NY Mirror

At producer SCOTT SIEGEL's Nightlife Awards at Town Hall, I expected trophies to be handed out to the creepiest chicken hawk, most available bartender, and club toilet seat that makes the coolest coke rim. But no, they honored sophisticated cabaret duos, slick stand-up comics, and woozy chantoozies. Oh, that kind of nightlife. Anyway, it was all very elevated, and whatever kind of nightlife it was, thankfully the winners were made to perform rather than give dreary acceptance speeches, none of them getting around that by scat-singing lists of agents and divorce lawyers. Among the performance highlights were funnyman JASON GRAE having a musical breakdown over being dropped as the voice of the Lucky Charms leprechaun and ELAINE STRITCH—you guessed it—giving a speech.

The Grammys, where you're even allowed to cry, pitted the sociologically important rapper against the high-pitched comeback vamp, both of whom stayed glassy-eyed on the sidelines as U2 copped the top thingie. (I guess BONO is considered cutting-edge compared to fellow nominee PAUL MCCARTNEY.) From bony-legged MADONNA smiling with relief at the end of her ABBA-meets-krumping number to KEITH URBAN looking prettier than his date, NICOLE KIDMAN, it was a multigenerational freak show par excellence, one so heavy on the history lessons that CHRISTINA AGUILERA was made to drag herself out of the mud pit and sing jazz. But most memorable of all was DAVE CHAPPELLE introducing another nutjob, SLY STONE, who looked like an electrified chicken as he wisely exited the stage well before his all-star mishmosh medley was over.

Buck Angel covers his crotch taco
Buck Angel covers his crotch taco

Having lost all the major trophies, I went to a fashion show and, surveying the victimy, chattering crowd, realized I'm retarded in a much different way than they are. My dimness has some perspective to it. I can joke about my shortcomings and even wear them on my sleeve, which is not at all overpriced. But then I went to another show—the Heatherette one, where I actually tend to belong. These people are my kind of retarded. I'm one of them. At least I used to be. This time, the third most washed up (if still cutest) member of what was once *NSYNC was sitting in my pre-arranged front-row seat and wasn't about to budge, perhaps having read my column items all these years. The flacks—who may have created this situation, for all I know—were halfheartedly (and vainly) trying to find me an alternative placement as the ex-boybander threw me a "Sorry, this seat is all I have left in the world" look. I took it as a godsend to go straight to the after-party at Happy Valley, which was such a fun-filled voyage to outer space that Buck Angel was the only normal one there.

And now I'm off to make some private time with the Vanity Fair cover shot of TOM FORD nuzzling with naked starlets, which has all the sizzling sexuality of ISAAC MIZRAHI grabbing SCARLETT JOHANSSON's boobs. (God, she's getting a lot of action lately.) I should know. I'm totally a man— I just happen to have a vagina.

Stop everything. Sadly enough, I just heard that Hairspray's Tony winning score collaborators and longtime boyfriends MARC SHAIMAN and SCOTT WITTMAN are splitsville as a couple. But they're still working together on the musical of Catch Me if You Can. You can't stop the beat!


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