NY Mirror

In the be-careful-what-you-wish-for department— insert a sample of some old Diana Rosssong here— Sean "Puffy" Combs's birthday party last week promised lots of celebrities, but about as much spiritual nirvana as that lugubrious piece of torture, Meet Joe Black. In fact, it was the most hideously disorganized event in the field of infinite possibilities, though the experience had started promisingly enough when I received a video invite, instead of the usual banal fax, the week before. Alas, the video turned out to feature dozens of nuisances (Pauly Shore), beholden stars (Mariah Carey reclining in a sultry pose to show us once again how very sexy she is), and indeterminate models and Scores dancer types bending over backwards to puff Puffy in unfunny ways that made one happy to be marginal enough not to have been included.

Naturally, I wanted to go anyway, but the video didn't say where the party was— probably the lower rings of hell— only who to call. I rang them— on a phone, not by vibes— and they eventually called back to ask where to send my tickets. "The same place you sent the [stupid] video!" I replied. I never got the tickets. I called again. They didn't call back. I called the auxiliary publicist. They didn't call back. My mind started sampling Sex Pistols tunes. I had to go to The Waterboy party instead! How sad for mankind that I never got to wish Puffy a happy fucking birthday any more than I was able to celebrate his restaurant opening last year. (At that overcrowded mess, press were welcomed back to the sidewalk). Now that he's a year older, I hope the misbegotten doofus— don't be vicious— starts to look, well, puffy. Sample this!