It's around midnight, and I'm in the lobby of a loft building in SoHo, waiting for Lenny Kravitz, and I'm feeling savagely insecure. We're to go to a nightclub, GoldBar, and in my mind, I'm doing that old high-school composition thing, compare and contrast, and the subjects are Kravitz and yours truly.
We're both 43, but he's a multimillionaire and I have no money in the bank, though I do have a nice amount of debt. He's famously handsome, the Brad Pitt of rock'n'roll, and has been married to Lisa Bonet and linked to Nicole Kidman and Naomi Campbell, among others. I'm bald, and my false front tooth has turned brown from coffee. He's sold millions of records singing about love -- his new album is called It Is Time for a Love Revolution. I'm primarily known, and not well at that, for penning self-hating essays, the most famous of which is "I Shit My Pants in the South of France."
Then I remember something crucial: I read several old interviews and profiles of Lenny Kravitz, and it ...