By Anna Merlan
By Albert Samaha
By Tessa Stuart
By Anna Merlan
By Roy Edroso
By Carolyn Hughes
By Chuck Strouse
By Albert Samaha
Another old club became new again at the silent auction in Soho for the Max's Kansas City Project, Yvonne Sewall-Ruskin's charity to help artists in need. As bidders eyed works like Brigid Berlin's Untitled Tit Print, I ran around squealing that I got to Max's so late in the game that Patti Smith was there singing "You Light Up My Life." It was true, but everyone acted like I was an artist in need of a straitjacket.
They were lighting up cigars and even rolling them at the lavish Central Park Boathouse party for Out of Time, which had to be Mayor Bloomberg's worst nightmare. Inside, I cracked to the film's hunky Dean Cainwho didn't look that interested in my tit printsthat after Broken Hearts Club, I was crushed to hear people say he wasn't gay, and he flashed that pearly smile and responded, "Can't help what you are." I know, dear, I know.
What I am is a total attention whore, so I guest-starred at "Cause Celeb!," the scintillating event at the Marquee whereby actors read from self-aggrandizing star memoirs as if they were Tennessee Williams monologues. Co-promoters Charlotte Bookerand Nancy Balbirerdid their tempestuously funny renderings of Hedy Lamarr and Elizabeth Ashley ("I'd been fucked by the devil. I'd fucked the devil. We'd given each other head!"), and Marylouise Burke weighed in with a surreally hilarious Diana Ross, trying to keep her concertgoers from stampeding away in the rain, even as her "diaphanous sash" got wet. I won't even tell you about Neil Sedaka's digestive problems or Sammy Davis's cocksucking attempt. Pick up a bookor better yet, a Booker.
Finally, future memoirist Peter Dinklage entertained me at the Time Lounge party for the engaging ménage à trois The Station Agent, in which he's the title little-person character and surprise babe magnet. Dinklagewho had just announced himself in the Post as very sexualtold me, "I'm single. That's why I'm throwing that stuff out there." (Me too, and even the devil won't bite. Someone shove a bong up my ass, please.) Is he getting any response from all the hinting? "A lot!" Dinklage enthused. "But maybe I'd better back off from all that. I'm starting to sound like a slut." I didn't know whether to slap the guy or throw myself on him, so fuck it, I did both.
WEB EXCLUSIVE: May I pat myself on the hunchback just for a second? Now that all this slimily timed Arnold Schwarzenegger dish of indeterminate origin has surfaced, I have to go back to my own cover story here two months ago, which said: "Gray Davis will supposedly fling major mud Arnold's way, and it'll no doubt be of the 'groping letch' variety." Can I get a witness? (By the way, I love the way these charges are being discussed on TV, one Fox News commentator delicately relaying how Arnold allegedly wanted to put his mouth on a woman's "excretory orifice." Sounds romantic, no?)
On a lighter note, I've also long written about the Oscar cursehow performers' relationships become doomed when one party gets nominated for or wins an Academy Award as the other's career trails off. Well, Halle Berry just broke up with hubby Eric Benét. Now do you believe me?