NY Mirror

I chatted up Debbie Matenopoulos, whose mantra was, 'How sick is it that I'm up for an Emmy?'

From the subtext to the sublime, they practically welcomed me with open legs at a really lively press dinner for Quincy Jones at Elaine's. (My second time there in a week. Somebody slap me— no, not you, Elaine.) I sat with five perky blonds— not redheads— including an actress who'd just shot a three-day rape scene with Jerry O'Connell and said it wasn't that bad. In another corner, I told Q— you know, Quincy— that "One Hundred Ways," a romantic song on his new compilation CD, really touches my tail. He was delighted, but said, "The even better lesson is 'How Do You Keep the Music Playing?' " He proceeded to recite the song's rueful lyrics, as the room fell rapt with appreciation except for the waiters busily laying out the dessert table. I wished Peggy Lipton could have heard it.

"It's all different flowers," Q told me— not about the dessert table, but about the various superstars he's worked with. "I met Michael Jackson when he was 12, Tevin Campbell when he was 12, Aretha when she was 12. Either they have it or they don't." What— acne? Back at my table, I learned that Vincent Gallohas actually found himself a bride. So someone else likes cartoon characters!

At the cineplex, the more-cartoony-than- it-needs-to-be remake of The Out-of-Towners presents a New York whose scariest attractions include a dominatrix, a sexaholics anonymous group, a wacky drag queen, and a chatty elevator rider who provokes a gay panic attack from Steve Martin. Fuck you, Hollywood— those sound like all of our bestaspects to me.

Finally, The Weir has been welcomed as a stellar new Gotham attraction, but, between snoozes, I found it an uneasy mix of The Iceman Cometh and Tales From the Crypt. Oh, well, it's all different flowers. And at least at the opening-night party, I got to hear those immortal words: "Richard Chamberlain, meet Lou Rawls!"

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