NY Mirror

Design legend Pierre Cardin hosted a record-release party at Maxim's—long story—and stylishly specified that "only young people should come." So I asked the guy to make an exception and kindly not throw my weathered derriere out le door. "You are not so young," the 80-year-old said, bluntly, "but we don't reject the people. In this case, I can get in. We want the young character, the young feeling." I sucked on my glow stick, tucked in my Depends, and pulled up a chair. So what's the state of fashion, mon cher? "I am the leader for the last 50 years," Cardin said, convincingly. "Me, I was the last designer to be myself. Dior, Schiaparelli—I never copied these people. I was very provocateur. I was pierrot la lune. I was always believing in myself—very pure. If you're inspired by someone, you're not yourself—you're the copyist." The guy's pretty enamored of Pierre Cardin, but what the fuck, so am moi.

Wearing Cardin (the CD, that is), I went to the Flow party for The Power of Kabbalah, where there were no age restrictions whatsoever, so I could be very provocateur. But author Yehuda Berg wasn't thrilled when I asked if the book is basically Kabbalah for Dummies. More importantly, how did he nab such a big PR event? "My brother-in-law owns a skin-care line," he said, "and they sponsored it." Top that, Scientology.

Meanwhile, the famed church-turned-not-church, the Limelight, is being refurbished before changing hands, so they had a tag sale of all the old karma-drenched decor. Among the listed items: "bathroom door," " 'No Visitors' sign," "angel A and angel B," and best of all, "hideous chair." God, the memories I have of that one!

As for the sale of two titties, Web speculation is that Britney Spears's boobies have significantly decreased lately, but honey, I saw Crossroads and that's just shitney.

Keeping with the teenie talk I so inappropriately dabble in, I've worshiped Josh Hartnett ever since Halloween H20: 20 Years Later, but never said so, because I thought everyone would screech, "Josh who?" So now that he's big, I can't even say, "I told you so!" (Note to self: Fawn more publicly next time.) But what I can do is run a photo of the guy—the millennial Gary Cooper—and inform you that I raced to the DKNY store party for his sexual abstinence comedy, 40 Days and 40 Nights, prudently skipping the movie. (Six Days Seven Nights was bad enough.) Alas, he wasn't there—enabling the scattered media and autograph hounds to extend their own no-sex spell—but costar Monet Mazur showed up and told me that, true to the movie's theme, she once went intentionally without "it" for a year. (Honey, try five years, not intentionally. A friend of mine.) Anyway, that was then; Mazur's in upcoming films with the shtuppable Seann William Scott, Jonathon Schaech, and other, like, really cute guys. "But they all have girlfriends!" she exclaimed. That would make them even more shtuppable.

Speaking of people with girlfriends, Rosie O'Donnell already seems to be rewriting history, but the wave of good feeling around her coming out—as a gay adoption activist yet—is washing away objections. But not all of them, motherfuckas. Let me explain. In a comic routine at a recent benefit, the cutie patootie told the crowd, "I don't know why people make such a big deal about the gay thing." My inner bitch: Gee, I don't know, maybe because some people made such a big deal about evading it. "People are confused," Rosie went on. "They're shocked, like [my gayness] is a big revelation to somebody." Inner bitch: But amazingly, it is! Us Weekly reports that after Rosie made jokes about being "Lebanese" in '96, she was mailed tons of recipes for baba ghanoush! Some people just don't get it unless you spell it out—and Rosie wouldn't even pick up the pen for years (though even I have to concede that she's a big old hero-puss now).

" 'Oh, but you were lying,' the gay Nazis say," continued Rosie the (revisionist) riveter. " 'You said you liked Tom Cruise.' I said I wanted him to mow my lawn and bring me a lemonade. I never said I wanted to blow him!" Inner bitch: But hold on, mama, your Cruise ravings were always couched in pseudo-romantic tones, quite different from the ones I use when gushing, "I worship Cher"! Rosie climaxed with something like "Maybe I'd be gay enough if I ate out Angelina Jolie on TV!" Yeah, that would work. Anyway, I'm sure Rosie was just being funny, and besides, this little Nazi is so proud of her these days that I'll just shut up and go back to my little bunker.

Moving on, I hear wacky Joan Cusack is doing a pilot for a daytime TV talk show. I bet she'll be openly straight. In other randomly compiled diva gossip: My spies say that Aaliyah's ex, music big shot Damon Dash, has become very close with young model Devon Aioki. (But don't rush to call her Mrs. Dash.) . . . A dash of cold air may have crept in among those oft-snooty Visionaire people. Now they're apparently even snubbing each other. . . . And that alleged promoter of guns as accessories, Shyne, may have gotten a very early reprieve from jail! (Don't ask—I just pass this stuff along.)

In an early reprieve from my Josh watch, I saw Penny Arcade's New York Values at P.S.122, partly because Sylvia Miles told me, "Penny and I were the hits of the Edinburgh Festival. It was the 'Crazy Ladies' series." How pierrot la lune. The show—about how "New York has been invaded by America"—dabbles in too familiar ravings about Prada-philes drinking lattes and yakking on cells, but I loved Penny bitching about folks who whine that their parents hated them because they're gay. "My family hated me for no reason!" she says, furiously.

The Grammy Awards weren't hateable, my favorite moment being Patti LaBelle emerging to sing the finale of "Lady Marmalade," then popping up in a commercial for hormone replacement therapy. ("Now my hot flashes are gone. I feel great!") The most depressing moment was India.Arie looking ready to shoot herself as she, Grammyless, had to sing her ditty about not being a sellout. The Billy Joel-Tony Bennett thing also bordered on painful, and the Alan Jackson song really made me sad for America, though I'm glad there's a new kitsch classic to cherish through these hard times. But like I said, the show was likable, though Alicia Keys is such a goddess for the ages that they shouldn't make her do Vegas-y dance numbers like the cheesier kids have to do (even if hers was a step above). But what do I know? I'm still getting hot flashes.

With no Hartnett in my harness, it was party-circuit time, but that didn't nab anyone any trophies. At the "Men of La Mancha" loft party, the gay homies understandably looked at me like I was the whitest woman since Michael Jackson. And at gay college night at Heaven, pretending to have been left back (a lot) doesn't work; you still come off like one of those uncremated bodies piled up in Georgia. But it's important just to have the young character, the young feeling, no? And you know what really puts a sparkle in your step as you dance to Pierre Cardin? Listerine PocketPaks! Those titillating strips melt on your tongue like communion wafers, providing an effect that's so soul- (and germ-) cleansing they should have hawked it at the Limelight sale. Try throwing one in your morning coffee—that'll get you out of your hideous chair.

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