XAVIER SCHIPANI
“You’re gonna love this,” he said, as he handed me a suspiciously hot-pink bag.
He didn’t know who I was, and all I knew about him was that he was a celebrity—the first gay celebrity I’d ever met—and he had an impossibly thin, maybe Sharpied-in, mustache. I kept staring at it. Was that really his mustache?
“Thanks,” I said nicely, taking the bag.
I knew his name was John Waters, and I knew he was supposed to be famous or something, but honestly I didn’t know any more than that and I didn’t give a shit. I was 17.
