NY Mirror

Proof that nostalgia is what it used to be came at the Museum of Television and Radio, where producer Bob Booker presented a dazzling bunch of clips from his splashy '70s TV specials. After an Elvis Presley segment, Booker told the crowd, "The good news is that last week Lisa Marie sold one and a half million albums. The bad news is they were her father's!"

The good news for me was a recent offer to host a benefit dinner for some new "lukemia" (sic) society. The bad news was the follow-up message, which asked, "How do you feel about leukemia? I guess I should have asked you that the first time." (Gee, I guess I don't like it.) The organizer also noted, "I am looking for a doctor who will be able to give an informative speech about the causes and effects of leukemia. If you know of anyone, please let me know!" OK, so a leukemia society needed a nightlife columnist—who doesn't know white blood cells from white clam sauce—to help find a specialist to grace their big fundraiser? Something smelled rotten here. I bailed and went right back to club events that help no one.

But that only found more problems. As I left the gay bash Beige last week, a bunch of incongruous-looking people were trying to get in, a particularly tacky woman telling doorman Derek Neen that she goes there all the time. Neen didn't buy that—it reeked of four-day-old fish—and besides, the place was so crowded, he had to draw the line somewhere. The woman shrieked something about how no straight people were allowed in and the whole gang instead bounced into Swift next door for some pints. I followed them right in like a maniac, because the guy the woman was attached to happened to be internationally famous race-car driver Jeff Gordon! (Not one Beige-er had even recognized him; it's not an ESPN type of place. I only knew his face from reading The Enquirer.)

Closing time: Works on the block from that former Lincoln Center for institutionalized pain, the L.U.R.E.
photo: Cary Conover
Closing time: Works on the block from that former Lincoln Center for institutionalized pain, the L.U.R.E.

"I'm his girlfriend," the woman forcefully explained to me when approached. "I'm in the fashion business and we were meeting my stylist and we didn't know it was gay night. Because of my business, Jeff has to deal with that all the time." I bet he does. The driver nicely muttered something about how the club seemed fine anyway, and I split like a race car.

Meanwhile, my sources spotted that Trading Spaces hunk over at the East Side Club the other night. I'm sure he was just there to spruce up the decor and make the room into a vagina.


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