By Alex Distefano
By Scott Snowden
By Anna Merlan
By Steve Almond
By Jena Ardell
By Jon Campbell
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Tessa Stuart
That spanking-new party was nominated for the Paper magazine Nightlife Awards presented the very next night at Show, but they'd hardly built up a HELEN MIRRENtype body of work just yet; Fridays at Mr. Black copped the trophy (a black orby thing designed by Kid Robot that, by the way, looked like a high-tech replica of MADONNA's latest baby). I was called upon to present four People's Choice awards with the delightful TINSLEY MORTIMER, so while we waited and primped, I asked her what she thought of the New York Post piece anointing her society's "It" girl. "I don't want to say anything," she said, looking coiffed but uncomfortable. "This press thing is new to me. I don't want anything taken the wrong way. . . . Don't give me that look!" I hope I didn't misquote that. Nearby, gadfly R. COURI HAY was cooing, "Is that MARC JACOBS's ex-hustler boyfriend over there? I can tell from the body language." Not to mention the three-foot tattoo. And presenter LYDIA HEARST was turning on all her gadgets in an unsuccessful attempt to shed light on the sealed envelope with the winner for Best Club, too ladylike to just rip it the hell open.
But she did so a few minutes later onstage, and when she announced that the winner was Stereo, the whole place erupted into skanky boos. (Her co-presenter, MOBY, later admitted to me, "I don't even know what Stereo is!") In other results, the PR triumph known as the MISSHAPES won something and gushily thanked a website that writes up their every pose. And when LADY BUNNY announced HEATHERETTE as a nominee for Best Designer with Influence, she smirked, "Wait, that's a designer under the influence." Of Pamela Lee, no doubt.
For the finale, FERGIE (or Froggie, as Bunny kept calling her) promised the crowd she wouldn't pee herself, instead making us get wet with a fiercely energetic performance and a toast to the pooh-bahs of Paper, complete with chocolates thrown at the audience. A Hershey's kiss is now glamorously embedded in my left nostril and I'm leaving it there. Don't give me that look!
Hoping for a big bonbon in my face, I went to see High Fidelitya/k/a Spawn of Wedding Singerwhich falls somewhere between High Society and High Anxiety and which is an amiable but far from urgent mix of cleverness and dullness. I enjoyed the (bleeped) utterance of "big black cock," but I fear critics will screech, "Bye, Fidelity!"
Before I take off along with it, here's an inside whisper: The 12-year-old who plays the nephew on Ugly Bettywho used to be older than meis being conscientiously kept away from interested gay magazines, despiteno, more likely because ofthe fact that the character's generally described as "effeminate" and "fashion savvy." I'm sure Beyoncé's livid. This only allows more cover space for Jennifer Hudson.
Web Extra: And now I must turn into all the people I run from by suddenly becoming a shilling, self promoting, pleading nightmare with some glitzy merch to hawk. See, I have a book compilation of my craziest columns, La Dolce Musto, coming out of the cupboard any minute now, so please start gathering your penises, I mean pennies, to order it because this thing comes from a legend with amazing credentials. ("112 years old"New York Observer; "D-list, tired hack"George Wayne, Vanity Fair). And in the meantime, I'll be at the LGBT Center, reading from the unwieldy thing and discussing it, on Monday December 11 at 6 ($10, please). Now that I've plugged myself really hard, I feel so much better.
Another Web Extra, 12.06.2006:And here's an update on the LGBT Center event. After I read a passage or two, Pulitzer winner Doug Wright (I Am My Own Wife, Grey Gardens) will be interviewing me onstage! That's a lot of bang for your bling.