NY Mirror


My own disses in political settings have been way too idiotic to drive me to the brink, or even to drink. At a special screening of EUGENE JARECKI's documentary Why We Fight, Jarecki told me he liked Walk the Line because "it was a period film that didn't feel jive." But something did feel jive when another filmmaker breathlessly approached me—as he always does—to bray, "I shot you for the documentary about HENRY JAGLOM. Do you remember? Huh, huh, Huh? Do you remember?" Yes, and I also remember how you cut me out of it, schmucko!

Canadian bacon at the 20 Club
photo: Cary Conover
Canadian bacon at the 20 Club

No nationality is cut out of SARAH JONES's one-woman Bridge & Tunnel; the woman does so many accents it's no wonder MERYL STREEP once produced this thing. The theme is the cross-pollination that makes America great, from a Muslim man tossing off "rap" puns to an old Jewish woman making "jiggy" jokes. Jones is a protean mimic and hits home when she spoofs poetry slams or makes statements about American foreign policy. But her thinnish characters—including a too-cute homeless woman—don't exactly develop into a searing tapestry the way ANNE DEAVERE SMITH's real-life ones do. Or maybe I was just distracted by the unwanted extra character—the critic sitting near me who kept turning to his date and asking, "What did she say?"

It was all about "What did she do?" at the Maritime's Cuckoo Club, where delightful drop-in Lindsay Lohan was ditzy-witsy enough to leave her diary behind. (Can you imagine all the interventions that can be staged just from reading one entry? Oh, well. At least she didn't leave her diaphragm.)

And over at Happy Valley, the cross-pollination was complete as a jiggy group sporting Hasidic chic had the throngs gagging over their look, until everyone realized it wasn't a fashion statement at all, they were real Hasidic Jews on a bender. I adored it down to every last payess. Never has orthodox been so unorthodox.

Litter Box
Gay for play

While we're boîte hopping, let me say that, despite all the genital limits, gay nightlife is at a new peak, with at least three must-go nights swishing up my life—Tuesday (the resurging Beige, the mixed Happy Valley), Thursday (the twink-laden playpen Duvet), and Sunday (Maritime, Avalon, Spirit, APT). Thanks to these buoyant bashes, the body-fascism ethic and tuneless music that suffocated gay club life for so long have officially been booty-bumped out the window. The spots are filled with such irresistible pop that I even inadvertently danced to a PARIS HILTON song recently until finding out what it was and running home in tears. And the clubs teem with guys who don't work out so obsessively that they forget their boyfriends' birthdays (though they do occasionally forget they have boyfriends). At Duvet, I actually touched a guy with love handles.

But all's not enchanted. The other week, a customer at that very club started disrobing and shamelessly dancing on a go-go box while the professional dancer was off on a break. The tipsy exhibitionist (who would never cut it at Remington's) was thrown out of the club—or was about to be until they realized he'd just spent $380 for bottle service.

Of course, whether gay or straight, the most annoying people in clubs are the ones who spend the whole night text messaging their friends, "Where are you?" They're somewhere hiding from you, that's where!


The SAG awards were both a rehash of all the other awards shows and a spot-on precursor to the Oscars, so the telecast had a been-there-done-that-GONNA-do-that feel to it that was reassuring in its predictability. The winners did all the same shtick I've seen them trot out on other shows—REESE is big on that "Hi, y'all. I'm just a simple Tennessee girl deep down" thing, SANDRA OH likes to pant and thank "my cast," and S. EPATHA is the queen of "I'm a 50-year-old divorcee and just beginning" routines. Blowing them all away was the biggest little professional in town, DAKOTA FANNING, whose tribute to SHIRLEY TEMPLE was rendered without a stammer or a hitch and came complete with dramatic cadences and significant pauses. Everyone in the entire business should sit back, watch the bitch, and learn! (Just get away when she eventually hits the crack or the weaponry.)

It was also heartening to finally see RYAN PHILLIPPE on an awards stage for a change; the cutie was up there for the final triumph, when CRASH won for best ensemble, and I cheered, though it was less inspiring when they started fading toward a commercial and you could still hear Ryan shamelessly kissing up to MORGAN FREEMAN. ("I've always wanted to meet you. You just met my wife, Reese)." By the way, the worst ensemble was whatever RACHEL WEISZ was wearing. 


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