You want some fucked-up flacks? A magazine recently assigned me to interview psychic John Edward, and though I thought I could do a cute job with it, Edward's publicist quashed the idea because I'd been skeptical about him in the past. Skeptical about a guy who says he talks to the dead? Oh, how crazy and reckless am II who'd been unexpectedly brought into the center of one of Edward's séances four years ago and noticed that practically everything he said about me seemed cutely cuckoo! (He claimed that someone from Montauk who'd died of a blood disease was trying to contact me. Pleaseno onefrom Montauk has ever tried to contact me.) My guess is that LaToya Jacksonwho's alsolike a sister to me, if not to Michaelis the only living diva capable of interviewing this guy.
I communed with the living at Beige, the long-running Tuesday-night bash at B Bar, which is sprawling with more lovably narcissistic queens than ever. In between fuzzy navels, promoter Erich Conradtold me that Joan Collinsturned up there not long ago, explaining, "I was going to go to Sardi's, but fuck Sardi's!" (I have, dear, I have.) Joan was missing this night, but Conrad was entertainment enough, serving up thoughts like "Why are New Yorkers so depressed? Because the light at the end of the tunnel is New Jersey." (I don't condone this point of view, by the way; Jersey should remain in the union for many reasons, bombastic heavy metal just one of them.)
photo: J.K. Condyles
Plug it in: Satanicides Devlin Mayhem locks horns at Brownies.
The light at the end of my table was the electric-red-haired costumer Pat Field, who'd just gotten flak for putting her Sex and the Citycast in constricting Burberry outfits for an overheated ball scene. "I'm supposed to put them in bathing suits for a Scottish ball?" balked Field. "How was I supposed to know the Armory has no air-conditioning?" Yeah, they really need to plug it in, plug it in.