By Alex Distefano
By Scott Snowden
By Anna Merlan
By Steve Almond
By Jena Ardell
By Jon Campbell
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Tessa Stuart
But hey, Off-Broadway rocks, like the new musical A Class Act, which puts obscure Ed Kleban songs together into the life story of MadonnaI mean Ed Kleban. Ed who? Well, he was the neurotic and frustrated lyricist for the quintessential theater queen's toe-tapper, A Chorus Line, which was so named, we learn, because the "A" automatically put it at the top of all newspaper listings. The same idea must have spawned the icky title A Class Act, and fortunately, the engaging show is much better than it sounds.
Harold Pinter's Betrayalor A Betrayal, if you prefergoes pretty much chronologically backward and so does my review of the play's new revival: Chic and dry is it. Fine are Schreiber Liev, Binoche Juliette, and Slattery John. But electrifying not it's partly because cavernous so is stage the that diminished totally become betrayals the. Got that?
If I can project chronologically forward, wouldn't it be madcap if drag diva Charles Buschultimately replaced Linda Lavinin his hit comedy The Tale of the Allergist's Wife? "Sorry," I was told by an insider, "he likes a real woman to play the part." OK, how about RuPaul?
Real men of all genders might want to just stay home and check out a Web site called Abercrombie and Filthan obscene (and pricey) catalog takeoff where you get to boogie-woogie, chicken lickin', and ride all sorts of ponies. I hear.
Rounding out my week in the big glam ranch of life, I rode my hot black bike to photographer-to-the-stars Patrick McMullan's dinner at 98 Kenmare, where I celebrated celebrity with a bunch of saucy celebrity celebrants. Techno whiz Mobytold me he's become friends with his idol David Bowie, who e-mails him stuff like "We're moving. We packed the socks today"the kind of intimate detail even Madonna generally withholds. This night, Bowie must have been busy sorting out his underwear, but his wife, Iman, was at the party, scarfing down her entree with a refreshing zest. "I didn't realize you eat," I cracked to the model citizen. "Honey," she said, "if you saw my ass, you'd know I eat." Oh, please, she looked fabulous, and having a child hasn't fucked with her mammaries at all.