Fiendish Floridians might be trying to rig the election, but at Miami Fashion Week, things were pure and honest, and there was a really good gift bag (though it included the ultimate comp whore’s dilemma: a coupon for $200 worth of free food—in Boca Raton!). Unlike New York’s Fashion Week, Miami’s allows any old person to pay a fee and watch the shows, so the event attracts a sprinkling of really interested folk, not just jaded journos who’d rather be home looking at the slides. Even better, the models are allowed to perform shtick on the runway rather than having to do that constipated strut into hell, and as a result, I got flashed with body parts of three colors, six genders, and nine doctors.
I was sent down by the organizers to see KIMORA LEE SIMMONS‘s Baby Phat show, though Kimora herself didn’t make it because—as is now legend—her cat Max had passed on to furball heaven. “Max was like her first baby,” a publicist explained to me, with a trembling voice. “The Baby Phat logo is based on him. She went to Paris with that cat!” I feigned an uncontrollable sob, not letting on that I only really well up from allergies to cats.
The shows were held in a deco building that had been painted pink for a BRITNEY SPEARS video, then, when she canceled, was restored to a shade even whiter than her trailer trash heinie. (I love a happy ending.) Fortunately, the fashion on parade was not ready for the big litter box in the sky. First, Ryan Kenny’s “luxury hip-hop” line trotted out studly guys in fabulously fruity floral shirts, proving that today’s hip-hop maestro is very secure in his sexuality, whatever (know what I’m sayin’?) that may be. Alas, one of the models was so secure he later ran off with the $20,000 watch he wore on the runway, but the police took care of that, and now the guy knows what time it is.
Suddenly I knew it was time for the Baby Phat show, which was a perfectly legal mix of harem, highland, alien, and POINTER SISTERS influences, all saucily served in open-toed lamé fuck-me heels. Max would have licked himself with glee.
But I needed to work my own runway in South Beach at night, inevitably hitting upon the perfectly named the Hotel, where the garden restaurant Wish serves light-up “electronic cocktails” that redefine “getting lit,” and the sultry rooftop Spire Bar has tie-dye-wearing waiters keeping you iridescent. The kook caravan also stopped everywhere from the refreshingly civilized Talula, where the chef should be governor, to the gay bar Twist, where the go-go gods look sizzling hot until they step down off their platforms and only reach up to your navel (though their weirdly placed muscles make them six feet wide)!
On Sunday, the sprawling poolside party at the Raleigh took on a ritualistic touch as skinny people gathered ’round a fire as if making some kind of Survivor decision. The bash’s co-host is INGRID CASARES, who, as you’ll remember, PARIS HILTON vehemently denied making out with last year. (That’s where the airy heiress draws the line, I guess.) Well, the local Miami papers recently had Hilton practically tonguing a female VJ, tee hee!
The wildest adventure of all was a day trip to Jimbo’s, a swampy fishermen’s shack on Biscayne Bay where overripe babes and overage bikers buy $2 slabs of “smoked fish,” score some mulch, and bop their fab flab to Journey songs amid strewn copies of The Economist. You practically expect the Country Bears to hop out of a shrimping boat and start singing “Afternoon Delight,” but then you’re awakened by the sight of one of the gals “grinding” old Jimbo.
XXX MARKS THE G-SPOT
Back in New York, sex acts got more highbrow treatment at the HBO premiere of TIMOTHY GREENFIELD-SANDERS‘s porn star documentary, Thinking XXX. (Disclosure: I’m in it—wearing clothes—though I’m eclipsed by fellow commentator GORE VIDAL‘s immortal remark, “Boys are expected to squirt as often as possible in order to fructify an egg.”) By the phallic hors d’oeuvres, I asked SAVANNA SAMSON what’s the most shocking thing she’s ever done on camera (besides being interviewed by BILL O’REILLY). “I did five guys at once,” she crowed. “At first I thought it would make me look cheap, but then I regrouped and said, ‘I’m doing this. I can step up to the plate and I can do it well.’ ” Well, I couldn’t, mainly because I’d never figure out where five fructifying thingies would go. “You can’t do it if you’re claustrophobic,” instructed Samson, interestingly.
I got a claustro attack watching the dread Brooklyn the Musical, which has five cast members doing you at once, all wrapped in trash bags. They can certainly sang, and I loved their costumes made of found objects (“Salvation Armani,” one character quips). But the lead character has no discernible personality except to keep repeating, “I’m looking for my father so I can complete the ‘Unfinished Lullaby,’ ” and unlike Brooklyn the borough, Brooklyn the Musical ends up being unforgivably boring.
But back to the porning, I love how the MURDOCH-owned Post has been trying to smear the woman suing Bill O’Reilly (from the Murdoch-owned Fox News Channel) every day for the last two weeks, stopping short only at “She picked her nose in public 12 years ago.” They should relax. There’s no way O’Reilly did and said all those fructifying things. After all, he rails against pornography and open sexuality all the time on his show. Case closed!
Speaking of open sexuality, LAURA BUSH recently joined the Republican chorus of “not nice” in response to KERRY‘s reference to lesbian MARY CHENEY in the last debate. “I don’t think it’s appropriate for anyone to bring up anyone’s child during any campaign,” she chirped, adding that she’s pretty sure her daughters feel the same way. (Please—those fag hags?) I guess she didn’t tell all that to DICK CHENEY, who made that “Lynne and I have a gay daughter” speech in August. And I guess Cheney, who’s also angry, forgets that he responded to Edwards’s similar remarks by saying thanks “for the kind words.” And I guess the definition of “nice” is keeping Mary hidden from the convention stage while the prez continues trying to amend the Constitution. But don’t get me started.
JUST ASKING, Y’ALL
What aging pretty-boy singer has a longtime partner, but was interestingly seen cavorting around a D.C. bathhouse? (Open relationship or just open legs?) What ’80s rocker who always kept ’em guessing (like “How dykey can she get?”) did it with a bicoastal female publicist? What model who boasts about how writing comes so very effortlessly to her actually had a ghostwriter? What ex-child star says she’s clean but was not long ago seen communing with a tall glass of wine?
What dead gay British actor had a very specific fetish for corduroy? (He called it “the munch.”) What longtime unmarried Hollywood couple gleefully supplies stories and photos about themselves to the tabs, feeling there’s no such thing as bad PR? What anti-gay rapper has supposedly long done the munch, I mean the deed, with his mentor, which might explain a lot? What hip-hop guy showed up at a men’s mag shoot in a suit pinker than a canceled Britney video, which gave the self-loathing stylist a conniption? (The mogul read the guy to filth and said it’s the pink suit or nothing, so the queen had to deal with it—though the mag ran the photo in black-and-white.) What if God was one of us?
I just caught up with Team America: World Police, and though the puppety visuals were gorgeous and there were hilarious set pieces, I was amazed that the film terrorized the audience with so many stretches of unfunny boredom. I was also surprised that the wacko creators have such contempt for lefty actors, the same thesps who’d probably defend South Park against the conservative onslaught. As for the film’s conceit of having those actors belong to the Film Actors Guild (i.e., FAG), I’d mind the reference less if one of those wackos came out already!
Speaking of Which: According to The New York Times, MARC CHERRY, the writer of the hit TV series Desperate Housewives, is a “bachelor.” Author DAVID EHRENSTEIN was horrified to read that musty old signifier in a Cherry profile by BERNARD WEINRAUB, having interviewed Cherry as an openly gay man. Blogs Ehrenstein, “Why has the Times elected to regard him the way the Republican Party does MARY CHENEY?”
Moving on to Someone Who Should be Hidden: That ASHLEE SIMPSON technical fiasco on Saturday Night Live came as no surprise to anyone who was at the dress rehearsal earlier that evening. My sources say that at the rehearsal, right before her first song, Ashlee tried to say hi to the crowd, but no one heard her because her mic wasn’t on. And they say JESSICA is the dumb one! By the way, gossiplist.com points out that BETH MCCARTHY, the director of that SNL show, also directed the Super Bowl halftime show with JANET JACKSON‘s wardrobe malfunction. I say let her direct the election coverage—a lot of interesting stuff will surely be exposed!