Read This In Loo of Sex

A Bravo performance: Gunn hugs cable network prexy Zalaznick.
Cary Conover spills all the juice about truck stops, adult bookstores, and other cum-dumping grounds around the country, for those who like cream with their tea rooms. The site was no doubt bookmarked by Larry Craig—you know, Mr. "I'm guilty, no I'm not. I'm resigning, no I'm not"—because for ages it's told all about the goings-on in that minxy Minnesota bathroom and how to tap like Ann Miller to make it happen. The site still promises "plenty of understall action" there—I checked—but of course that was then, when you could shit where you eat. Now, a more up-to-date comment on the site reads, "Thanks a lot, Craig. Not only have you exposed yourself as a hypocrite, but you ruined a great cruising spot. At least I'll have memories of the hot blond NW pilot and the short, hunky TSA agent."

And at least Squirt offers tips for nabbing genital action in other excitingly taboo loos. "If there is someone beside you," it advises, "try tapping your foot once and see if he taps back. If he does, move your foot closer and do it again . . . Clearing your throat can always be a good way of letting other guys know you are there." It can also be a good way of clearing out the residue from your last tap-dancing partner. There are even poignant warnings, which Craig obviously ignored ("Remember, cops may be 'cruising' too. Don't count on proving the cop entrapped you") and tips as to what to do if you're actually arrested. Unfortunately for Craig, they all involve getting a lawyer!

But I'll tell you who should get a lawyer: the two grandchildren of human dildo Leona Helmsley, whom she froze out of her will "for reasons that are known to them." That line is a direct rip from the ending of Mommie Dearest—no doubt Leona's favorite movie next to Godzilla—and everyone's wondering why she was even more hateful than usual about them. Well, a source swears that one of the grandkids is gay and Leona way preferred Toto types to friends of Dorothy. But both have been married to the opposite sex! And we know how meaningful that can be! Leona may have actually despised them for marrying Catholics, but the grandchildren who did get dough did that too, so go figure. Whatever the reason for the stiffie—I mean the stiffing—I hear that because they're mentioned by name, the shunned grandkids are now able to contest the will. This story ain't over yet, bitches.

If I can take yet another side trip here en route to my own NW pilot on the bowl: How long will it be before supposed mutual stall-tappers Larry Birkhead and Howard K. Stern battle it out for custody of Trouble the dog? Also, when Anna Nicole handpicked cute Birkhead to father her baby, did she actually think that dyed blond hair and a fixed nose would show up in a newborn? And most importantly, why does everyone named Larry seem to think being called gay is the lowest abomination in Christendom?

What's more, why am I hearing that space-alien-like Zac Efron is practically addicted to self-tanner cream? Is he not even man enough to go into an actual booth? Whatever the case, Zac's beauty regimen serves as a lovely segue to Fashion Week, where you try to make your outfit match the footprints on your forehead from the paparazzi who ran you over to get to Mischa Barton. It all started when the Mao PR party at "50 W. 17 Street"—or, as I more commonly know it, Splash—had to be postponed because, according to a mass e-mail, "a garbage truck has collapsed into a sinkhole and onto a gas line, directly in front of the venue." Fabulous, dahlings! Mildly traumatized and holding their noses, the fabbies kept going, traipsing on to a non-garbagey Van Cleef & Arpels party, where a model dragged an unwilling dog (probably named Trouble) onstage, after which a chorus line of topless dancers pranced out and had no trouble whatsoever with their puppies.

There was also much Heatherette hoopla, but I was excluded-ette, even though I used to promote their show so much I once wrote them up instead of 9/11. But then they gave my front-row seat away to an ex-boy-bander, and the next year they didn't invite me at all. This time? They called for my address, then didn't send a single thing. We're getting warmer, kids!

I was invited by Bravo to celebrate their show Tim Gunn's Guide to Style at the SoHo Grand, where appropriately clothed models were floating around and announcing how they represented Gunn's style essentials ("Hello, I'm the day dress," "Hi, I'm the blazer and classic dress pants," and so on). In came the Project Runway guru, looking devilishly well put together as he uttered fashion epithets ("Crocs! How did that ever happen?") and gushily greeted his celebrity guests. ("You're Christine Ebersole! I saw Grey Gardens three times!") As I hid my crocs with my four-dollar Weber's bag, I announced, "Hi, I'm the downtown rumpled night look" and went into a Q&A with Gunn that was fashionably short and went like so: Q: "Hi, Tim. Do gays dress better than straights?" A: "Of course! As a population, absolutely. There are missteps . . ." Q: "Why are you looking at me?" A: "No, not you. But despite the missteps, at least we care about the way we present ourselves to the world." Q. "Who's the best-dressed gay: Larry Birkhead or Howard K. Stern?" (Kidding. Don't sue me, gays—I mean, guys.) A: [Pause.] "Can I say I'd love to help them both?" Q: "Say whatever you want, just don't wear crocs. Do all these rules for women ever become a bit oppressive?" A: "No, because, for example, 'basic black dress'—what is that? We're seeing a multitude of variations on it right here." Q: "So my blue shirt is actually a basic black dress?" A: "Yes!" Q: "Fab! But what are you ultra-serious about hating to the max?" A: "Sweatsuits! They're fine for a gym, but don't wear them to a store or a theater. I was sitting with Grace Mirabella watching Three Days of Rain and a couple went by in sweatsuits. We couldn't believe it!" Q: "Gross! Maybe that's what threw Julia Roberts off!"

On Saturday, the truck was out of the sinkhole, and the Mao PR party was on again, celebrating Mao mag, which lusciously salutes scene survivors from Veruschka to my own babushka. In the new issue, editors Mauricio and Roger Padilha interview Boy George's '80s appendage Marilyn, who reveals that a blitzed Diana Ross once "wanted to have a more intimate moment with me than I expected." Alas, the frisson stopped in the name of love when George started crying and telling Marilyn, "I can't believe you're going to leave me!" He should be made to pick up more trash (maybe right in that very sinkhole) just for depriving a drag queen of the chance to fuck Diana Ross!

By the way, the guy who played Marilyn in TabooJeffrey Carlson—has done well as a trannie on All My Children, so now I hear One Life to Live is casting for a Southern-style drag queen to spice things up in classic dress pants. I guess Llanview is turning into Tranview.

Meanwhile, one of my favorite real-life soap operas was shattered when I heard about how Jodi Sweetin just told a bunch of Sarah Lawrence students that the widely reported tale that it was her Full House castmates who did an intervention to save her from crystal meth was kinda made up. Those damned heartless Olsen twins!

And finally, while Anna Nicole certainly needed an intervention (and some de-licing), the New York Post wisely got one. A birdie swears they were all set to run the legal-bell-ringing Rita Cosby book excerpts until a lawyer chimed in and said nyuh-uh. That's probably the smartest thing they ever did since writing that Tom Cruise is straight.

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