Is Beyonce the Antichrist?

I went to a gym! For a party! It was constant hostess SUSANNE BARTSCH's toy drive at her hubby DAVID BARTON's gym a few weeks ago, which brought together both charitable types and charity cases to benefit Smart Inc., which distributes truckloads of playthings to kids and teens with HIV. Thanks to the contributions of the downtown crowd, young PWAs are now overcome with RUPAUL dolls, Green Acres lunch boxes, and tons of liner and lip gloss. And thanks to the enjoyable insanity of the party, I got the priceless vision of a Chelsea guy lifting up his shirt to check his abs in the mirror (I guess to make sure they were still there) and JUN NAKAYAMA—the cute clubbie who wears towering blond wigs and gingham baby-doll dresses—sobbing nearby while looking into the very same reflecting glass. What was wrong, dear Jun? "My favorite faggot is having another fag hag," she lamented between gasps. I hate when that happens!

Meanwhile, Bartsch and KENNY KENNY are continuing with their Tuesday nights at Room Service—the chandeliered, upscale-bordello-looking haunt, its booths equipped with phones that ring directly to the bar. (Well, who else would you want to call at 2:30 in the morning?) The night is growing in freaky allure, attracting something akin to the old Happy Valley crowd, but darker, louder, and distilled to just the eight-wigs-and-nine-genitals bunch. I'm the normal one, if that gives you an idea.

Up in mainstreamland
—i.e., Times Square—celeb photog PATRICK MCMULLAN had a holiday dinner at Hawaiian Tropic Zone, the newish restaurant which I assumed would be a kitschy, lei-laden paradise à la the late, lamented Trader Vic's or Hawaii Kai. Wrong! It's basically Hooters, Hawaiian-style, without a favorite fag hag in sight. The waitresses—a/k/a Hawaiian Tropic models —serve you in skimpy sarongs and bikinis, their coconuts shaking as you wonder who ordered the tuna. The large wall of screens features similarly booby gals writhing on the beach, and they spring to life when the waitresses parade across the stage to urge you to vote for them (for what, I have no idea—Hottest Person Who Should Be Taking My Order?). But the food did come, and it turned out to be really exotic Hawaiian stuff like chicken, mashed potatoes, and cheesecake (though the wafer cookie on top of the bonbon is tropically—if not surprisingly—shaped like slinky female legs in the air). The lights, by the way, continually get brighter and darker to make you think you've got a brain tumor. Soon enough, you actually do.

My mind alighted again at a birthday party for Bronx social arbiter
RICHARD TURLEY at YUE-SAI KAN's house, which had DENZEL WASHINGTON charmingly mixing with virtually everyone, PATTI LABELLE belting "I Believe" by the piano as we all held on to our seats in astonishment, PATTI D'ARBANVILLE and me discussing the dangers of dried fruit, and DONALD TRUMP JR. and his wife, VANESSA, wondering what to call their upcoming child, the sex of which they don't know yet. (My parents still don't know.) "How about Rosie Trump?" someone sardonically noted, since this was the day O'Donnell and the Donald had their contretemps about which of them has the right to legislate morality in America. "Or, more simply, Butch Dyke Trump," I genteelly interjected in that way that makes me so rarely invited above 14th Street. "Or maybe an African name with lots of clicking," suggested Donald Jr., smiling. I'd say the couple still has some work to do.

Can't get no satisfaction
The name Breaking and Entering has a good ring to it, so I went to a special screening at MOMA and found it to be an ANTHONY MINGHELLA drama about a break-in's uncatastrophic effect on a relationship between two blonds. BIANCA JAGGER mysteriously ran out for a few minutes halfway through the film, but she broke back in, only to find JULIETTE BINOCHE's character blackmailing JUDE LAW's. "What a bitch, what a bitch, what a bitch," Bianca murmured in a tizzy, as my part of the room grew a little tense with interest. A few seconds later, Bianca had one more thing to blurt: "What a bitch," she repeated before simmering down. Point taken.

There's no connection here whatsoever, but let's pause and sum up all the Dreamgirls- related bitterness through the ages, shall we? No, really, it'll be fun. First, Florence was bitter about her shabby treatment in the Supremes. Then DIANA, MARY, and CINDY became bitter at each other. Then Diana was irked at the Dreamgirls stage production. Now JENNIFER HOLLIDAY is furious at the Dreamgirls movie version. And Diana turned down a role in the very same movie version. And BEYONCÉ's family members supposedly resent JENNIFER HUDSON for being so good. And all this stems from an act based on airtight harmony. "Where Did Our Love Go?" indeed.

But won't the sharpest fangs of all come out if Beyoncé wins an Oscar for "Listen"? She recently admitted on MTV that the song was already written when she joined in the process and that she didn't add that much to it! (One hopes her contribution wasn't just "by Beyoncé Knowles.") By the way, I adore all of these gals.