By Alex Distefano
By Scott Snowden
By Anna Merlan
By Steve Almond
By Jena Ardell
By Jon Campbell
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Tessa Stuart
The art? Well, the main room has portraits of Naomi Campbell, Kate Moss, and a nude Brigitte Bardot. The back area—"The Gallery"—has paintings of hot young women whom the artist found on MySpace. And the entrance to the bathroom has a row of headless ladies' figures topped by a mirror where you can place your head's reflection to make yourself a total babe. Clearly, this place couldn't be any straighter—but after some drink tickets, who knows?
By the way, why have the Beatrice Inn people been so nice lately? Easy: Because they're opening a new space!
Meanwhile, Bravo just shot an hour about club queen Amy Sacco. That should be socko!
Bravo to the Lower East Side Girls Club of New York for pulling off a boffo fundraiser at a gigantic dim sum palace on Elizabeth Street. I sat at a vegetarian table and hoped Moby didn't notice the plate of lobster I'd had the waiter drop there. But just then came the live auction of masks created by noted artists as host Rosario Dawson generously showed some leg onstage to up the ante. A man/dog thingie with blue eyes went for almost twice the Madonna movie's intake!
A model with legs, Lydia Hearst, no longer has a weekly column in Page Six magazine. Well, my godson Liam McMullan tells me he's getting the job, and he'll even write it himself! Liam wants to call the column "Liam's McLovin' Chronicles," but he won't rule out "Liam's Logue" or maybe even "La Dolce McMullan."
In less life-affirming publishing news, the Radar funeral party at Citrine was a depressing affair where a roomful of journalists all interviewed each other about how journalism is going down. I gave up waiting for host Shannen Doherty—Charmed? Please! She curses everything!—but at least I got gobs of attention for my Halloween outfit. Little did anyone realize I wear a Harry Potter scarf and cap every day!
And finally, I hear Anna Wintour would love for Interview to join Radar in magazine hell. My spies swear she's told various top photographers that if they shoot for Interview, they can't shoot for her. In fact, I bet she'll shoot them.
And now, I'm either going back to my nutty gay life in Gotham or I'm double-bolting my Canadian door. You decided.