Pre-Coital Clubbing

At Lincoln Center, the ambiance of felching. Elsewhere, smoking gossip.

Comments (0) By Michael Musto Tuesday, Jun 19 2007

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Instead, I've been trolling around on yet more rounds of pre-coital clubbing and, miraculously, have not been arrested for public profanity. Where to? Well, at Barracuda, I heard them talking about the VANESSA WILLIAMS movie party there, where a female producer was so intoxicated—by the whole experience, I guess—that she became belligerent and had to be seriously de-attituded.

At a West Village piano bar, glamorous divorcée ELLEN BARKIN supposedly got the benefit of celebrity privilege and was allowed to openly smoke, which offended the various singers who were not trying to sound like ELAINE STRITCH.

photo: Andy Kropa

Off to see the Lizardman: Erik Sprague, at the opening of Ripley's odditorium

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A few blocks north at the Plumm, a trail of smoke was left by SHANE O'NEILL, former co-host of the PATRICK MCMULLAN/ CHUCK ATTIX "Monday's Hard" night there. It seems the promoter/shutterbug/personal assistant had just deserted McMullan in Europe to run off with DAVID LACHAPELLE and his posse. (Yes, folks, it's a major lens-off. Snap-snap indeed!)

Photogs ran wild putting together the new "Skin" issue of the club mag Gazelland—edited by, you got it, Gazelle—which features a bevy of downtown regulars from KENNY KENNY to KIM AVIANCE in even more colorful states of undress than an HX presenter. As a subject, I made sure to sport a large feather boa—not to cover that thingie so much as my expectant stomach—and started to feel like Stevie Nicks hiding behind all those lamp shades in her puffy period. At the publication's party at Kino 41, JULIE ATLAS MUZ made her pussy sing "This Land Is Your Land" as my butt and nipples cheered. As WANDA SYKES says in the annoying Evan Almighty, "I can't even get my cat to use the litter box."

The opening, as it were, of the Times Square Ripley's Believe it or Not odditorium would have been more outrageously fun if I didn't regularly hang out with all the previously mentioned circus freaks, but it was still interactively amusing, from the Last Supper made of spider webs to the swatches of hair from both Elvis and a woolly mammoth. (Yes, those were two different creatures.) The shockers? Believe it or not, I ate free food! And I couldn't find the celebrities (except for a lizard guy and the midget version of KISS)! And they wouldn't let me take a "penis sheath" out of a display case! And they let in conjoined twins even though they weren't on the list plus one!

I made the list for RICHARD TURLEY's birthday dinner for the legendary PATTI LABELLE at Serafina, where the singer gamely admitted that it wasn't exactly her birthday—"but I woke up this morning, and I think every day you wake up is your birthday!" Quite a scam, huh? Still, I was nice enough not to demand that she return my gift of DIANA ROSS-brand panty hose from the early '80s.

And now, it's back to the opera, ballet, and you know.

musto@villagevoice.com