NY Mirror

Brigid Berlin read to a stellar old-guard crowd, including Monique Van Vooren, who came late, got everyone's attention, then left early.

Anyway--calm down, Michael, or you'll get your pool scene--I dragged my perky rump to a Soho gallery last week to pay homage to Brigid Berlin, who's slimmed down but is still a woman of substance. The Warhol star read random stories from her life to a stellar old-guard crowd--including Monique Van Vooren, who came late, got everyone's attention, then left early--and it had a pretty good beat to it, the sirens being subliminal. Berlin began by announcing that her dog Whoopi had just been killed in a tragic accident and ''she was the love of my life!'' That established a rather disturbed tone, but then Berlin charmingly re-created autobiographical highlights involving everything from prescribed amphetamines to orally applied Clearasil (It must have been the amphetamines). Most harrowing of all, she told us she'd only provided Diet Coke and water for us so we wouldn't get up during her appearance. We didn't.

But perky rumps eventually raised themselves one more time to see Swan Lake, and--though it's a shame that when a gay love story hits Broadway, it has to be an interspecies one--I was entranced by the kinda now, kinda wow, more for tourists than purists, touching and ultimately subversive interpretation. We cheered it for days, then went to the opening-night party at Supper Club to goose the cast and sing ''Swanee, how I love ya, how I love ya.'' My mouth filled with swan cakes, I asked the show's director-choreographer Matthew Bourne why the prince never actually kisses the downy creature of his dreams. ''Because he's repressed to a point where he can accept love, but not sex,'' he said. ''I'm the opposite,'' I informed him. ''I can accept sex, but not love.'' ''But you're from New York!'' Bourne replied. That's true--ooh baby, now hand me that puppet show.

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