Tastemakers:

I have a friend named Richard. At the moment I'm a little frustrated with him because he’s asked me to collaborate on a book project and I am hard pressed to find the words that would work with his aesthetic. Nor after doing research do I think the proposed product will actually sell, at least not in its current form. I’d like to discuss this with him but he is, at present, sitting on a beach in the Dominican Republic with his supermodel girlfriend, and so unreachable. By contrast, I am sitting in my dining room turned study in Siberia – err Saratoga, bundled up in four layers and speaking to my new friends – my goldfish.

Rich and I are unlikely friends. He is from West London and has been on his own since an early age. His table manners are severely lacking, though he graciously shares everything. His comfort zones are Irish pubs, no frills gyms, and pool houses. He wears tee shirts and ripped fatigues with sneakers bearing images of chainsaws. Rich has long lived in a ten by twelve studio with a community bathroom. It is only now, after five years in New York that he has even considered upgrading to a place with a kitchen. An aggressive agent and creative businessman, he vacations in Thailand, snowboards, and rides his fold up bicycle around the streets of Manhattan. Richard’s drink of choice, when we are together, is Jack with a splash of Coke. His most used adjective is a four letter expletive beginning with an ”F.”

If you’ve met me you can imagine what a laughable pair we are. I chose not to go to college until later in life, much against my family’s wishes. I drink martinis. My clothes are what Rich refers to as “preppy designer beige.” I cab it everywhere and prefer to watch pool rather than play it. My gym in New York was the kind where classical music is piped into the locker room and attendants bring fresh towels and shaving cream. I entertain frequently, and when going out for drinks, choose only lounges that my friend refers to as posh and overpriced. Vacation venues are chosen for the opulent comfort they afford, just like my apartments; large, with generous kitchens and nicely furnished. I am formal in my communication, creative too, but my aesthetic is polished whereas my friend’s is rough hewn. That Rich would want my words in his book is beyond me.

But we were long inseparable in the way that only men in their twenties can be. It is an easy comradery that is achieved with individuals who truly value the others company, respect their individuality, and seek it out, often. When we worked together we were known as the “boys" - acting as a constant source of entertainment for the elders in our office who shook their heads with fondness, feigning disapproval at our misadventures, remembering their own time in model world.

We conspired on everything, finagling invitations to events we had no business being at but felt entitled to attend. We arrived only at those parties with open bars, only those fashion shows whose gift bags would be worth the pain of having to sit through the loud music, obnoxious editors, and B list celebrities begging for press.

We were good friends based on what I believe now is a mutual understanding that our “fabulous” lives as model’s agents was really an exercise in creating as rewarding a survival as could be eeked out as young men working in the fashion business in Manhattan. In hindsight I know that both of us saw through the smoke and mirrors and were using the business as something to keep us busy while we each figured out how to do what we really wanted with our lives.

Rich is a fashion designer turned model agent turned designer/model agent. He has a tee shirt line, started with a photographer friend of his that sells out, all around the world. If you have children, it is likely that you have cringed at seeing they or their friends wearing black, white or pink shirts with block letter statements such as “Please don’t feed the models”, “I Did Brittany Three Times” or “On The Rebound, You’ll Do.” Those are my friend Richie’s shirts. It is his voice being carried through the media. Ever since Nicole Kidman, Ryan Seacrest, and Gwen Stefani started being wearing them the stores cannot get enough. When Paris Hilton was photographed wearing “This is not a photo opportunity” Urban Outfitters placed an order for a hundred thousand units. The irony lies in that he is poking fun at the entertainment business and the idiots he works with and for. People are paying $35.00 a piece for a bit of cloth that makes them cool. Richard is truly brilliant.

Rich and I had dinner last week. In fact I have made three trips this last month, bearing the four hour drive for the sole purpose of dinner with my friend. I stay with my baby brother in his tiny apartment littered with art students, empty beer bottles, dirty dishes, and other gorgeous accoutrement of nineteen year old city life. I sleep head to toe with him on this horribly uncomfortable futon thing that has likely not been washed since its purchase. I shower in a bathroom so littered with newspapers and empty shampoo bottles that I feel dirtier just by walking through the door. But I willingly endure these discomforts because I know that upon my arrival in my now former office I will be greeted with a warm “ello mate.”

Dinner was at Pop, a restaurant frequented by models and their agents because the owner brilliantly gave us all a standard fifty percent discount. To have dinner with three drinks a piece is less costly than going out for inexpensive Indian. So there we went. We took the back booth because Rich wanted to talk to the cute waitress who’d been checking him out the week before. He had Jack with a splash of Coke, and I a Stoli Martini, up with a twist. The waitress brought our drinks. Richard gave her a smile and I could sense her knees melting. He has a unique charm, this scruffy rogue friend of mine, and he uses it often.

They exchanged pleasantries and introduced themselves. Not that the girl paid any attention to me, the single one. She was not my type, but that’s irrelevant, because there has always been a healthy competition between Rich and I. He looks like Rob Lowe according to the ridiculous number of women who walk up to him just to tell him that , and well, it just frustrates me. I believe myself to be equally attractive - but my mother’s efforts to mold me into that perfectly sweet vanilla kind of upper middle or lower upper class boy who will one day make a great husband (who, let it be known is a rarity in today’s world) and so should be taken seriously only as a long term prospect, has forever been a challenge for me when trying to pick a girl up. I’m just too damned polite.

Frustrated from lack of attention, I turned to Rich. “I’m going to ruin this for you”.
“Now why would you go and do a bloody fool thing like that”
“Because I have a competitive advantage”
“Right” He grins.
“Right” I nod.
“How you gonna do that mate?”
“Watch and learn.”

The waitress returned with new drinks and Richard once again engaged her in conversation. Surprise, surprise, she was an aspiring model, and surprise, surprise, Richard let it be known that he is an agent. I should be noted that he did leave out a very important fact. He books men, not women. I had been the women’s agent.
He asks where she lived –
Ashley, as we have been informed is her name , replies: “On the Upper East Side”
My cue to butt in. “Really? Where about?”
“82nd and Third.”
“Great area. I used be at 84th and Third. Hey - Have you had the S’Mores at DTUT yet?”
“No! Oh my gosh I’ve been dying to try them! That place looks so warm and cozy.”
“It’s the best way to spend a Snowy afternoon”
“But I’d feel stupid going there alone. I’m new to town.”
“Well, you need to make it happen – what do you say we give it a try?”
“Sure!” Let me give you my number…”.

The beautiful aspiring model cocktail waitress who had never been to get S’Mores on Second Avenue turned around and sauntered towards the bar where she grabs a napkin with which to write her number. She returns wearing a smile, and hands it to me. I graciously accept it and inform her I will call next week. She nods and excuses herself to take care of another table.

I turned to Rich and smiled.
He frowned back at me. “Right mate, how’d you do that?”
“Because your smile says, I’m a great one night stand. Mine says, I’m gonna be a great Daddy”
He punched me. “Fucker”

A boy whom we each represented, individually, at different points in our careers, Mike, comes up to us to say hello. It is his last night working at Pop. He’s just given up modeling to work for VH1. I am pleased to hear he is doing something that interests him, for I had always thought, like many of the people I represented, that he was too smart to spend his days in front of, rather than behind a camera.

The exchange between the three of us is pleasant. Mike has no idea that Richard and I no longer work together, does not know of the recent changes in my life, does not know that I am a student rather than an agent. I have no reason to tell him. He treats me with the same regard he used when I was his manager - defers to me, looks for my approval with his plans.

Mike is almost overly gratuitous, the way one would treat a school teacher not seen in years with that obvious respect we have for someone whom we have only experienced in a power position. It is strange for me to participate in this exchange with all of the changes that have been going on in my life. I get a little thrill as I listen to the words coming out of my mouth. It is fun to be in that role again for a few minutes, and I process countless thoughts as I come to realization that the formidable boy I once was is morphing into a thoughtful adult. I am growing up, shedding adolescence, enjoying who I have become, taking each of the experiences that have molded me and sewing together an identity based on who I am, not what I do.

I turn to my friend, forever done with Mike and all that he represents.
“Richard. I am going to be a magazine editor.”
“What about marketing? You are far too talented not market something”
“What do you think an editor does? They are tastemakers. Dumbass”
“Great. The whole bloody world will be wearing nothing but beige by the time you’re through.”
“Designer Beige.”
“God help us. Now when are you going to start on that book of mine?”
“I need photoshop in order to open the files”
“You haven’t got photoshop?”
“Nope. Its something like seven hundred dollars.”
“What you got? PC or Mac”
“PC”
“Swing by the office tomorrow and I’ll have a copy for you”
“Nice”
“What do you say then? Shall we have another drink?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions.” I call out to Mike. “Bring us another round.”

The next day we are scheduled to meet for lunch. As I’ve told you, I cannot get enough of my friend, and so whenever in town, we see each other not less than twice. I parked my car on Crosby Street, just across from my old office, hopped out, and ran to a payphone. I called Rich who he said he’d be a minute. The actual minute lasted ten. Not a big deal, I wasn’t freezing or anything, given that it was December and two days before Christmas.

By the time I was appropriately frostbitten, my friend arrived with a bootlegged copy of photoshop.

“This is for you to help me with my book. It’s a little tricky to put on the machine so call me if you have troubles.”
“Thanks. I’ll upload it as soon as I get home and we’ll get this thing going.”
“Brilliant”
We walked to my car and find that I had gotten a ticket for sixty five dollars. We decide this entitles me to at least an hour of parking and so turn in the opposite direction and walk towards Chinatown. Once there I suggest a restaurant I used to order from quite frequently, the Excellent Dumpling House.

“Oh mate, they’re not excellent are they?”
“What do you mean, it’s a great place”
“They don’t even have dumplings”
“How could they not? The sign claims that not only do they have dumplings, but that they are in fact excellent.”
“Fine. But if they haven’t got dumplings I am going to punch someone”
“Look at the menu.” I point to it. “They have dumplings”

We walk in to the crowded restaurant where my friend brazenly walks up to the service counter and speak to the very flustered Asian counterperson.
“Right. Have you got shrimp dumplings”
She responds. “We hah seafood dumpring”
“Why not Shrimp?”
“No Shlimp dumpring. Onry Seafood.”
“Well, why haven’t you got shrimp ones?”
I decide to save the poor woman. “Richard, just shut up and get Seafood dumplings”
“Fine. I’ll take the Seafood dumplings and give us an order of whatever he wants.
“No odah heeah. Odah at taber”
“You mean I have to sit first? But I’m hungry now.”
I butt in again. “Richard. Please. You’ll have your dumplings at the table”
“Fine. But they better be good.”

We sit down and Rich begins to tell me about the trials of running a business in a part time capacity. His pr firm is frustrated with him, clients take too long to pay, and large companies are ripping off his slogans. I offer support, even suggesting that I get on the phone to act as his accounts payable department. He graciously accepts and changes the topic.

He regales me with stories about the adventures he had in Thailand the prior month, and much as I’d like to share them with you, I think its best I leave that to him. Let’s just say he had a ridiculous time. And had the stories come out of anyone else’s mouth I wouldn’t believe them. But this is Richard Wheeler, the man who came to vacation in America and never left, who gets into kickboxing competitions on the streets of Bangkok and miraculously lives to tell. This is a man who has booked male models for four years and somehow maintains a modicum of sanity. This is the man whose tee shirts you will likely buy if for no other reason than he is simply cool incarnate.

I am struck while listening just how impressed I am by my friend. To call him insane would be inaccurate, he is difficult, but then he’s an agent, and a designer. Moreover he is a fine human being, with impeccable talent, and a morality that is rarely found in people, let alone my former business. I am honored to collaborate with him on this project. I hope I do it justice, because it is my first attempt at writing anything. But I owe to our friendship, and the belief this sorry schmuck has in me, to see it through to fruition.

And so I am beginning this project for the both of us. It is for Richard, the completion of act – and perhaps his last stance as a model’s agent. He has wanted to see this book done for two years and I don’t think he can retire from the business without it first being published. My friend likes to have the last word on everything in case you can’t tell.

For me, it is an exercise in self discovery. I don’t know that I am a writer, but I do know I have a story to tell, and a great one at that. Richard is a part of it. And as we have crossed paths, over and over again, for four years, it seems fitting that we tell it together – he through his visual depictions and witty commentary, and I through my words. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have had living it.

The dumplings come. Richard coalesces to the claim that this restaurant serves excellent dumplings. But they are not shrimp. We agree then, that there is a bit of false advertising taking place. It is however, as decided by us, reasonable that they not have shrimp dumplings. They could have been out of that particular crustacien. Or more likely, to have seafood as opposed to shrimp is slightly more democratic in that no one individual fish is being left out of the mix. This too, is decided by us, quite reasonable. Richard has determined he will return to the restaurant, for the dumplings are indeed worthy of a go again. I suggest we rename the place however, for they do not wholly deliver the promise of excellence. It is now called, between us, the Reasonable Dumpling House. After all, we are taste makers.