I knew something good would come out of being on Miami Social. I just knew it. Now, don't get me wrong. I really like that people relate to me and I can tell you these people come in all forms. Anyone and everybody looking for love; bi-sexual soccer moms that feel their ex-husbands might be gay too; straight dudes from new jersey; gays that feel I am the saving grace of the gay race; straight girls that don't believe I'm gay; and, oh yes, dogs named 'LoLa' that just want to say 'Hi,' or at least that's what the email read.
I wish more people wrote to me about work stuff, the sort of stuff that keeps a roof over my head. But then again you actually don't see me do much work because, well, watching me suffer through a start-up web project isn't sexy nor does it evoke a "what's going to happen next?" feeling.
As my dad says, all I see you do is eat, drink, smoke and look for a boyfriend. He worries for me. "What's going to be?" he asks. Season two?
So basically in this last episode, I had what I call a "Michael meltdown." I'm not sure what that is exactly, but it sounded good for TV, right? After completely humiliating myself by taking a picture of my bald spot, I am horrified that no one has told me how wide a gap of hair I am missing and that at certain angles my head is beginning to shine like a bald man's does.
So, I called my plastic surgeon, Dr. Epstein, on a Sunday at 4pm. Yes, my plastic surgeon, my very own, although of course he has lots of other clients. We get along famously because I've known him, um, for a while. I have had Restyln injected into those laugh lines of mine, which reminds me I should stop laughing so much and get more serious here.
Next was hair restoration and I did this on National TV and here is the let down: it was no more painful than getting a root canal but yet better, more Vicodin. What's more of a let down is that it was as simple as my decision to have the surgery. Some people think it was ridic that I did such a thing; some people say (I swear they actually still say this?) 'you go girl.' No matter, it was easy, breezy and I'll do it again until I have my Farah Fawcett hair again (may she rest in peace.)
But finally, let me tell you the best thing to happen. I got one of those emails I was telling you about, but this one was a little different. The subject of this email read, "Calling Your Hair Loss Doc On a SUNDAY! Seriously, Michael???"
Great, another hater, I thought. But then I read, "Let me send you some FOAM!" I knew exactly where this was going: Free Rogaine. Yes, the PR firm that reps Rogaine has found me and they are sending me samples. Boxes of foam and they better smell like that old L'Oreal Studio mouse I use to put in my hair back in the 80's.
Of course I am always looking at the bigger picture and well I did read The Secret, so now in my head I am manifesting and one step closer to hopefully landing my first big advertising campaign as a result of being on Bravo TV. Who said this wasn't going to be a good thing?
Hmm. Well, lots and lots of people did. Lots of critics really disliked Miami Social when we hit the airwaves, um, six weeks ago. Who are these rich little hedonists running around with their small minds in their big cars in the Magic City? They were, and maybe this is just in my narcissistic head, a bit jealous and jumping to conclusions about our perfections. I took offense.
Did they really think I would just be on a show about being quasi-rich, single and desperate for a boyfriend? Not me.
I went on for opportunities. The opportunity to further my professional and personal fronts, but with my opportunity would come these perceived pitfalls in the road where I would leave myself open for scrutiny, that same scrutiny that comforts others who say to themselves after watching me and my friends on Miami Social, "I'm not that fuc*ked up after all."
But you are. We all are. In our own way, and that's okay. Because we aren't art after all. We are life.
I'd like to be a catty bitch and get one of my friends out of this circle of socialites that makes Miami spin. In fantasyland -- where I play often -- I would substitute Oscar; he would be my new gay, this is for sure.
We would have intelligent conversations fueled by cocktails at the Gansevoort. We would ridiculously debate evolution of culture and we would laugh, "Why would anyone want this life?" But then we would quickly come up with a million reasons why.
I would pull out my Blackberry and show him the email from the girl in Amish country coming to South Beach for a bachlorette party who would really appreciate a Miami Social tour so they could sit, touch and feel the people, places and things they see on TV.
We would giggle because to us it's crazy but yet we would totally understand. I would jar him on his philosophies, 'Oscar honey, don't you see, it's so not life imitating art. I mean I know we are pieces of work and all, but this is life imitating life."
I tend to think he may agree.
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