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LETTER TO THE EDITOR
by Mike DeCapiteDear Angle,
As one of your subscribers in the New York City area, and a person who enjoys your otherwise lively and informative magazine, I’m writing to warn you of a possible imposter on your staff. In the interests of full disclosure in these times of scurrilous media, let me just give you a little background.
I work as a professional makeup artist. Earlier this year I met Michael DeCapite when we were both working on a music video for our mutual friend, Greg. The location was the Charisma Ballroom in Queens, and the “story” for the video, as they call it in the business, was a little girls’ beauty pageant. This Michael person, who was visiting from out of town, was driving a van picking up lights and humping gear to the location, when, last minute, he gets spotted by Greg’s manager and asked to appear in the video as the MC of the beauty contest. Greg’s manager tells everyone he looks like “a sleazy Sam Rockwell”, which must have gone to this Mike’s head, because the next morning he’s sitting in my makeup chair in a borrowed silk suit asking to be called “Mr. DeCapite” already. Even though I knew he’s just Greg’s friend from San Francisco and a non-professional, I let this ride because working in this business I’m exposed to a lot of egos and life’s too short.
The director tells “Mr. DeCapite” to act like he’s one of the Sopranos, so he’s hamming it up on the runway, hitching up his pants a lot and yanking his tie and finally crowning the winning child and presenting her with a bouquet of white roses. The next thing I know I overhear a couple of the mothers of these little girls ask him if he’s sticking around New York for a few days or if he has to get back to The Coast. This DeCapite character is sitting around acting very “down to earth” with these women and signing autographs, and I’m thinking What is up with this guy? The Coast? He’s from Frisco! And Greg tells me he’s not even really from there, he’s originally from Cleveland. “See you on MTV!” he says.
Anyway, long story short, the end of the shoot he’s back in his dirtball clothes driving me and the hair girl and the wardrobe guy home. Drops me off in Hell’s Kitchen, it’s late, we’re both hungry, so we go around the corner on Ninth Avenue and get some dinner. We have a few laughs, he walks me home, I take his number.
Next thing I know Greg shows me this magazine Angle, this DeCapite’s trying to pass himself off as some kind of journalist writing a weather column.
I ask myself, A weather column? What do I know, I met the guy once—the jury’s still out on this guy. But a couple of months later I’m up late packing for a job in Iowa. I don’t know what to pack, it’s Iowa. Anything west of the Delaware Water Gap—I mean, I don’t know from Iowa. Then I remember the weather column. So I call this DeCapite party, hoping to get some inside scoop.
His phone rings, it’s like 10:30 there, he picks up.
“Yo Cleveland, it’s P. Listen, I’m packing for a job, I gotta know the weather in Iowa.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s late! I got the car service coming in three hours!”
“Iowa?”
“Come on, Cleveland, wake up. I got a situation here, I gotta know what to take.”
“What am I, Al Roker? You think this is some kind of hotline?”
“I read that column. It’s all about the flaking paint and the winos on the corner and your gymbag! Doesn’t tell me anything! There’s no information!”
He says, “It’s summer, the weather’s the same as in New York.”
This gives me a laugh. “The same as New York? Oh really! How peculiar. I’m flying two thousand miles and the weather’s the same as New York! In Iowa! Well thank you very much, you’ve been a big help!”
“It’s the same everywhere north of the equator.”
I can’t believe my ears. I go, “You expect me to believe the weather’s the same two thousand miles away as it is here? Listen, Cleveland, first you’re a van driver, then you’re an actor, and now you’re supposed to this meteorologist person—”
“It’s not that kind of a column,” he says.
“—And you’re out there on the West Coast in your Weather Room, but you used to live here, but you’re really from Cleveland—it’s very strange...”
“I can’t believe this phonecall.”
“You can’t believe it! I need a little help here! A girl’s gotta know what to pack!”
“I’m telling ya, the weather’s exactly the same in Iowa—”
”Not that again!”
“Where you flying to, anyway? What city?”
“Iowa! How should I know? They’re meeting me at La Guardia with the ticket.”
“You wanna know the weather in Iowa? It’s 85 in the day and 68 at night.”
“I need to know! Just do me a favor and go check your dials and your gauges and maps—”
”What the hell’s the difference?” he says. “You gonna pack something different if it’s 85 degrees or 90?”
“Listen, Cleveland: do your job. Check your Weather Computer and call me back.”
I hang up.Ten minutes later he calls me back like this is some big imposition.
He says, “Okay, you ready for this? In Iowa City, a low of 65 and a high of 82. Cedar Rapids is 68 and 84, and it’s 72 and 88 in Council Bluffs. Possibility of thunderstorms.”
“Thunderstorms! See?”
“What do you expect? It’s summer!”
“I gotta go find a raincoat. Some weatherman you are, it’s like you’re doing everyone a favor. Thank you very much.”
I haven’t talked to him since. I’ve got a Sports Illustrated shoot this month in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania, and I need to plan accordingly, but Angle gives me nothing but flowers and vine leaves. Who needs it? I call direct, I get attitude. To me, this is further proof that this DeCapite’s operating in some sort of grey area. Excuse me, but aren’t there some kind of statutes about impersonating a priest or a mailman or other trusted public figures? Not for nothing, but do yourselves a favor and try to be a little more selective about the type of individual you have working for you, because this weatherman is very suspicious.
Pina Mastracci, New York City
p.s.: Congratulations on the new stadium.