Self-Service Nightlife

Elvis sightings, ethnic humor, and tomcat cruising, plus a peek at Jodie Foster's panic room

The only one who could ever play Erica Kane, Susan Lucci lit up the Boulevard magazine party in her honor at the W Hotels Hamptons Hideaway in Sag Harbor. By the deep end of the pool, the hair-heavy Lucci cooed to me about her latest promo project: "It's Malibu Pilates. It's very dancer-oriented and concentrates on your core. It's wonderful, and it doesn't hurt." I'll do it anyway! One of the party's hosts, celeb shutterbug Patrick McMullan, is also hopping into infomercial land, hoping to do a fragrance. Should he call it Flash? Digital? C'est Cheese? Or maybe "Razzi Totsy"? Damned if I know.

Whatever you call it, a spy who's seen 3:10 to Huma Abedin—I mean 3:10 to Yuma—tells me there's a character named Charlie Prince (played by Ben Foster), who's ridiculed as "Princess" and who maybe, possibly seems to have a crush on Russell Crowe. Should the gay-subtext brigade dance in the streets and rejoice? Probably not, since he's utterly despicable.

I hear David Cronenberg's Eastern Promises also has a gay psycho, but in this case it's in a context that explains society's disdain for the homosex and why dysfunctions happen.

My son the hound dog: Jelvis has not left the building
photo: Isabelle Mills-Tannenbaum
My son the hound dog: Jelvis has not left the building


Speaking of gay sex habits, I got a huge response to my recent diatribe about how there are no bottoms left in New York and how in fact everyone's become a boring "vers top" who does virtually nothing in bed. (Like Malibu Pilates, it doesn't hurt at all.) Most of the responses invited me to come to other towns where everyone's a bottom—namely D.C., Dallas, and L.A.—but I also got an e-mail from a New Yorker saying the real tragedy isn't so much a lack of bottoms here, but the fact that tops think they can just stick it right in. What's lacking, he swore, is some prepping, orchestration, and actual, you know, licking. Hmm, maybe we're all the problem.

Speaking of gay problems, for years we've given Jodie Foster kudos for at least never saying, "I'm straight, world." But by now her weird closet dance has gotten too ugly for TV, with her giving interviews about how she craves privacy, though she'll then press into elaborate detail about what it's like as the parent of two wonderful, growing boys. (The single parent, the way she tells it. When a tape recorder's on, her partner stays invisible and unspeakable.) In More magazine, Jodie explains, "I just don't talk about my health, my dad, who I voted for, or what I think of the death penalty, because that would be trivializing my life, selling it for a magazine." So lesbianism is so dirty it even stays off the list of taboo subjects. That's closeted!

Meanwhile, the press not only got squeamish about reporting Merv Griffin's gayness, they left out any mention of the infamous chocolate-bar rumor. Let's rectum-fy this immediately!


But stop everything! I just learned something far more devastating than the fact that nightlife has died again. Lance Bass has broken up with Brazilian hottie Pedro Andrade! Ain't no lie, Pedro, bye bye bye.

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