So Christopher Rice is going to be in Lexington tonight on his book signing tour with his mom, Anne, and I was so tempted to go see him, but I figured “Hey, you broke this poor kids heart, no need to rub salt in the wound”, and I stayed away.
Christopher (yes, you have to call him Christopher, not Chris) is one of those boy romantics who kisses you while walking on the beach at 2 AM and says “I See Stars”, and you have nothing possible you can say except “Christopher, it’s 2 AM on the beach, of course you see stars, what did you expect, cowboys and can-can girls?”
I knew I’d give him shit about touring with his mom if I saw him tonight, because how incredibly loving-gay-son is that, but I realized Why Not, since they both have new books to promote and Anne Rice is probably the coolest gay-boy mom on the planet.
Seriously, we were all at dinner one time at a fairly nice restaurant, and I quietly make a date with this hot waiter for five minutes from now in the men’s room, while sitting right beside Christopher, who thought I was pretty swell at the time. I am not as cool and suave as I think I am; in fact, I’m apparently pretty transparent and pretty obvious. Let’s get real: I’m a f**king pig when it comes to men. I may as well have taken a megaphone and broadcasted “Cock Will be Sucked in the Men’s Room in Five Minutes!” right in Christopher’s face, and I swear through all this Anne didn’t blink an eye or appear to notice anything even vaguely inappropriate.
So ten minutes later I’m back at the table with waiter all over my breath, and all Anne says is “Caviar. I smell Caviar. Someone must have ordered Caviar. Let’s order Caviar, shall we?” and I was so embarrassed I nearly crawled under the table to keep from losing my shit completely. At that point, I realized Anne Rice wins for Best Mom Ever for a gay boy. Unless, of course, you happen to be Christopher, and then she’s just Mom.