By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
How cool am I? I figured out the trick ending of 'The Sixth Sense' only halfway through! (And by the way, anyone who's been spilling it to friends is as evil as I was that year I spent running around screaming, 'Thelma and Louise drive off a cliff!') But how not cool am I?I've been bowling lately. At least there's a viable choice of venues now, enough to remind you that you never really left high school. No doubt thanks to Chelsea Bowl giving them a run for their finger lube, Bowlmor has been fabulously upgraded, with balls and shoes that fit way better than their old torture props and food that makes more sense to my delicate palate. The place is now a miracle of Day-Glo, and the display cases even feature bowling pins signed by major celebs like Conan O'Brien! If it's all too gentrified for you, there's always pool.
Another strike-or maybe spare-against the Chelsea Piers is that the Crab House has closed, just when I was about to redeem my two-year-old coupon for a free slice of key lime pie. I may have to stop being a pier queen altogether-but if you think that means no more jerking of chicken, you're so very wrong because Daphne's Caribbean Express on 14th Street turns out to have the best jerk everythingaround. As a bonus, it offers a drink promoted with a sign that says "Viagra $70, Sea Moss $3. The choice is yours." Apparently, the reasonably priced concoction, made with seaweed and condensed milk, could get your angry inch happening again.
But don't get it too excited because on Thursdays, straight guys have to stay home, practically by law. What was once lesbian chic has paved the way for the year of the fag hags, Latins, and bisexual and bicurious women, the last two of which types are especially welcome at Lipstick & Candy, a Thursday-night party at Bar 85 that urges bi babes to leave the guys tied to the living room radiator. I considered lathering up with my Skintimate shaving gel and trying to pass, but instead asked one of the promoters to give me the bi dish. She said that while full-scale dykes can certainly enjoy the event, "mostly we encourage bisexual and bicurious women to come out and not feel like they have to make a decision." But wait-being bi isn't based on a decision, is it (except for closeted gay celebrities)? "No," she agreed, and I got my way once again.
As for them there gays, the only decision lately seems to be whether to go on Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?, the soon-returning quiz show that's so sister-laden it's practically a 30-minute ad for queer intellectual supremacy. Thank you, Reeg! But the question no one of any sexuality can seem to answer sensibly is, What the fuck is there to do on New Year's Eve? When the topic comes up, panic inevitably sets in, replete with all sorts of stammering, denials, and evasions. Face it: If you go away, you miss the hoopla in New York. If you stay here, you get stuckin the hoopla in New York. And either way, it'll be impossible to get a bowling lane or a slice of key lime pie. There's always the big organized trip to Bali I was invited to, but you have to pay, and what's more, they promise "hip" people, chanting, and puppet shows! Things have gotten so dire that a friend has been inquiring into Catskills resorts, some of which don't even know what entertainment they're having yet and the rest of which don't exist anymore. Should I just order up some Sea Moss and go bi for the millen . . . oh, wait, I promised I'd never use that word again.
While we're talking Catskills, if you thought Ricky Martin was some kind of cosmic joke-and by the way, no, VH1 is notalready preparing a Behind the Musicon him-what on earth is Enrique Iglesias? God has such a wacky way of always throwing one more nutty wrench into the demented Billboardstew, doesn't she? And here's another one: The hilarious Barry Humphries, a/k/a Dame Edna Everage, defines himself as an actor, not a drag queen, which is why his folks told a trannie establishment they'd rather not have a party there, thank you. Couldn't he have just actedlike he's a drag queen for one more night?
That acting mayor and part-time cross-dresser Rudy Giuliani outdid himself last week when, all outraged, he said, "Yes, there is a difference between the Saint Patrick's Day Parade and the Million Teen Hate March!" There sure is; the Saint Patrick's Day Parade only reviles gays, while the Million Youth one targets gays andJews. His remark was enough to drive me into the arms of ex-mayor Edward I. Koch, who's not only been cute on The People's Court,but was delightful enough to call his new book Giuliani: Nasty Man. It's a compilation of columns-with a new foreword-about how he agrees with Rudy 80 percent of the time on substantive matters, but disagrees 90 percent of the time on implementation. "It's his personality that gets in the way," Koch told me in his Midtown law office. "He can't change it, but that doesn't mean I have to abide it. If you're a critic on any issue, he perceives you to be an enemy of the state and will seek to destroy you by demonizing you!" But hey, he looks fierce in heels and a tube top.