[Ed. note: this article was originally published in Dec. 25, 1995 – Jan. 1, 1996 issue of The New York Observer.]
Christmas season in New York. The parties. The star on 57th Street. The tree. Most of the time, it’s never the way it should be. But once in a while, something happens and it works.
Carrie was at Rockefeller Center, thinking about Ghosts of Christmas Past. How many years ago was it, she thought, putting on her skates, that I was last here. Her fingers trembled a little as she wrapped the laces around the hooks. Anticipation. Hoping the ice would be hard and clear.
Samantha Jones made her remember. Lately, Sam had been complaining about not having a boyfriend. About not having a love during the holidays for years and years. “You’re lucky now,” she told Carrie, and they both knew it was true. “I wonder if it will ever happen to me,” Sam said. And both of them knew what “it” was. “I walk by Christmas trees and I feel sad,” said Sam.
‘But I’m Not Gay’
It was Skipper Johnson’s second Christmas in New York, and he was driving everyone crazy. One night, he went to three cocktail parties in a row.
At the first one, he saw James, a make-up artist. James was at the second and third cocktail parties, too, and Skipper talked to him. He couldn’t help talking to everyone. Remy, a hairstylist, came up to Skipper and asked, “What are you doing with that guy James? You’re too good for him.”
“What do you mean?” Skipper said.
“I’ve seen the two of you everywhere together. And let me tell you something. He’s scum. A user. You can do better.”
“But I’m not gay,” Skipper said.
“Oh, sure, darling.”
The next morning Skipper called up Stanford Blatch, the screenwriter. “People thinking I’m gay, it’s bad for my reputation,” he said.
“Please,” said Stanford. “Reputations are like cat litter. They can be changed every day. In fact, they should be. Besides, I’ve got enough of my own problems right now.”
Skipper called up River Wilde, the famous novelist. “I want to see-e-e you,” he said.
“You can’t,” said River.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m busy.”
“Busy with what?”
“With Mark. My new boyfriend.”
“I don’t get it,” Skipper said. “I thought I was your friend.”
“He does things for me that you won’t do.”
There was a pause.
“But I do things for you that he can’t do,” Skipper said.
“Like what?”
Another pause.
