By Jena Ardell
By Jon Campbell
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Tessa Stuart
By Roy Edroso
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
By Zachary D. Roberts
Meanwhile, Mo Rocca has apparently gotten his own windfall. At the same party, the wry TV guy said the real-life Mr. Big, Ron Galotti, paid for him to get the really snazzy tan shoes he was wearing. "He said my shoes were too white with my white pants," said Mo, "so he gave me his credit card and sent me out to buy these. Have you ever met him?" "No," I quipped, "but I'd love to see his dick." "It's in Vermont," said Mo. Honey, it's in three states.
There was one more burst of free cash on Saturday at Irving Plaza when Chip Duckett-and-company's 7 Deadly Sins gay party debuted with a very timely "Greed" theme. After a half-naked reality-show star lip-synched some smiley-faced bump-and-grind number, the crowd was reawakened by dough dropping from on high, the queens sucking it in with every talented orifice. In the new Depression, nightlife is like a game show, and if you don't sharpen your gay nails, you won't afford the cab ride home.
To grab at some free cheese chunks, I went to an HBO screening of Thrilla in Manila, about the bitter match between Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali, and I even got to meet the still-feisty Frazier. "I don't like the movie," he told me, conspiratorially, "because it's not showing the kids where a man's coming from. I'd like it to tell where Joe's from and where he's at today." (Uh-oh. The old third-person routine.) "I've been through antagonism, bigotry, and hatred," he went on. "I want a movie like Ray."
Well, Frazier must have been slapped around and coached a little, because after the screening, he came onstage, beaming, and told the crowd, "The movie was great!" (Audible sighs of relief from publicists.) "But I'd like to show more of my childhood . . ."
Now, hush and listen up about The Toxic Avenger, a straight campfest that brings us yet another lovable, green stage monster à la Elphaba, Shrek, and Al Gore. But this show is screamingly funny—I never thought such poetry could spring out of New Jersey's toxic waste. It's positively kooky!