By Albert Samaha
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Gossip break: the DIXIE CHICKS just apologized for apologizing for apologizing for being from Texas. I'm so sorry for this interruption.
But again, back to the column: I was thrilled to recently hear from DEBORAH SCHOENEMAN, who wanted my help in getting a blurb for her roman à clef about the gossip bizfrom JEANNETTE WALLS! Because she's literary!
Socalm down, meis the Kitchen, that "multidisciplinary nonprofit performance and exhibition space," which is not the kind of place where you scratch your crotch and pop open a Snapple Apple. At their Spring Gala Benefit at the Puck Building, modern-day Lucrezia Borgias sipped fine wines and watched performances by MIN XIAO-FEN ("a virtuoso on the ancient Chinese pipa") and ARTO LINDSAY (known for "his early noise records," back when that sort of thing was allowed in New York). Suffice it to say that no one at this artsy-smartsy party ran up to me and gushed, "I saw you on the E! True Hollywood Story about DEMI MOORE!"
DO AS I SAY, NOT AS I POO
But I do have some valuable knowledge to share, and I'll unleash it now if you promise not to snort up your soft drink. First off, here are some things you should never say in a club: "You look vaguely familiar. Where do I know you from?"; "Who am I? Come on, who am I?"; "Smile! Why aren't you having fun? Let's see a big smile!"; "One drink won't kill you"; "What are you doing here?"; "I haven't seen you in 15 years. What's new?"; "Write down your number on this wet napkin. I'll call you tomorrow, I swear"; "Give me some gossip!"; "Feel my ass. Isn't it tight?"; "Maybe you know my work. I was an extra in [unreleased indie] six years ago"; or "Hi! I once had dinner with [name-drop]. Well, not exactly with him. We just happened to be in the same restaurant on different nights. Impressed?"
While we're at it, here's a handy list of human (and barely human) types who should never be seated next to me at a dinner party: anyone who emits any of the above utterances; who doesn't have cable; who only talks about what's on TV; who's wearing a suit (unless they're female); who's visiting from Chicago; who doesn't read the tabloids; who complains endlessly about how New York has gone downhill; or who doesn't think the Urine Gone commercials are extremely funny.
And since I'm on a roll, or at least a croissant, let me address the freaky club people I like to be placed with and unveil the wacky nicknames I've concocted for them in my overabundant free time. (In the old days, club kids made up their own crazy monikers remember JENNY TALIA? WALT PAPER?but nowadays they're so busy multitasking that you have to do it for them.) I assure you this idea was executed out of sheer lovecall it the Red Bull Nicknaming Projectso the clubbies should be delighted as they try to guess which of these fractured-fairy-tale creatures they are to me: Lestat, Cyclops, Meth Mouth, Sheniqua Lee Curtis, Missing Link, Tennessee Tuxedo, Edwina Scissorhands, Aberzombie, Cokie Roberts, Thighmeat, Frank Lloyd Wrong, Glazed Eyes, Señor Ass Crack, Blunt Cut, and of course the immortal Hatchet Face Hannah. I'll see them all tonight at various Absolut pavilions and I'm expecting their guesses especially you, Low Hangers.
But stop everything, here's one more rule: Don't ever ask JARED PAUL STERN if it's true that his indictment is indeed coming to pass. He will answeras he just did to me"Are you crazy? Is that from your legal correspondent, AMANDA LEPORE? There's as much chance of that happening as there is of you being chosen to replace KARL ROVE." Oh yeah, well, my phone's ringing right now and I just know it's my good buddy Knucklehead, I mean DUBYA.