Owen Wilson Heals in Public

Advice from grannies and trannies; other topics are glossed over

I was mailed an invite to Patrick McMullan's gala Whitney museum party for his Glamour Girls photo book, so I went with friends, only to have a publicist try to get us to hold up a Maybelline eyeliner for the cameras. We idealistically refused, thrilled to have not done any shilling—not for free, anyway. But then we turned around and realized that the giant backdrop behind us said "Maybelline" in humungous letters! Send me a check!

But let me shill for Page Six as I tell you they're craftily starting a TMZ-like website on which they'll run videos of stars in crisis. Run, Britney, run.

I raced—with no one following me at all—to the monthly Kiss My Black Ass at Webster Hall, which I feared would be one of those poppers-laden circuit "black" parties. But it turned out to be an old-school gathering of African-American gays made special by the manic stage show (the House of Aviance in a voguing tribute to Willi Ninja) and snood-wearing drag queen Lady Vivacious, who whipped a hoop skirt out of her grab bag and turned it into "the infinite dress." Alas, the lights would flash on now and then to reveal . . . too many white people!

Street vendors of all nations gathered in Tompkins Square Park last Saturday for the Vendy Award finals, which I judged while trying to maintain a waist. I expected piles of hot dogs, but instead was lavished with ox tails, soy drumsticks, and something even the vendor couldn't identify. The best attitude belonged to the taco lady who, when I announced myself as a judge, ballsily served someone else first. She left before the proceedings were even finished, and fellow judge Mo Roca swore she'd been carted out by immigration, though it was probably just Bill O'Reilly. The top winner was Thiru "Dosa Man" Kumar from NY Dosas, who vowed to keep not killing animals.

Speaking of wieners, I mean winners: Brava to downtown favorite Candis Cayne for playing Billy Baldwin's transsexual mistress in ABC's Dirty Sexy Money. Interestingly, in her first scene, the voice they had Candis use was deeper than James Earl Jones's. The trannies I know—including Candis herself—generally speak in far more dulcet tones. Maybe they wanted to make the gender complexities here extra clear to the mass audience? Then they should have just showed her at a urinal, LOL.

There's one less male club god now that rocker/promoter Dean Johnson has transitioned, mysteriously ODing in D.C. (with another guy), where he'd gone to visit one of his hustling clients. Tall, shaved-headed Dean marketed witty outrage since the Danceteria days, prancing around in a black cocktail dress and drop earrings while chanting "Fuck you" to genocide, Union Carbide, and Mary Tyler Moore. Dean engagingly thumbed his nose at pretension, puritanism, and corruption, and now we're supposed to be depressed.

WEB EXTRA

Hold everything! I have to apologize to a socialite! No, not Paris Hilton. She did amazingly on Letterman, tirelessly plugging her charity work for women and children--I mean her movie and perfume. I actually have to grovel before Tinsley Mortimer for remarks I made to the New York Observer about the time she and I copresented an award at a nightlife event. Using hyperbole, I told the Observer reporter that Tinsley had warned me, "You better not queer me! You better not go off the script!" The reality is Tinsley never used the word queer. I was paraphrasing what she'd said, which was more on the order of "Don't throw me for a loop. You better not go off the script!"

When I also told the reporter, "I'm the wrong person to say not to queer," I was totally smirking. That was a joke. I wasn't really intending the "queer" quote to have anything overtly to do with gays. It's simply an old phrase that means "Don't get me in trouble." In any case, now I'M the one who's been queered by this whole mini-mess and I have to beg glamour-girl forgiveness. Tinsley assures me she LOVES the gays--well, probably except for one.

musto@villagevoice.com

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