NY Mirror

You see strange things in airports these days. Before boarding my plane to Miami last week, I noticed other passengers frantically throwing out their gels of a certain size as if getting rid of head lice. But then a guard let me right into the gate with a ticket that didn't match my passport! (My friend and I had mistakenly taken each other's boarding pass.) So anyone can get in without the right credentials? Oh, well. At least we were safe from fruity body scrubs and too-harsh shampoos.

We were sent by Miami Fashion Week—yes, they have one—to see shows by Heatherette, which presented a kicky spoof of travel wear, and Sweetface, which had girls with slender butts gamely modeling J.LO's fashions for other people. (But the line's real designer is named SO YUNG. That reminds me—last week, JOHN MARK KARR's avid interest in children eclipsed even MADONNA's. What a sick fuck.)

While down there, it was de rigueur to abandon all slenderness of butt and visit Karu & Y—a Vegas-y restaurant complete with murals and glass sculptures, in the middle of the crack den of downtown Miami. It's so wrong it's right, as klieg lights and large silver doors announce the biggest gamble in Miami food history. After a month of free tastings, the place just officially opened, and I must say, the "cuisine of the Americas" offerings are pretty intriguing, especially since they're presented like artistic landscapes out of the Valley of the Dolls opening sequence. And what fussing! "This is to aromacize the dish," the waiter said, pouring some dark liquid—yes, liquid—into the bottom of my two-bowled "whimsical amuse-bouche" of clams and popcorn. I ended up drinking it, whimsically enough, and choking as I realized it was some kind of potpourri-ish silt. How amuse.

Lower-class cuisine made a splash back at the airport, where heartbeats raced when inspectors searched my bag and found—oh, dear God—a can of tuna! The attendant summoned his higher-up and they actually had a meeting over this, in a live demonstration of the idiocy of America at its most garbage-pail-ready. "Well, it has water," said the attendant, seriously. Tense pause. Could this be a problem? Is Bumble Bee somehow allied with Al Qaeda? "I'll let it through," decided the boss, nobly, after a few beats. And so a planeful of innocent people were unnecessarily terrorized by tuna water!

I went foodless to the 10th anniversary celebration of the Mohegan Sun casino in Connecticut, and that was fine; multiple pig-outs awaited, culminating with a surf-and-turf dinner adorning a gala JERRY SEINFELD performance about nothing. But first, in the cabaret, there was a reunion of the cast of Laugh-In, the irrepressible '60s psychedelic comedy show full of single people, double takes, and triple entendres. Out came the available cast members, including zany JO ANNE WORLEY (who serenaded us with "Mammogram," done to the tune of "Mammy"), butch LILY TOMLIN (who had to be coerced to do Laugh-In—and probably this reunion too), swishy ALAN SUES (who strangely talked about his night out with a woman he met on The Dating Game, though Worley told us Sues was "both the Mr. and Miss Congeniality" of the set), and formerly saucy CHELSEA BROWN, who barely said a word. (Maybe her old body graffiti left permanent damage.)

As for JUDY "Sock It to Me" CARNE—who wasn't there—only one tiny clip of her was shown, and Worley muttered that she always came late to work. But Sues was right on time remembering that guest star Kate Smith "was rather large and she had no sense of humor at all," especially when he comically ended up under her dress. (Now I was really getting confused.)

The next day, I boldly asked Laugh-In producer GEORGE SCHLATTER about Norman . . . Is That You?, the gay-themed comedy he directed in the '70s, which was named the number one film of all time by my very-weird-movie club. "Every time Redd Foxx went into his trailer," related Schlatter, "he ended up getting either some blow, pot, Courvoisier, or a blowjob. Every one of those things altered his speech patterns. We shot for 10 days, and every one of those days he was stoned and trying to jump on Pearl Bailey." No wonder the film is so magical.

Maybe blow, pot, or Courvoisier explained KEITH URBAN's having to cancel out of performing that Mohegan weekend to go into rehab instead. God, you'd think marriage to an icy fembot like NICOLE KIDMAN would totally ground you. But Seinfeld showed up and joked at a press conference, "I'm trying to develop some sort of dependency—I have two hours—and this is the place to do it!" While trying, Jerry told us he doesn't mind the idea of a Seinfeld curse ("I love anything named after me"), but it's apparently ended now that Julia Louis-Dreyfus has a hit show. He also announced that he'd avoid the roulette tables—not because of any curse, mind you, but because "I do my best gambling onstage."

Well, maybe not. His show covered topics so old— Starbucks, cell phones, caller ID—even Jackie Mason would shun them as not cutting-edge enough. Still, Jerry was slick and amusing in his attack on the annoying minutiae of life. And I loved him saying what he's been doing lately: "Nothing."

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