Welcome to My World Read online

  WELCOME

  TO MY

  WORLD

  I dedicate this story to the lovers and iconoclasts

  who never stop the world from spinning,

  and to the two people who have taught

  me the beauty of life and love—

  my mother, Patti, and my father, John

  Gallery Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2011 by Johnny Weir

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  First Gallery Books hardcover edition January 2011

  GALLERY BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  Designed by Jaime Putorti

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Weir, Johnny, 1984–.

  Welcome to my world / Johnny Weir.

  p. cm.

  1. Weir, Johnny, 1984–. 2. Figure skaters—United States—Biography. I. Title.

  GV850.W45 A3 2011

  796.91'2092 B—dc22 2010044198

  ISBN 978-1-4516-1028-4

  ISBN 978-1-4516-1137-3 (ebook)

  Contents

  Prologue

  1 A Very Weird Child

  2 The Natural

  3 A Star Is Born

  4 Enfant Terrible

  5 Embracing the Starving Artist

  6 Razzle-Dazzle

  7 Almost Famous

  8 Birdbrain

  9 Golden Boy

  10 After the Storm

  11 Growing Pains

  12 From Russia with Love (and an Iron Fist)

  13 Weircapades

  14 The Last Stand

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  I get more messages than Jesus. Actually, make that Santa.

  My BlackBerry and iPhone won’t stop their incessant buzzing. First it’s my best friend Paris (and no, not the heiress) on the personal line, then a very hot and very young, supposedly straight guy who attended my weekly Weeds night fête and complimented my cupcake selection. What could he want? Not the time to find out. Ditto for the calls and texts on my professional line: record producer, ice show producer, reality show producer. It’ll all have to wait.

  Right now the only distraction that matters is the wailing intercom in my manager Tara’s Manhattan apartment. Our driver has been angrily trying to get us downstairs and into the car for the last forty-five minutes.

  Just a few more seconds for a last look in the mirror. Other than a black Viktor & Rolf jacket over a stunning emerald green chiffon Pucci blouse, the rest of my outfit is pretty much the Johnny Weir uniform: black skinny jeggings and pointy black Christian Louboutins. Joey, my makeup artist, has gone way over the top with my eyes to match the magnitude of tonight’s event. A final turn to check out my mullet, newly dyed magenta (an absurd little touch that lands me on both People.com and PerezHilton.com the next day), and we’re off.

  The Town Car races just a few blocks east through Hell’s Kitchen and over to Sixth Avenue, where a mad jumble of photographers and gawkers gather in front of Radio City Music Hall. We could have taken a cab the short distance. But celebrities don’t take cabs, Tara says, they take cars.

  “I’m not a celebrity,” I say to her as the driver opens our door. “Just an ice skater.”

  Instantly we are enveloped in craziness. On the red carpet of the Sex and the City 2 movie premiere, where it’s names, names, names, I have to keep my jaw from dropping open (I don’t want to look bad in photos, after all). Chris Noth walks by, then Donald Trump, quickly followed by Ugly Betty’s Becki Newton. All the Gossip Girls bring up the rear.

  Anyone who is famous and in New York City is on that carpet.

  “Johnny! Johnny!”

  My name is being shouted from every angle. Photographers want me to give them flair and TV reporters want the crazy quotes. But even more surreal are the stars trying to get ahold of me. Gabourey Sidibe, an Oscar nominee, stops to tell me she’s a fan, right before I get a big hug from the French actor Gilles Marini. I can’t believe people whose lives are splashed in the pages of Us Weekly or People know my name.

  I can’t even believe I’m at this premiere, but I received my invitation from the star of Sex herself—my icon Sarah Jessica Parker. Daytime talk-show host Kelly Ripa (who has been a longtime supporter of mine but became anüberfan after the 2010 Olympics) and her husband, Mark Consuelos, had me and Tara over to their gorgeous, two-story penthouse for dinner, where we were sipping wine when in walked SJP escorted by Bravo exec and on-air personality Andy Cohen.

  I had a mini heart attack deep down inside. A fan of Sex and the City since the show started, I have always wanted to be Carrie Bradshaw. The character informed a lot of my youth and fashion daring; she inspired me to be a New York–style single lady.

  She held out her hand to me and said, “I’m Sarah Jessica.”

  “Of course you are,” I said, awestruck. “I’m Johnny Weir.”

  “I know exactly who you are,” she said with a Bradshaw-esque glimmer in her eye.

  Sarah Jessica was everything I imagined she’d be: sweet, tiny, beautiful, good smelling, kind of like a fairy-god celebrity. We all sat around under the stars on Kelly and Mark’s roof deck, enjoying delicious food, talking about projects and kids. I felt just like one of the ladies.

  Before Sarah Jessica left, we exchanged contact information and she invited me to her big premiere. I was still on cloud nine and already crafting an outfit in my head when an hour and a half later, I received an email from her with the subject line: “This Eve.” “Such an honor to meet you,” she wrote. “Look forward to seeing you at the premiere.”

  So tonight, thanks to Sarah Jessica, I’m having a true Cinderella-cum-Carrie-Bradshaw moment. Inside Radio City’s theater, there seems to be a star in every other seat. Tara spots Jennifer Love Hewitt wearing the same Hervé Leger dress as she, completely making her night (especially after I tell Tara she wears it best).

  As we slowly make our way down the aisle, someone taps me on the back. Turning around, I realize it’s Vera Wang. As the famed bridal designer turned designer of everything including mattresses, she is a legend in her time. But she was also part of my competition, having designed the 2010 Winter Olympic costumes for my archrival Evan Lysacek. As if that weren’t bad enough, she decided to trot out some nasty comments about my Olympic costumes in the press. She tells me she’d been misquoted in the press and wants to bury the hatchet. Vera Wang doesn’t have to apologize to me. She’s Vera Wang. But I accept.

  Glancing to Vera’s right, I notice Anna Wintour, a sight that sends my heart into palpitations. To me, Ms. Wintour is everything. Not only is she the ultimate dominatrix of style, but I love how she runs her magazine and how brutal she’ll be to get ahead. Even if you don’t respect fashion, you have to respect her for being on top of her industry for so long.

  Vera must have seen my eyes darting in the Vogue editor-in-chief’s direction because she decides to introduce us. “This is my friend Anna,” she says in the way of only the very rich.

  For me, this is on par with meeting Lady Gaga or Christina Aguilera, a big, b
ig moment. I don’t know how to make my approach. Usually I like to hug and kiss on both cheeks (I’m like a mobster and hug everyone I meet, even businessmen). But Anna is already sitting in her seat, so I don’t want to climb over Vera to hug and kiss her, risking the possibility of my tripping and squashing the tiny fashionista to death and ending her reign at Vogue. No, I definitely don’t want that to happen.

  So I have to settle for extending a very well-manicured hand to take hers. It just doesn’t seem proper, though. So while she’s holding my hand, I curtsy as if she’s the Queen Mother and say, “It truly is an honor.” Then I beat a hasty retreat lest I start to stutter like a fool.

  As we continue down the aisle, Tara leans in to me and asks, “Who was that?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  After deciding to never ever speak to Tara again because she doesn’t know who Anna Wintour is, I take another look at our tickets. Where are our seats? We are still walking toward the front of the theater, past Anna Wintour and Vera Wang, past Suzanne Somers and Donald Trump. We even pass Liza Minnelli and we’re still going. All these bigwigs and legends have worse seats than me? When we find our seats—down front and dead center—I feel absolutely gorgeous and successful. I think to myself, This is exactly where I like to be.

  The Sex premiere comes and goes, swirling among the countless events, meetings, awards, and obligations that make up the whirlwind I call my life. Ever since the Olympics, that spectacularly individual moment on the ice when my fate as an athlete was finally sealed in artistry and controversy, I have done anything and everything under the sun.

  Here’s an abridged list:

  —Went to the Kentucky Derby in a giant black Chanel sun hat decorated with a white rabbit carcass

  —Toured the Fashion Institute of Technology to decide whether I should attend design school

  —Judged Miss USA Pageant in a multipastel Chris Benz feather coat because I didn’t want the beauty queens showing me up

  —Hired a stylist

  —Accepted an award from GLAAD

  —Landed a book deal

  —Filmed an episode of The Rachel Zoe Project

  —Filmed an episode of The Soup

  —Did a voice-over as a waiter on American Dad

  —Appeared on The Wendy Williams Show

  —Held meetings about a fashion line

  —Did a photo shoot for MAC Cosmetics

  —Skated in a benefit in Harlem hosted by Donald Trump

  —Wore headbands to everything

  —Taught a skating seminar to children to Indianapolis

  —Met Cher after attending her concert

  —Commentated on the World Championships for TV

  —Got snapped by paparazzi while birthday shopping for my mom with my brother in SoHo

  —Recorded a single called “Dirty Love”

  —Appeared on The Joy Behar Show twice in one week

  —Appeared on the George Lopez show twice in one week

  —Covered Elton John’s Oscar party for the E! network

  —Met Kelly Osbourne, love of my life

  —Took meetings about a perfume and skincare launch

  —Appeared as a judge on RuPaul’s Drag Race

  Friends and family think I’m crazy to run myself ragged on the heels of a soul-wrenching, medal-less Olympics. “Take it easy and give yourself some time,” they say. But at this point I’ll take almost anyone’s call, because I have to figure out the next chapter of my life. I want to explore all the opportunities being handed to me because I know they won’t last for long.

  Plus, quiet reflection and waiting is not my way. For the past thirteen years, it’s been beaten into me to never look back.

  As a figure skater, sitting in the kiss and cry area—that little box at a competition where we wait alongside our coaches with TV cameras trained closely on our faces for our scores—everything you have worked so hard and so long for comes down to a few numbers. You kill yourself and give everything to be ready for an event, and then in a flash it’s over, leaving nothing in its wake but a profound emptiness. Whether you have achieved a medal or failed miserably, loved or hated the process of getting there, in that second you fall to the pit of your existence.

  You feel tired. No, you feel dead. And in that state of utter depletion, you have to immediately start building yourself up for whatever’s next. The job of a champion is to leave the moment behind as soon as it’s happened in order to get back on the ice and start the process all over again.

  For so long I stripped my life down to nothing but skating to become one of the best in the world. Despite my many attempts at rebellion, I was constantly ruled by my coaches, training, the United States Figure Skating Association (“the federation”), and other strictures of my sport. And then, in what felt like a heartbeat, it was done.

  With all the astonishing adventures and staggering catastrophes of my competitive skating career behind me, I’m in the kiss and cry of my life.

  1

  A Very Weird Child

  Above the bed where I slept as a child, a small hexagonal window let in a vision of the dark woods outside our home. I’d often lie awake at night as the shadows danced across my bedroom wall. The trees would shake back and forth in the wind, a tense crackling noise accompanying their ominous listing. I was sure one of them would crash through the roof, instantaneously and tragically ending my life at the tender age of seven.

  My flair for drama, or melodrama anyway, came early.

  But as much as I hated that window in the darkness, when the sun shined I loved its view onto the outside world. I was pretty divided about my entire bedroom: a torture chamber by night, my showpiece by day. When my parents built their dream house in Quarryville, Pennsylvania, they involved me in the planning so that I could have exactly the room I wanted. The result included lacy white curtains, a small wooden desk for drawing, and a bright apple-red carpet (my mother, a huge fan of red who even chose it as the color of our kitchen sink, was my inspiration).

  I also picked a water bed, just like my parents had. Water beds don’t come in kid’s sizes, so every night I’d climb into this gigantic bed, my tiny frame rolling on the seductive waves that were beyond my comprehension at the time. Our cat Shadow always slept beside me. I loved that cat, but his incessant kneading filled my mind with visions of the bed popping and drowning us both in a geyser of water. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, there’s heaven and hell in each of us. That described pretty much my whole childhood, including my cat.

  The duality was a product of my hyperactive imagination. In the waking hours, it was my biggest asset. A quiet child who loved to play alone, I dreamed up new and fantastic scenarios each day. Sitting in the middle of the forest, mounds of earth became lions in the African veldt and flowers turned into exotic birds. Jumping over fences and tree stumps, I turned into a horse competing dressage at Devon.

  But at night my mind turned on me. The hexagonal window was just one example of many, including the horse farm display on the far side of my room. My father had built the wooden stable to house my prized collection of beautiful Breyer horses. At fifteen dollars a pop, the horses were expensive but I was addicted to them, so every holiday I’d get a new one to add to my pastoral tableau. It wasn’t playing I did so much as meticulous art direction. And it got me through the day. Come nightfall, however, the horses betrayed me, their regal faces grimacing like something out of Satan’s stable.

  Given my troubled relationship with the dark, I needed not one night-light to fall asleep, but three. For good measure, my mom would also put on the radio. She tuned it to a soft rock station, the kind of music she liked to listen to, hoping that the sounds of Eric Clapton and Amy Grant would lull me to sleep.

  One particular night, the undertones of ’80s synthesizers began to work its calming magic and I felt myself drifting off to sleep. But when the song ended, a commercial came on the air. I don’t know what it was for—car insurance, Mothers Against Drunk Driv
ing—but the most terrifying noise of shattering glass and crunching bone filled my room. I lunged for the radio to make it stop and began searching for another station with less drama.

  Scanning the dial, I moved past late-night preachers talking about what Jesus wants and classic rock with its whining guitars until something totally unexpected and foreign rose up from the speaker: notes on a piano, then a flute in the background. The ethereal sound, although heavy and somber, made me feel very light. Blue skies and plains with long, green grass broke through the gloom of my room. The music transported me to another world of my own design by giving me the space to make up my own stories.

  At the end of the song, I leaned in close to learn from the announcer that the piece was from Chopin and the station classical. A vast and magical world opened up where I could imagine whatever I wanted. I kept the dial glued to the classical station from then on, unaware of the very real places music would one day take me.

  The truth is, you had to have an active imagination to not go crazy where I grew up. A speck on the map in the middle of rural Pennsylvania, Quarryville’s most exotic feature is its Amish people. The isolated subdivision where we lived sat in the middle of seven Amish farms. Kids could walk down the street late at night by themselves, and people put away the locks for their doors long ago.

  Town itself consisted of one gas station and one traffic light. An Amish store called Goods sold socks and camouflage gear for hunting, a popular pastime in the area. There was one video store, a Chinese takeout place, and an ice cream stand that only stayed open in the summer. The most extraordinary thing that happened during my childhood was a hot air balloon crashing down in a nearby cul-de-sac. When its shaken riders knocked on our door to ask for help I thought I would die from excitement.

  My parents, John and Patti, moved the family to Quarryville from nearby Oxford, where they had gown up. They’ve known each other since kindergarten. Dad, a football player, and Mom, a cheerleader, began dating after high school, married, had me four years later and my brother, Boz, four years after that. Jobs at a nuclear power plant in Peach Bottom brought them to Quarryville. For as long as I can remember, they both rose at dawn each day to go to the plant, where my mother had a desk job and my father was an engineer, and returned at night for a family dinner.