Violence Is Golden

And stunning, where Bardem and the Coens are concerned. Plus other dark visions, and peaceful chats with Mamet and Lauper.

Amanda Lepore's birthday party at Lotus last Tuesday was tremendous vertical fun—if you got in. The security guy at the door—one of those power-mad, not-loved-enough-as-a-child types—actually gave me a hard time because I don't have a driver's license or walk around with my passport taped to my forehead. Yes, the freak carded me and wouldn't accept the fact that I'm not only of legal age, I'm practically ready for AARP! I can understand that he was just doing his job, blah blah blah. The bigger problem was that when another doorperson with some sense came out to sweep me in, the brute sarcastically muttered, "You're welcome." "So you want to be thanked?" I said incredulously, "even though you tried every which way to keep me out?" With that, he angrily put his paws on me and demanded, "Get out!" and I complied, knowing that this is the kind of bully who has to win even when he loses. But just then, a higher-up ran out and swept me in again. I won!

I scored again at the Emery Awards benefiting the Hetrick-Martin Institute, where we got a plate of carbs, a free rugby shirt, and a disco violinist jazzing up the national anthem. I thanked guest performer Cyndi Lauper for being so good to the gays and she said, "I'm part of your extended family!" I also thanked Auntie Cyndi's assistant for being French because, let's not forget, the Froggies were nailed to the cross just for being ahead of the curve about the war. "I still bought the wine and ate the cheese— with gusto!" announced Cyndi, delightfully. And American free trade is still intact anyway. The next day, Entourage's Rex Lee, who MC'd the event, was seen at the Rugby store, exchanging his gift-bag shirt for something else! It's OK—a note in the bag encouraged you to do just that.

But back to gay marriage and torture: On the last page of David Gest's British auction booklet, he offers a batch of "Liza and David wedding memorabilia" (at least he got the billing right). The pervy package includes "invitation, wedding-shower boxes, heart-shaped candy box, a Bible with 'Liza and David, March 16, 2002' in gilt lettering on the leather covers, money signed by Liza," and so on, all thanks to the gay icon who supposedly threw a lamp, if not a book, at him. But wait a bearded minute. Money signed by Liza? Did she think it was an eight by 10? And why didn't Gest pocket it as per usual? In any case, if the dough isn't of the Monopoly variety, this sick bunch of shit might be worth the asking price: 400 to 600 pounds! Which is what I weigh thanks to all these dinners with cold-blooded killers.




Speaking of cold blooded killers, the theater queen invite of the year was last week's screening of Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd for the Broadway community, held at the Regal E-Walk on naughty, bawdy Forty Second Street. Composer Stephen Sondheim entered to introduce the flick and the entire room stood and cheered, as if to thank him for "personable/coercin'-a-bull" and so many other moments that have elevated our nights out for decades. "For those of you who know the show," he urged us, "forget it." He said there'd been changes, expansions, omissions, and compressions, and that "it's its own animal, or as Monty Python would say, something completely different." Once you understand that, said Sondheim, you're in for a spectacular ride. Then Burton came out with star Johnny Depp, who was in a gaucho hat, checkered scarf, green jacket, and so many other layers he looked like he wore all his favorite outfits at once. Somehow in his don't-notice-me disguise, Johnny's the most noticeable one for miles. "If you don't like it," said Burton, "blame us," and they scooted off, no doubt to the chocolate factory. DID I like it? I can't say because they've warned press they'll literally slit your throats if you don't hold your tongue until the release date.

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