Finally, though Jackie Curtis was a doll, JACKEE HARRY screams out for voodoo pins. At a play last week, the sitcom diva covered her face with a Playbill as I walked by, thereby avoiding one of her biggest fans. (But not that big; I wasn't even planning to talk to her.) May-ree, please. Bring back the lady who thought I was Tony Kushner.
LITTER BOX
Blind fury
What disgraced magazine "journalist"—with whom I've had a hate/hate relationship for years—adores being paid by clubs for promoting events? (I guess there's nothing like getting a little stipend to make you a better "journalist." The problem is, part of his Plaid payment one night hinged on the appearance of the model guest of honor that he'd promised, but she didn't show. No, not Janice Dickinson—she shows twice. Anyway, the "journo" is reportedly still mad about not getting that extra thousand, and—in a whole other situation, I'm sure—the club's redheaded owner was not asked to be in a certain spread he did. Maybe she's lucky. Oh, did I mention that Crobar pays him?)
What publicist for an out TV star believes there's no such thing as bad publicity—for himself anyway? He's completely naked, with his aroused ding-dong hanging out, on bigmuscle.com.
What musical starlet was caught at a club last week being coached to pretend she's an investor in a show? A weird man was grooming her to do that so she could show up at a meeting and impress male investors. What was in it for her? "A hundred bucks and a free meal," she blurted. Tonya Pinkins's salary is starting to look better and better.
