Saturday, November 10, 2007

A primer on my daily routine, before I share the below story. Wake up round 10:30. Go to gym. Eat lunch. Start working in the afternoon. My friends know my routine, natch. Meaning, they know I'm nonexistent before about 10:30.

The following served as my introduction to my now "partner," business-wise. Wednesday I awoke to the sound of both my home phone and cell ringing continuously. I have a text from my friend Dawn that reads "I just pimped you out." Huh? I then had a follow up text from a number that I didn't know that read, "Awake?"

I think next I called Dawn and said "What the fuck is going on?" Well, her friend Tom, whom I've never met, had called her in a tizzy that a.m. He had to audition for the Food Network later in the afternoon, and was in desperate need of someone to go over to his house and help him out with typing up the application. By this time it was about 12 p.m. He begged Dawn to help him, but she was on her way to Boca. Nothing I can do, she told him, but I have a friend who works from home and is a writer and she'd be perfect. "But I guarantee she's at home sleeping right now." Hence the bombardment of phone calls. So I'm like, okay, whatevs, always up for an adventure.

Next Tom calls me, explains (barely) what is going on and asks if I can help. He lives a few blocks from me and says he's got to get the food cooked and the questionnaire done by about 2 p.m. "Tom it's after 12 p.m. and I just woke up."

"Brush your teeth, throw on some clothes and get over here. You can impress me another time."


"Oh, and can you stop at Epicure to get me some heads of butter lettuce and some white vinegar?"

"Are you serious?"


I know Epicure—similar to Gourmet Garage but even more upscale. They're not going to have Heinz white vinegar, I know this, but he's the foodie and assures me they will. I get in the car, race to Epicure, grab two heads of butter lettuce and search in vain for the damn vinegar. No dice. I race over to Wild Oats, find some white vinegar and race to Tom's pad.

This is the first thing I see when I walk in. And chronic is the first thing I smell.

What's with the clothing pyramid is my first question? (Clothes he's getting rid of.) Tom's in the kitchen amid a pile of food. We make brief intros and he sits me down at his computer. I type away while he dictates, he smokes and cooks, we hit it off like two old friends. When I'm done, I read the app and it says he needs two photos and a copy of his license.

"Okay, ready to print," I say.

"Yeah, that's the thing. I have no way to print."

"Uh, Tom why the hell did you wait till today to do this shit?"

"That's a whole other story," and natch, the chronic wafting through the apt. rendered my question moot anywho.

"I need you to go to a copy shop, print this, copy my license and print the pictures and meet me at the Hotel Astor."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Please Ms. Green, I'm begging you," he pleads, "I can't do this without you."

He offers me money and a bag. Take the bag, leave the money. Race out again to the closest copy shop. Closed. Call him in a panic—I think by this point I was more concerned than him—he tells me another shop to go to. I race into the shop; they don't do copies or print anything and can't help. They point me to another shop around the corner. I'm now running down Washington Ave. in SoBe, parked illegally. I tear into the shop, they do it for me, then I race to the Astor. I run into the lobby and Tom is nowhere to be found. I ask a guy sitting at the counter if he's seen Tom. No, he hasn't, he says, but he may be in the casting room already. I run upstairs and knock on the door of the casting room.

"Hi," I pant, "Has Tom arrived yet?"

"No, he's late and should be here any minute," CD says.

"Okay, I have his paperwork, he's on his way."

Go back to the lobby and wait. Even when I'm a complete mess, I'm always early.

By this point the CD is pacing in front of the door. Tom ambles in, shades on, chef jacket on. I run over to him and hand him everything.

"Thanks, assistant," he says.

"You're welcome." I make my exit.

While in his apt. earlier he had asked me if I'm organized—hello—and decided he needed someone like me to help him organize his career. Sure, I say, I work from home and have some time on my hands. Tom is a deejay, video artist and private chef. He needs a publicist, manager and assistant all in one.

Meanwhile, he'd promised to cook Dawn and me dinner that night. . . . To be continued, as we had another episode yesterday.

But his You Tube videos—especially the Marley one at the bottom—will give you some idea of this unique character who's entered my life.