up heroin.
At least I still had some boundaries.
The night we tripped on acid was like taking a trip on an emotional rollercoaster on which I care to never ride again.
A club promoter named Stephan came up to me and tried to kiss me and his face turned into a bat then he tried to swallow me whole. Then, the walls began to melt and I tried to lick them because I thought they had turned into milkshakes. Finally, I was so hungry when I got home that I made myself some macaroni and cheese that turned into worms and I hid under my bed for a solid hour until I thought it was safe to come out.
The next day, I met up with Jason for a few drinks at our piano bar.
“Where the hell have you been?” Jason asked.
“Having visions of Nancy Reagan and trying every drug imaginable,” I replied.
“What?” he asked.
“Never mind,” I said.
All of the experimentation had taken its toll on me.
“I don’t feel well.”
“Drink this,” Jason said as he waved a martini in my face.
“Vodka is good for the heart.”
“I can’t do drugs anymore.
It’s only been a month and I feel like a junkie already,” I said.
My Jewish guilt wouldn’t even allow me to be a drug addict without feeling horrible about it.
“Just take a break,” Jason said.
“Just drink. Drinking is fun and it won’t kill you.”
Why do I always think everything everyone tells me is the truth?
“You’re right!” I proclaimed, “drinking won’t kill me, will it?”
Just ruin every relationship I ever had from that point on and force me into making the worst decisions any human could possibly make.
“Cheers to you, Mark,” Jason said.
“You’ve overcome your drug addiction.”
We clinked glasses and both sipped our martinis.
“Wow, it’s so easy to get yourself off of drugs.
It’s a wonder why more people can’t do it,” I said as I was probably still tripping on the acid from the night before.
“Well, never say never Mark. You know marijuana is a drug.”
“Really?”
“So is cocaine.”
“Let’s just say I won’t do any drugs that don’t come from mother earth.
Since you have to grow weed and cocoa plants, I think that is a safer bet, don’t you?” I asked.
“It’s a lot healthier for you. God only knows what people put in those acid tabs.”
Thus my philosophy on life began and spanned throughout the next decade.
My first few months in New York had not only taught me that it was OK to be gay, but also OK to financially support every drug dealer and bartender in the New York metropolitan area for the next eight years.
THE PICK-UP ARTIST
When you’re single and living in the big city, there is nothing better than long nights out with your friends, searching for your next lover.
We have found, as a culture, that drinking and socializing at bars has been a foolproof way of getting someone into the sack. There is something about alcohol that lowers inhibitions and makes people more willing to do things or sleep with people that they normally wouldn’t.
For me, going out and drinking let me create a world in which, only I exist.
I am not above creating fake professions, wild nonsensical back-stories, or faux celebrity relatives to get someone to notice me.
I completely lose my bullshit filter and it’s anyone’s guess what ridiculous nonsense would come flying out of my mouth.
The following are a few situations that I have gotten myself into that have proved disastrous in finding that new lover.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
After moving to New York, my friend Valerie gave me her friend Ashley’s brother’s fake ID.
Tired of missing out on the fun of going out with everyone else, I accepted it, but there were some clear discrepancies between the ID and me.
For one, it said my name was Brennan Kasperzack.
My name is Mark Rosenberg, however my middle name happens to be Brennan, so it seemed meant to be.
Secondly, it said I was six feet, two inches tall.
I stand at a mighty five feet, eight inches tall.
Brennan has dark brown hair and I have blonde hair.
Brennan has brown eyes and mine are blue.
There were so many clear differences between my ID and I that I never thought in a million years it would work, but time and time again, it never failed to get me where I needed to be.
After about a year of using it, I got pretty cocky.
It didn’t seem to matter that I was not who I claimed to be so I continued the charade.
One night, when a group of friends and I were out at our favorite bar, Posh, the bouncer came over to me.
“Hey,” he said. You have to appreciate the rituals of the gay male mating call.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Nothing much, just thought I would come over and say ‘hi’.
I have seen you in here a lot lately.”
“Yea, my friends and I love this place.
The drinks are strong and the dancing is always so much fun.”
“You’re name is Brennan, right?” he asked.
“What?” I said with confusion.
“Brennan. You’re name is Brennan, right?
I remember it from your ID.”
“Ummm…yes, of course it is.
My name is Brennan. Brennan Kasperzack.”
“What are your plans for the evening?”
“Not much.
Just hanging out here.”
We were at a loss for conversation.
After about ten drinks, the only conversation I am usually up for is one that revolves around ABC soaps or a dance off.
Sensing he wasn’t a fan of
One Life to Live
, I dragged him onto the dance floor and we began dancing.
“You’re from Ohio, right?” he yelled over the music as we were dancing.
“What?” I yelled back.
“You’re from Ohio, right?” I had forgotten that my alter ego Brennan Kasperzack was from Columbus, Ohio.
“Yea.” I yelled back.
“Me too,” he said.
Fuck.
I had never been to Ohio and was too drunk to lie about anything so I just continued dancing. “Columbus, right?”
“Uh, yes,” I said.
“Brennan Kasperzack from Columbus, Ohio.”
“I am from Columbus,” he said.
Great.
I tried to pull away from him on the dance floor. There was simply no way I could continue to have a conversation about a place I had never been to, let alone lived in.
He followed me as I sat down on a barstool.
“I think you are really cute,” he said. “I thought you were really cute the first time I saw you come in here.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You’re really hot.”
All tact had seemed to fly out the door.
“Where in Columbus did you grow up?” he asked.
Were we really still talking about Ohio?
Surely there must have been something more interesting we could have spoken about.
Having remembered my fake address, I replied:
“15409 Cherry Vale Road,” I replied.
“Oh my God, I lived down the street on Rolling Bluff Road.”
Seriously?
How the hell was it possible that this guy lived down the street from the real Brennan Kasperzack?
“What a coincidence.”
“What high school did you go to?” he asked.
“Private school,” I replied.
I figured that was a good way to get out of making something even more ridiculous up.
“Holy Child?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied.
“Oh my God, I went there too!” he said.
“What year did you graduate?”
“2000,” I said, hoping he wasn’t going to catch me in a lie.
“No wonder you look familiar.
I graduated in 1998.
We must have crossed paths at some point in high school,” he said as he was patting my back.
“Wow, what a small world,” I said as I signaled the bartender over to refill my drink.
“Want to come back to my place for a nightcap?” he asked.
I did, but I certainly could not continue talking about the goings on in Columbus, Ohio.
“Sure,” I responded,
“
Let’s not talk about Ohio anymore. I have really bad memories about that place.
My father used to beat me.
The first chance that I got I left and I will never go back to Ohio.
Columbus, Ohio, where I am from.
I really don’t even like talking about my past.”
“That’s horrible,” as he said this Valerie and the rest of my party were approaching.
I gave her a
leave-me-alone
look, but she came up anyway.
“Mark, where the hell have you been?” she asked in my direction.
I pretended to ignore her.
I was Brennan Kasperzack now and Brennan Kasperzack was going to hook up with the hot bouncer.
“Mark!”
Valerie yelled in my ear, “we are leaving, now.
Let’s go.”
“Who’s Mark?” the bouncer asked.
“I have no idea who this girl is,” I said referring to my good friend Valerie.
“Mark, let’s go,” Valerie said once more.
“Who is Mark?” the bouncer asked.
“Mark,” Valerie said as she gestured toward me.
“Mark Rosenberg.”
“You?
You’re Jewish?” he said as he looked me deep in the eyes.
“I have no idea who this girl is,” I continued, “my name is Brennan Kasperzack from Columbus, Ohio.
Are you lost little girl?”
“Fuck you,” Valerie said, “Let’s go.”
“I am sorry miss, but I think you have the wrong person.
His name isn’t Mark, it’s Brennan.”
It was as if Valerie had completely blacked out and forgotten it was she who had given me the fake ID in the first place.
“His name is Mark,” she replied, “I’ve known this homo for seven years. We grew up together in D.C.”
“I thought you said you were from Columbus,” the bouncer said.
I didn’t know what to do.
If the bouncer found out that I was lying, I would not only not get laid, but never be allowed into Posh again.
I had to think quickly.
I looked at Valerie, looked at the bouncer and turned away. I then ran out the door, never to return to Posh again until after my 21st birthday.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The evening before I was supposed to go home for Christmas break, sophomore year of college, my friend Jason and I decided to celebrate the fact that we had made it out of another semester of college alive.
We decided to head down to The Park, which was a really trendy bar at the time in the west twenties that hosted an all-gay event every Sunday evening.
Jason and I agreed, on the way down, to a three-martini limit because we both had to catch an 8:30 train the next morning.
One thing led to another, as it usually does, and before we knew it, it was two in the morning and both Jason and I were severely trashed.
It had been a really difficult semester and I felt a long girls’ night out was long overdue and well deserved.
As Jason and I continued drinking, I spotted a really hot model-type standing at the opposite end of the bar.
I gave him a drunk half wink and walked over.
Before, walking over, Jason grabbed me.
“Oh my God, Mark,” Jason yelled into my ear, “it’s Boy George!”
Across the room stood Boy George, and his entourage of British teenaged hangers on.
Jason had had a man crush on Boy George since he had been able to apply his own lip-liner, so this was quite the sighting for him.
“Go talk to him,” I said.
I was trying to get Jason out of my way so I could talk to the hot model at the end of the bar.
Jason was notorious for accidental drunken cock blocks, so I needed to get him out of my way in order to make my move.
Jason walked over to Boy George and I approached my model.
“Hi,” I said to the Adonis that stood before me.
“What’s up?” he said.
“Nothing,” I said as I put my hand out to shake his, “my name is Mark.”
“Jared,” he replied.
We made the usual small talk, but I could tell he was not interested.
I had to think of something quick to draw his attention back to me.
“So what do you do for a living?” I asked.
“I’m a model, but I am trying to get into acting.”
Of course he was.
“That’s amazing.
I was a teen model for Dockers in the JC Penny catalogue.”
There goes my drunken word vomit.
When I drink, it’s like I get full of Tourettes and shit just comes flying out of my mouth.
“Cool,” he replied, “what do you do for a living now?”
I had to think quickly.
Being a student and waiting tables is not nearly as glamorous as something I could lie about.
Besides, he would never find out if I made something up. “I’m a casting director for
All My Children
,” I said.
“Really?” he asked.
“Yes,” I had my awkward half smile on, as if I had just had a stroke.
I always get a half-lazy face when I am drunk and lying.
“I have an audition for
All My Children
right after New Year’s.”
Of course he did. Now being borderline obsessed with Susan Lucci does not a casting director make.
I had absolutely no idea how to follow that remark so I just replied:
“Oh, let me give you my card so you can call me before the audition,” I said. Apparently, I had fake cards to go along with my fake job.
“We can go over lines together.
I am just warning you now, that you will most likely have to take your shirt off.”
I searched my pockets for my “card” and told him that I must have left them in my other pants.
I gave him my number and told him to call me.
All and all it was a great night out.
A hot model had gotten my number and a D-list celebrity from the 80’s had manhandled Jason.
I passed out that night and woke up the next day at four in the afternoon having missed my train home for the holidays.
I had completely forgotten that I even met anyone that night until a few weeks later when I got a message from Jared:
“Hey Mark, it’s Jared from The Park.
Just wondering if I could come over to your place and run over lines with you.
My audition is in a few days and I would love some pointers.
Give me a call.”
My fake profession had caught up with me.
Previously when I had told people that I was Angelina Jolie’s stunt double or Ray Charles’s Seeing Eye dog, people knew I was lying immediately and didn’t bother.
This guy was totally buying it.
Models are usually not the brightest crayons in the box, but I figured if he came over to my college dorm room to run lines, he would have had enough sense to know I was lying.
I had to think quickly.
I picked up the phone and called him back, but it went straight to voicemail. I left a message:
“Hey Jared, it’s Mark.
Sorry I missed you, but it’s been chaos on the set.
We just found out that the girl who plays Maggie is pregnant so we are either going to need to recast or rework a whole six months worth of storyline.
I have a feeling that she may just get raped and become pregnant with her rapist’s baby and be torn about what to do, but you never know with these things.
Anyway, good luck with the audition and give me a call if you need anything.”