NY Mirror

Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo star ROB SCHNEIDER appeared at Planet Hollywood last week to lick a prosthetic leg (long story), threaten to do three more Deuce Bigalows, and tell the crowd, "I want to thank SYLVESTER STALLONE for not letting me buy stock here 10 years ago." After his posh presentation, I—an Ivy League graduate—got to discourse with the shtickmeister on some topics of even greater profundity. Like, is the Tower of Pisa—which practically shoots out of the guy's crotch in the movie's ad campaign—really an accurate representation of his marvelous manhood? "Well, if you look at the postcard and then look at the billboard," Schneider said saucily, "it's somewhere in between." (Mine, with its delectable hint of fromage, is more like a billboard of a tower of pizza, ha ha!)

Was Amsterdam a suitable setting for Deuce Part Deux's tempestuous tale of misbegotten man-whoring? "Yeah!" Schneider smirked. "There's more to it than just great hash. There's Ecstasy and Special K!" He paused sheepishly and added, "Actually, I don't even know what Special K is." I generously told him, down to my vivid reminiscence of every last club kid's killer K-hole, complete with crystalline drool and frozen pupils.

No connection here, but we started talking about the late, great, living WHITNEY HOUSTON and Schneider exulted, "She was the biggest star in the world. I'd love me six months of that!" I'd love me six ounces of that. But suddenly, ultra-professional Rob seemed a tiny bit weary after his demanding day of promotion and prosthetics-humping. (All right, I'll spill. The leg was a Deuce Bigalow prop that he donated to the restaurant. Maybe it can go next to the arms from Murderball.) So I left him alone, only to exit and walk past the door employee crassly explaining to passersby, "Rob Schneider. He's the guy that works with ADAM SANDLER."

Leg man: Rob Schneider
photo: Dave Allocca/Star Traks Photo
Leg man: Rob Schneider

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JOHNNY KNOXVILLE—the guy that works with JESSICA SIMPSON—co-hosted the glittery Garden of Ono party for MICKEY BOARDMAN's 10th anniversary as Paper magazine's "shmashion" advice guru Mr. Mickey. Knoxville brought his wife and daughter, case closed. Anyway, why was he there? "My two heroes are Johnny Cash and Mickey Boardman," the ex-Jackass star told me. "The man in black and the man in the back." Does Dukes of Hazzard—which I've strangely missed—offend Southern people, I hope? "A couple of Southerners have gotten offended by the portrayals," said Knoxville-born Knoxville. "But my parents watch The Beverly Hillbillies and that pretty much lampoons Southern culture. We get the joke!" Fine—just don't pin a cherry bomb to my gooch, honey pie.

Keeping things below the (Bible) belt, Junebug is a culture-clash flick about an art-world city slicker who rings some sheltered Southern belles. At the premiere party at Suede, star AMY ADAMS sweetly told me, "I wish I was as optimistic as my character, Ashley. Maybe if I came from North Carolina." Yeah, maybe—but I never exactly heard JESSE HELMS singing "The sun'll come out tomorrow" in a fright wig and goo-goo eyes.

Moving on to poisonous Beverly Hills, Pretty Persuasion shines a klieg light on the cult of celebrity via various high school harlots and harassment high jinks. At that premiere party in some other crowded lounge, I engaged director MARCOS SIEGA in my by now expected high-road banter about celebrity sexcapades. When prompted, Siega told me his wife couldn't believe JUDE LAW would cheat on such a beautiful woman. (But he did—so much for pretty persuasion.) "I said, 'It has nothing to do with beauty,' " related Siega. "Men are pigs!" And that reminds me—check out the amazing Canadian bacon in the house salad over at Ben & Jack's Steak House, oink, oink.


I'm a slave 4 aged porterhouse steak with balsamic reduction

While we're coating our tonsils, I finally found some comfort food that doesn't make me nervous. Remember BRITNEY SPEARS's old joint NYLA (which spelled backward, I think, is Al-Anon)? Me neither, but that space—at the Dylan Hotel—has become Chemist Club, and not only are the unpaid bills and food poisoning bouts out the window, but all that purple has been replaced by softer whites and yellows and the metallic balustrade is now tastefully woodworked, as if in a less uppity university club. At a tasting last week, we were served six shmancy wines between eight grown-up courses, complete with narration that—in a further rejection of Britney's residue—was not the least bit lip-synched. Now someone should redo that husband.

In clubland, Bidet, I mean Duvet, is still the flaunt-it place on Thursdays, at least once you're past the barking door thug ordering you to get on line. Ignoring him as if in a K-hole, you sail right in and find two floors overflowing with a mixed—yes, truly mixed, with croutons—crowd of gays and straights, family and Jersey, fabulous and affectless, filling the club's painfully narrow open spaces between all the beds. They load up the mattresses too, but most of these people are such professional poseurs there's no chance of sex-making ever happening there (or even in the bathroom). Still, the club's mood is refreshingly sunny—like a college mixer at a school with an open drag queen policy and a not particularly heavy workload. The only down note was the girl who kept buzzing up to me and screeching, "What show are you on?" Annoyingly, she wouldn't accept "All of them" as an answer.

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