The French Meryl Streep Speaks About Her Craft!

Musical chairs with nuns and a Jew.

By the way, guess what movie the nuns turned out to love? Doubt! In fact, they told me they adore anything with La Meryl, even Mamma Mia!. They'd probably even like the French Meryl.

As long as we're elevating the culture, I was part of an Algonquin roundtable celebrating the 90th anniversary of the legendary grouping of wits, and though we had fun tossing barbs around, I doubt we were any threat to the memory of Dorothy Parker and Robert Benchley. The discussion was moderated by Nat Benchley (yes, the grandson), who was smoothly affable, but weirdly neglected to introduce the panel. We started blabbing anyway, excitable rocker Andrew W.K. saying he had replaced the previously scheduled Morgan Spurlock (that's OK; I'm pretty sure I got Simon Doonan's slot) and Albert Maysles asserting that people are ready for a reality show in which people actually behave well. Like his movie, Grey Gardens, I guess, minus the cat-food eating.

The East Side Club opened with human food at a dinner for socialite designer Minnie Mortimer, who told me her spring collection is portable, the way she personally likes it. "I'm like a gypsy," Mortimer admitted. "I live on Virgin America. To me, it's like the No. 4 train. I do Superman changes in the bathroom. When they say they're descending and we should strap on our seatbelts, that's when I go in there." A true rule-breaker! She didn't even mind me wearing a seersucker suit months after Labor Day.

Loves those sweet roles: Huppert
AFP photo/Valery Hache/newscom
Loves those sweet roles: Huppert

Less felicitously, the week brought two letdowns bigger than Heaven's Gate. Firstly, after all the media mayhem whipped up around Levi Johnston's nude shots—which I fell right into like a pig to poop—we found out he wasn't showing everything after all. No Johnston's johnson? No sale!

Then Out magazine criticized Adam Lambert for his demands in not wanting to come off "too gay" in the mag (a battle that was broken on and his fans came out yelping in full force. I guess their reaction reflects some sort of sociopolitical progress. While Claymates used to squeal either "Clay's not gay!" or "Who cares if he is?" the Glamberts have moved forward enough to say, "Isn't Adam gay enough?" Bravo—though the answer is, "No, he isn't."

But, in any case, maybe I should lock myself in the house.

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