NY Mirror

When you get an e-mail saying, "BIG JOHN invites you to the opening of HQ gentlemen's club," you go, even though it's over by the river and you're not necessarily a giant fan of vaginal entertainment (though naturally you fully support those who are). Honey, if someone named Big John beckons you to anything, you go, so there I was, oohing and aahing over the plush red banquettes and not letting on that I had no idea Effen was a vodka brand. (I thought the Effen screwdrivers on the drink menu were a polite way of saying fucking screwdrivers. Turns out effen means smooth in Dutch, blah blah blah.)

Various female employees were assigned to tour me around the place, and since I'm impervious to those kinds of curves, their challenge was to win me over with charm rather than pelvic thrusts or leg contortions. And so I was glamorously guided through all the dark booths within hazily lit private rooms where all the choreographed lovin' goes on. "Do you smell that?" one babe said at one point, unnerved. "The candle wax?" I offered. "No, I smell something different," she said, scrunching her nose with recognition and horror. Whatever effen fluid it may have been, I found the joint delightful, especially since Big John turned out to be a giant cuddly bear and no one shoved an actual vagina in my face.

They only shoved air in my puss at the JAMIE FOXX record-release party at PM Lounge, where I sat on a banquette surrounded by the Oscar winner and his bevy of female workers and hangers-on. When I became claustrophobic, one of the gals handed me a battery-operated fan with a Foxx logo on it, explaining, "This is our official fan for when things get too hot on movie sets." But when Jamie wants a fan, they probably hand him one of his bevy of female workers and hangers-on, rimshot, drumroll, kidding, hello.

Birds of a feather at the Saint at Large
photo: Adrian Buckmaster
Birds of a feather at the Saint at Large

Speaking of Mr. Foxx, though Rent and The Producers might be driving nails into the movie musical at the box office—do you smell that?—Dreamgirls, with its roster of gigantic stars like him, just might reopen the coffin. DreamWorks and Paramount are so on top of things they already released a trailer weeks ago, even though they hadn't shot a frame yet. (Remember to bring your fan to the set now that they are filming.) The teaser mainly consists of close-ups of posing body parts and whooshing sparkles as you hear JENNIFER HOLLIDAY's really old version of "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going." And I am telling you I'm still going to see Dreamgirls despite this way premature bit of highfalutin vagueness.

More immediately, while the Golden Globe awards (coming up on the 16th) used to be savaged by the media for being utterly mercenary and corrupt—remember when NEIL DIAMOND was nominated for The Jazz Singer?—now there are incensed articles written saying, "They snubbed the blockbusters! What an outrage! They didn't nominate King Kong and Memoirs of a Geisha for Best Picture!" In other words, they shockingly went for more subtly calibrated stuff like The Constant Gardener and A History of Violence rather than grease the wheels of big-budget, overblown epics. Shameful, isn't it?


SWING, YOU SINNERS

My spokes were lubed at the Saint at Large event at Pacha—the best party of the year up to that point and not just because it was on January 1. It was just so gay, from the talent coordinator in the dressing room sizing up a drag go-go dancer and saying, "Why don't we do jewels on your nipples?" to the four lamé-hot-pants-clad guys weaving across the dancefloor in a giant serpent costume. (The club was done in an underwater theme, as if JULIE TAYMOR had ingested crack and directed The Little Mermaid.) On top of that, one level was drenched in truckloads of white particles, and you didn't know whether to shovel it, snort it, or reach for the Head & Shoulders. Looming out of the white stuff, the JONNY MCGOVERN–procured go-go gods on boxes were extra enchanting, especially the one who looked like KEVIN FEDERLINE with good skin and a job. And though it's great that vocals are officially back—the dancefloor was packed with homos gamely getting used to that—it's somewhat less exciting that fan twirling is too—as in paper fans, not Jamie Foxx ones (though most of the practitioners of this lost art are so advanced in years that they have to work their magic while sitting down). Later in the night, the bottom level became home to Snaxx, a party for furry guys, where scissors and pluckers are considered the Antichrist. I ripped the jewels off my nipples, glued on some more hair, and prepared to be extremely popular.

There's no body hair at Distortion Disko on Thursdays at Duvet; it's a giddy party starring the world's largest prancing procession of young gay twinks right out of an all-male version of Whoville. These guy-ettes are precious and cute and dimpled and spike-haired and elf-eared and worship MADONNA and wear their collars up, and I'm by far the butchest one there. Hello?

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