NY Mirror


“New York, I fuckin’ love you!” exulted porn star Jeff Palmer upstairs at the Stonewall, a deliciously seedy West Village bar packed with horny lowlifes and one esteemed columnist. “Well, we love to fuck you!” yelled back an audience member, his tongue dropping to the main floor, where people were probably rubbing up against it. Fucking Jeff Palmer was easy enough to arrange, it turned out, but first you had to indulge the guy—a sweet-faced Argentinean in lace-up leather pants and Heather Locklear hair—as he sang a few songs from his latest crossover CD. Actually, “sang” and “songs” should probably be in quote marks—his caterwauling along to a murky tape was the most mesmerizingly bizarre redefinition of “music” yet heard by mankind. But I’m glad I wasn’t able to push my way to the exit; Palmer’s Gregorian chant-like Eurodisco by way of Harlequin Romance-style lyrics for special schoolers was frightening yet adorable!

“I want to keep my music exclusive, not in Kmart,” Palmer told me in a closet-sized (un-) dressing room after the show. “By playing it on the radio all the time, they can destroy your song.” I wanted to tell the stud he really needn’t worry too much, but instead I segued to his porn career, which also won’t be featured in Kmart anytime soon. Palmer said his next film is The Player, but when I smirkily asked if that was the Robert Altman classic, he laughed and looked a little confused. Unfazed, the professional top bounded back onstage, where he told the crowd they could do anything they wanted with him—”but don’t put anything here,” he warned, gesturing at his supple butt with the feeding-back mike. Still, tongues were promptly stuck where the sun don’t shine—Giuliani must be gone, right?—while other audience members dived onto his pinga, which he passed around like a slice of beef from the pampas in the most astounding interactive performance since Dame Edna almost poked my eye out with a gladiolus. Ricky Martin had better start providing such a service or he’ll become obsolete.

In more legit pop news, I hear Madonna may interview Britney Spears for InStyle. (Two generations of pelvis-thrusting loveliness!) And while we’re entering nubile bedrooms, my sources say Making the Band looks like a goner, since O-Town‘s people just made some rather unreasonable demands, girl. (It’s murmured that the group wanted a 200 percent raise; MTV said no; O-Town said they’d do the show anyway; and MTV said later, kids.) Even less tragically, spies tell me the tweenie band Dream Street is about to implode amidst an extremely nasty lawsuit. Jeff Palmer might make it after all.

If quality were all, The Graduate would implode, but it’s wildly popular, the public clearly interested in paying top dollar for “plastics.” But what a critical misfire! For a year, the press hyped the play’s 20 seconds of female nudity in the dark—no pinga—but no one mentioned the other 90 brightly lit minutes of crashing boredom, one-note acting, and beige shuttered doors. What next—On the Waterfront with . . . ? No, wait, they already did that.

At a dinner for Crush, Ivana Trump told me she saw three different Mrs. Robinsons in London, and Kathleen Turner was the best. (My fave Mrs. Robinson in London is the acidic Anne Robinson from Weakest Link.) As for Crush? “I recognized the scenery,” cooed Ivana, “the music was nice, and there were some lines I can’t repeat.” Well, I can—”I’d like to be inside your pussy” for one—eeewww.

And that brings us to It Girls, the rather rudimentary WE network documentary about Prada-wearing blonds whose parents worked hard so they could do lunch. At the doc’s party at Meet, scads of press milled around trying to find someone who had “It” (which aptly sounds like an acute skin condition). The Hilton sisters never showed, which is strange since they go to everything not in their honor. Why no high-stepping Hilties? Well, the Times said the gals were away, but the real reason is they were boycotting because they were mad at fellow socialite Casey Johnson for bringing a camera to a party of theirs and using the footage for this very movie, long story.

At least sunglassed diva Anne Slater was there, saying about the It-girl phenom, “I think it’s a darling idea. It’s fun and there are certainly a lot of It girls—dazzlers every one.” This was starting to sound like a Sondheim lyric, but just then club queen Amy Sacco sashayed in and said, “I’m too old to be an It girl. I’m an over-It girl.” As I tried to crawl under a table and grab a gift bag, wealthy scion Elizabeth Kieselstein-Cord told me, “It’s very interesting that this show filmed right before 9-11, when the world turned upside down. So it’s almost sentimental now.” Wait—pulses were racing here—you mean It girls have officially become a thing of the past? “No, this is always going to go on on some level,” she said. “It’s only a matter of . . . Brian!!!” (She’d spotted someone.) “This is my best friend! Brian! I love you!

Moving away from “It” in terror, I ran into Sale Johnson, who praised her daughter Casey’s healthy sense of perspective. “Instead of worrying about froufrou outfits for tonight,” said Sale, “she just wanted to be comfortable.” But the girl was sporting a blinding mass of sequined and beaded paisley (if no camera)! “No,” corrected Sale. “It’s jeans and an antique coat.” To me, it looked outlandishly froufrou, but what the fuck, I’m from Brooklyn.

Fashion It boys? Well, the Post just ran a feature saying that Karl Lagerfeld was starting a diet frozen-foods line called Karl’s Kuisine. Unfortunately, they’d gotten that info from an April Fool’s item in WWD! They’re lucky WWD decided against running another spoof story they’d considered—that Bruce Weber is doing an ad campaign with priests and altar boys!

The Post—which I worship nonetheless—also picked up the Sun‘s report that a British man (probably inspired by Edward Albee‘s latest zoo story) was brought up on charges for having sex with a goat. But they left out the interesting fact that the guy is HIV-positive. I guess they didn’t want to ruin his reputation. Meanwhile, The Graduate—yeah, that again—has a line about a man who pulls a goat around, and Big Trouble features a bunch of similar shedding quadrupeds. This shit is catching on—though at the party for Helen, co-star Marian Seldes told me, “There’s no goat in it to upset you. I know you’ve been through a lot!”

Back to the barnyard—Brian!!!—that tomboy from Oklahoma! boasts in her bio that she’s “the first actress ever to dance her own Dream Ballet.” But a reader claims that in the ’65 City Center production, Susan Watson performed the very same feat. Apparently, she acted too.

As for guys who cain’t say no, the rampant pedophilia in the priesthood—in reality, not in Bruce Weber ads—isn’t a comment on gays, oh robed ones, it’s a comment on the closet! Traditionally, a lot of men who were tortured by their homosexuality retreated to the church, where they could repress their sexual feelings, while making their unknowing families proud. But the urges kept popping up, so some of them preyed on the most vulnerable targets around—altar boys—instilling a fear of God in them to make sure they’d never tell. But they did. In the future, sexually conflicted people should work out their problems at the Limelight, not in real churches. And by the way, New York, I fuckin’ love you!