The silliest press release of the week claimed that Hooters has enjoyed a 300% boost in sales of chicken wings because people have been streaming in thanks to the hype around the orange-colored Christo/Jeanne-Claude gates in Central Park. Supposedly, the customers are so dumb they thought Hooters was somehow involved in the art project, since the joint’s big-titted waitresses wear bright orange hot pants. Next up, they’ll probably be lining up outside Tropicana factories.
My worst misconception of the week was that 1966, the “resurrection concert” that plays Saturdays at the Flamingo, would be some kind of elaborate theater piece. Instead, it’s a concert by a slavishly faithful Doors cover band, flanked by some hard-working gogo girls. The show had some people in the opening night crowd at “Hello, I Love You,” but it failed to light my fire, except to propel me to invoke obvious references like that.
Perhaps more up my retro alley will be Gabba Gabba Hey!, a musical using old Ramones songs to form what’s described as both “a Lower East Side love story” and “Grease on speed!” The latest tuner to spin a plotline out of a jukebox, it’ll be playing this May in Berlin, where the legendary Jayne County is guest starring as a cheap whore/girlfriend, a complete stretch.
Oh, but back to the worsts. Sticking with the musical nostalgia theme, the biggest recent tragedy is that, though ’80s teen idol Deborah Gibson has a spread in Playboy, she lost out on the main cover to a certain overexposed socialite I won’t mention anymore! (Poor Debs only got the cover pullout.) Why, dear God? “I don’t know if it’s because I didn’t show enough,” Gibson told me, “or if it’s because they want a double publicity bang.” Well, in case it’s the former reason, I’d say just show more next time. Take off the orange hot pants!
Finally, I’d be the worst if I left out that at Mickey Boardman’s B Bar dinner for Turkish hotshot designer Atil Kutoglu, I learned that Heatherette’s Richie Rich almost got deluged with crank calls like everyone else on earth when the cell phone of that socialite I won’t mention was hacked into. Fortunately, she had the wrong number for Richie, the ditz!
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on February 22, 2005