On a beautiful New York City night in the early 90s, I found myself gliding down the electric streets of Manhattan walking like I was a mashup of Tony Manero and George Jefferson. I didn't care, I was in New York, the only city I've ever been in where the energy enters the soles of your feet and almost as if a disco ball was hanging from your heart, visibly exits out of every pore of your being.

I was in town to spread my wings, grow my brand, and attempt to do something I'd never done before, be a model. I mean why not, it was the 90s, the decade that birthed the “supermodel.” There were the likes of Cindy, Naomi, and Kate, why not add Dan into that mix? Although that's lacking the necessary je ne sais quoi, it probably only would have worked if I added an accent to my name and pronounced it “Day-on.” There we go, much better.

The following morning I had an early call time for my shoot in SoHo, and just shooting there made me feel so-ho much like a model. I was excited, nervous, and truthfully, a little hungry…okay, a lot hungry. I remember being told by someone, or more than likely, it was my own brain, which came up with the concept to not eat dinner the night prior to, or breakfast the morning of the shoot, with the hopes of making myself look a bit more svelte.

This was a serious gig, so I stuck to my male modeling guidelines. It was an ad for Iceberg clothing, which was to be used in magazines and billboards in the US and Europe and was to be shot by world-renowned fashion photographer Steven Meisel. He was, and still is, one of the biggest names in fashion photography history. Not only had he worked with every top model of the day, he was fresh off of shooting Madonna's book Sex. So all of that being said and having never done anything close to this before, I seriously had no freaking clue what to expect.

I remember the car dropping me off outside of what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse, and the ground was shaking from the bass of the house music pouring through the cracks in the walls. Knowing all that I thought I knew about the fashion industry, I wisely deduced that I must be in the right place. Once inside the massive space, I didn't see a soul, just a lit set, a huge fan on each side of it, a rack of clothes, and the most incredible table of food packed with tempting spread of goodies for the non-svelte model types.

A few people started to emerge as I busted a move toward a bagel the size of a pizza. I quickly turned my bagel-diving reach into a handshake just in time to be greeted by a woman who whisked me off to a makeup chair for some much-needed help for my face. After I was pancaked and powdered, I was led to the wardrobe rack to choose an outfit for the shoot. Apparently, in the fashion industry, you don't need a private room to change clothes, all you need is blaring house music to divert attention away from your goods and grumbling svelte stomach.

Once I was hooked up and ready to go in Iceberg's finest, I was pointed to my mark in front of the lights, and within seconds of me reaching it, both of the massive fans turned on and almost blew me to Hoboken. I just stood there trying to clear the dust from my eyes, not sure if this was a photoshoot or an off, off Broadway production of Twister.

Then almost as if Scotty beamed him up, through my blurred vision I saw a figure appear with long black hair, a black beret, and a camera. He immediately started taking photos and yelling things in my vicinity and by that I surmised this must be Steven Meisel and that the shoot had begun. I was having trouble making out his instructions over the thumping music and howling wind in my ears, so I went to some of my predetermined go to moves, i.e., JCPenney catalog modeling poses I practiced in my hotel room that morning in front of a mirror. At one point, I recall him pausing, dropping the camera away from his eye and yelling something that I was having trouble deciphering. I believe our exchange went as follows:

Steven nodded his head, then bit down on his lips and I, quickly becoming quite the model, followed his lead and “fluffed my lips.” He yelled what appeared to be, some sort of approval and then started rattling off photos to the reverberating beat of the music. I was caught up in the moment and was in what many models might call, “The Zone.” Actually, I don't think any models call it that, but whatever it's called, I was there. With my lips more fluffed than a Four Seasons pillow, I began proudly ripping off some of the greatest pouty, duck-face poses 25 years prior to their birth on Instagram.

Then almost as quickly as he appeared, Steven Meisel disappeared, leaving me and my lips alone on the set, wondering if I made him proud and oddly enough questioning the meaning of the lyrics to the now-thumping “You Spin Me Right Round” by Dead Or Alive. Then, reminiscent to when recess ends in grade school, the fans shut off and the same woman who greeted me approached me and said, “great job” and began to walk me out. Thankfully, she didn't notice my Copperfield-esque sleight of hand, as I slid a bagel in my back pocket right before I reached the door. Just like that, my dreams of high-fashion fortune and fame were over (Figure 18.1)—or were they? My meeting later that evening at Calvin Klein might have a say so in how this story ends.