By Jena Ardell
By Jon Campbell
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Tessa Stuart
By Roy Edroso
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
By Zachary D. Roberts
But let's leave some room for JOHN TRAVOLTA, who's taking the lead female role in the Hairspray movie, which they should probably retitle Look Who's Tucking. As long as Hairspray's co- composer SCOTT WITTMAN was in the room, I had to prod him for some out feedback. "He'll look fabulous in his dress," Wittman said, beaming. "You knowhe's got a dress in that closet." Oh, is that what he's got in there? More importantly, can Scientology really be all that thrilled about this high-heeled career move? "No comment!" shrieked Wittman, laughing. "I'm clean!"
Down at the Public, Measure for Pleasure isn't all that clean; it's a racy reworking of Restoration comedy conventions "succumb" is made to sound like "suck cum"but though the characters have suggestive names like Sir Peter Lustforth, I got more of a rise out of the fact that one of the show's cast is actually named EMILY SWALLOW!
Short-attention-span theater reaches its peak with Ring of Fire, the Johnny Cash revue the kids on the boards are likening to a Country Bears jamboree. Fortunately, I like the Man in Black way more than The Woman in White, and after all I am from the Southof Brooklyn. The show? It's better than Lennon, worse than Jersey Boys, with a bunch of chirpy Broadway types pretending to be hillbillies and even playing instruments à la Sweeney Todd. (LARI WHITE's a standout, though; she's a genuine country singer, meaning she grew up far from Reese Witherspoon.) But it's most fun to realize that "A Boy Named Sue" is a tranny-sympatico song; the dad named his son Sue because he knew the kid would get so much grief for it, he'd end up tough and proud!
I'm a Valley girl and there is no cure
There are a lot of boys named Sue and girls named Hugh at Happy Valley, which has those perfectly foofy carnivalesque parties on Tuesdays. Well, the club now has a PR firm that sends out press releases about the bash and promotes celebrity drop-in performers like DITA VON TEESE. That's scared me. The place was fine without celebs and hype. It made its own buzz. It planted its own tree. But I guess the joint needs to turn more of a profit and go for the gold cards. I guess, like Christine Ebersole, it's not big enough! Well, I was praying the PR would do what it has to without any compromising effects on my happiness. And thank God last week all was foofily fine (and still evolving; the basement suddenly became the destination floor as the high spirits got agreeably lower).
In the balcony over at Element's Saturday-night Bank parties, one of the go-go boys is the stylishly skinny and bespectacled GREG EVANS, a photographer/Diesel jeans sales associate who's living proof that gay body fascism is officially no longer neat or interesting. "But I don't think of me dancing as any kind of statement," Evans told me last week. "It's more that I'm comfortable with my body. I'm really skinny, but I don't think I necessarily look bad. I think I look just as hot as any beefy Chelsea go-go boy." More so! No stretch marks! And I adore his glasses, especially since they're not an affectation at all. "They're just so I can see," Evans explained. "But they keep falling when I dance and I shake my head too fast. I'd wear a strap, but I'd look even more like a nerd!"
Before my attention totally plotzes, let me tell you that at that same club for a Genre magazine party, ZULEMA from Project Runway told me she's now playing the role of the sleazy producer in those staged readings of Showgirls. It's the part I played! I've been replaced by a fabulous black woman! And now she'll be a bigger icon in the gayosphere than I am! I'm very . . . I forget.