2011-11-15

The Legend of the White Russian



Air Berlin took me from Dusseldorf to Miami. US Air took me to Charlotte. Since it was US Air (the Andy Dick of airlines... literally! A steward saw that I was returning the next day and invited me to a male strip-club in Ft. Lauderdale), I missed my connection to Milwaukee and spent the night in Charlotte. The hotel-shuttle driver was what Europeans calls “Superficially Nice” and made me very happy to be back in the states.


I got to Kohl’s in Milwuakee only a couple hours late the next day and found three friends sitting in the styling bay to which I was assigned. There was Pedro the Brazilian, Tristan the family-friendly black guy who they always pair me with in shots, and Torren who’s one of my favorite Canadian alcoholics. I gave everybody hugs and recollected the time last season in Miami when Torren got drunk and almost statutorily raped my underage roommate Littlefoot. It felt good to be home. I even brought a penis-shaped squirt-gun from Amsterdam for my favorite booker/sister Anton, but unfortunately he couldn’t find the time to leave his office/nest that day.


Something peculiar happened in Miami. I was extended an invitation to hang out with the one and only White Russian. Obviously anyone with a name like that should be pretty cool, but no! This woman is a legend!


My first encounter with the White Russian was during the shoot of a pilot for a reality-style show they were doing about my friends and I at the University of Miami. A beautiful metrosexual guy with an ancillary role in the show disappeared one night when we were filming at a club on South Beach. The next afternoon, a Phantom Rolls pulls up to the dorm towers. The driver walks out, opens the suicide-doors and out stumbles the beautiful Metroboy. My friend Dallas and I were out front when it happened. “Dude! The White Russian got you!” Dallas screamed. That afternoon Metroboy told us the story that so many other boys have recounted... to the best of their ability.


“We started making out at this club... Someone said she used to be some kind of supermodel or something and then married a billionaire... And we got in that car.” Metroboy put the words together as he downed a couple Tylenol and a bottle of water. “She pulled out her black Amex for... you know... and poured more champaign as we drove to her house... where she like, gave me a bath and taught me how to make love.” Dallas and I were laughing at this point, but Metroboy was 100% austere. “In the morning she told me that my shirt was now hers. She took a poloroid and said it was going on the wall in her other bedroom. I hope I hear from her again” But we knew he never would.


Upon hearing this story, I was a little wary about meeting the White Russian. It started at Kane for dinner and Champaign with three tall, blond Russian model-types. From there their leader (whom I can only assume was THE White Russian) ordered us into the car for more champaign on our way to a bar called Haven whose walls were covered in projections. It got a little blurry after that. There was a house party next, more champaign, somehow we all ended up on a boat blasting house music that took us to the White Russian’s palace on Hibiscus Island. Upon her command (and according to what I was told the next day), I wrestled in the pool, took vodka shots and then we all piled back into the disco boat to see the boat’s driver perform on a stripper-pole in his apartment.


The next day I was summoned again. I choked down some Tylenol and brought Anton’s penis/squirt-gun as an offering to the White Russian for her hospitality. I asked if we could see the legendary wall that’s covered in polaroids and comp-cards, but she declined saying that she had currently misplaced her key to the dungeon.


She also informed me that I was now engaged to be married to her friend in order to get her a Visa. I acquiesced to the order and her friend seemed pleased... We started going over trivia for the marriage-visa-people. It looked like I’d be walking down the aisle pretty soon. I asked the White Russian is being gay was a problem. She said it wasn’t, so long as people don’t find a dick in my mouth when they Google me (“How else are you supposed to Google?” I say)... I told her about my blog and the wedding was off.