Follow the Bouncer Bald

The trailer's exciting. If that's not your thing, then try Hairspray. It grows on you.

Things went from gaudy to Saudi at Habibi, the gay Arab dance party that was the place to Iraq-and-roll when it swung by the roof of the Eagle last week. There, I met a whole slew of other raconteurs, most notably a guy who swears he inherited two of Saddam Hussein's cheetahs. (So what? I've got three cats that look like Hitler.) Outside, a gentleman was prostrate on his knees, and I was absolutely certain he was bowing and scraping to me until I realized he was facing Mecca. I ran off to go eat—again.

And yet again at Ye Waverly Inn's dinner for PATRICK MCMULLAN's "Who Is It?" show, which fills GAVIN BROWN's gallery with hundreds of celeb shots that comprise the surreal gossip wallpaper of LINDSAY LOHAN's dreams. At the Inn, we learned that Patrick's reality show wasn't greenlighted by Bravo—boo—but consoled ourselves with salmon bellies, cutely non-clichéd waiters, and ANGELA JANKLOW's revelation that her fridge contains a watermelon shaped like her face. I want to eat it!

This may be off-topic, but since there was no topic, that shouldn't be a problem: Can I just say how much I detest texting? It's a technological travesty and a logistical nightmare that's wearing down my will to live. A simple call would resolve all pertinent issues—what are we doing, where, why, etc.—in a matter of seconds, but instead you're forced to engage in an Olympic typing battle that takes giant chunks out of your day while making your knuckles sore, just to eke out a simple "going out tonight." What's worse, you meant that as a query, but since you have no idea how to type a question mark, it's a wasted exchange; your friend promptly responds "that's nice" and powers off (as you marvel that he knew how to do an apostrophe).

Talking trash: Steve! Steve! Steve!
photo: Stacy Kranitz
Talking trash: Steve! Steve! Steve!


Clicking on each key several times just to get the letter you want—and then going back to try it again when you overshoot—is an absolute torture, and when your phone bill ends up three times the normal rate because you sent casual acquaintances indispensable messages like "how r u," you want to do a NAOMI CAMPBELL and hit someone over the head with the cell. Is it any wonder that the horrors of texting may have led to the death of five cheerleaders in that fiery car crash? And yet . . . there is something sexy and exciting about hearing that jingle that says someone cared enough to do all that typing and backspacing just to tell you something inane. I say let's keep texting, but only when we're in a club where you can't actually call over the music. Alas, that's always where I am anyway. Waa. Why me question mark.


According to a source, three record companies including Sony have bid to record the cast recording for the hit Broadway spoof Xanadu, but the best offers are contingent on current male lead Cheyenne Jackson being part of the project. Alas, since Jackson came into the show in a rush when James Carpinello injured himself, his contract didn't include cast album stipulations. Now they're trying to sway him into the recording studio on his skates or maybe lose the deal. Publicists for the show didn't respond to a request for comment.

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