So two hours prior I get off a plane from Arizona where I just spent 28 days, uh, rehabbing and my manager lets me know that “BLOOD: The New Red” is out and available. Given the lies from the previous book, “Corporate Porn”, I assume the worst. Still, my manager wanted to throw a party. Cool, let’s do it! My manager told me A&E and TMZ were fighting over the rights to host the party. I was bummed FX wasn’t showing interest, but then I became distracted once I heard Coldplay may show up. The location was a secret only to be tweeted minutes prior. When I heard the party was in two hours I became anxious: how was I to find the perfect pair of aviators in two hours? My manager calmed me by saying, “Mickey, it’s okay, Ryan Seacrest has declined.” This was calming.
After several hours I arrived at the party.
We are at a bar in TriBeCa and sitting across from me is David S. Grant, the author of “BLOOD: The New Red”, the book that is about me PLUS a lot of lies; although, I haven’t read it so I’m not sure what is real and what is not. Also, I take a lot of medications so it’s possible I don’t know my own reality. I look away, of course, he is staring at me. I am wearing dark (VERY DARK) aviators so he has no idea I see him. I turn and walk the other way.
TMZ won the bidding war and have set up several cameras. My manager positions them to get my good sides and then asks me to take off my glasses for a moment. There is a gasp when people see my eyes. “Your eyes, they are so…Blue?” I get this a lot. Given my prescriptions a lot of people just assume my natural eye color is red, blood red. My manager pulls me over into a corner. I put my aviators back on and then my manager gives me a B12 shot in my thigh and then hands me a shot of Patron Silver.
The author reads the first chapter and stumbles through the good parts and then says something about me doing coke with John Stamos and I’m pretty sure I’ve never met this person before. My manager whispers “Uncle Jessie” and I nod. Yes, that did happen. I pull my manager back over to the corner and ask if he has any morphine. He looks horrified and pushes me over to the bar where I have another shot of Patron Silver.
I feel in my pockets for a Vicodin. I REALLY need one now. Hairs on my back stand up as I listen to the reading. There is this notion of the Seventh Avenue world of designs, drugs, and magazines passing itself off as the definition of cool. NO, they are just a conduit to what people want. I look around and realize everyone is staring at me. I hear the author discuss my leather pants. Yes, Mickey is back.
The band Coldplay shows up and are very drunk, but Bono and The Edge are also there and play a short acoustic set that ends with me standing on a bar singing “Where The Streets Have No Names.” Everyone cheers, buys me shots of Patron Silver, and tell me I’m amazing. I shrug and then Rikki Rocket shows up wearing a black leather cowboy hat and says he has a Town Car gassed and ready to go so we leave, take off our shirts, and drive though Times Square where we pick up two girls at the Blue Fin W bar. Both girls are named Stoli so we take them to a club named FIX and then maybe we end up at a male strip club named Bananas, although this is where the night starts to become fuzzy. I may or may not have been on stage and that is the last scene I remember before my manager pulls me out of the Town Car that is parked at LaGuardia and drags me into the airport. As my manager pushes me through the security line he tells me I was on stage, was completely nude, and was yelling “Mickey Is Back!” I ask my manager if I looked good and he nods.
Apparently there is a rehab facility in New Mexico expecting my arrival.
Rock and Roll,
For more information on “BLOOD: The New Red” please go to http://www.silverthought.com/blood/ Follow David on Twitter: @david_s_grant