I recently attended a press junket with Tony where he named his biggest influence as Mr. Tony Bennett. Seems logical, right? The crowd bought it. I did not. Tony Bennett is all smiles. My own Tony prefers to grimace. Tony Bennett has mass appeal. Mine appeals to me and me alone.

Tony, first and foremost, is a liar. This is not pejorative, simply fact. Tony wouldn’t exist without imagination, and it is his lies that help you and I imagine. But I happen to know that he likes his narratives to be the same as his suits: well-pressed and flattering. And, well, the real story is neither.

Tony Sr. (his “daddy”) was a man named Walter. Yup, Walter. Don’t fret, though, because “daddy” had his own alter ego: Liberace. The stylish and sequined piano player took Tony up to his room one night and the rest is history. Well, almost. Before I go on, though, it is important to realize that Liberace once said: “For me to wear a simple tuxedo on stage would be like asking Marlene Dietrich to wear a house dress.” I think that is why Tony no longer claims him, but I could be wrong.

Lee (daddy’s nickname) spoiled Tony, buying him all of the world’s shiny treasures and teaching him the creative powers of booze and coke. And Tony, in return, was doting, devoted, and performed any task that would bring his papa pleasure. It was a harmonious match-up. Enter megalomania.

Liberace was 52 when he asked Tony to do him a favor. He had a photo of himself at age 30 that he loved and wanted Tony to do an impression of this photo. And by “impression” he meant, “Have my plastic surgeon fix your face to look like mine used to in this photo.” Tony, who has his own manias, said, “Why not?”

This grotesque act of love was followed by addictions to painkillers and cocaine, and eventually Tony became so strung out that Lee decided he wanted someone else to serve him. Sorry, I mean to “love” him. Someone more compatible. Tony was left behind, to deal with the world alone. That’s when he found me.

Oblivious to the cycle, Tony spends his days wanting me to behave just so: to follow his mannerisms and habits, to compliment his personal interests. I am also to mimic his routines and healthy lifestyle (“Whiskey before water!”). And my clothes are always up to scrutiny. The tyranny, it seems, lives on. So far my face is still intact, but it’s only time…

Now, I am one to forgive, to make excuses, and to indulge. I believe in love. And I understand where he’s coming from. Why he wants, why EVERYONE wants, a lover who mirrors the things he likes best about himself. I used to want that, too. Perhaps I still do. However, I do not wish to look like Liberace. Go figure.