NY Mirror


The stick-up-their-butts rich folks might be off to the Hamptons, but way down on Rectum—I mean Rector—Street, the trannies, fatties, and fetishists were in such full force two Saturday nights ago that JERRY SPRINGER must have been on hiatus. See, there was a “big girl” party at some not-quite-large-enough spot down there—LINDSAY LOHAN would have been served as a bread stick—and about six and a half inches away, at the lounge-restaurant Romi, ALLANAH STARR was premiering a weekly transsexual frisson called Gurlesque Burlesque. As a result, the straight male chubby chasers and the chicks-with-you-know fans spent the whole night out-kinking each other on this one tiny strip of salvation by the river.

Gurlesque’s doorperson KENNY KENNY was sporting an advanced KYLIE MINOGUE-as-Emma Peel look and cracking, “There’ll be no hooking outside. All the hooking will be inside, and I get a commission.” He was kidding—no commission.

“Are you here for the transsexual party?” he’d ask the solitary men in pencil-thin mustaches circling the club like scared rodents. Weirdly enough, none of them will ever come right in—they have to traipse around the block a few times and get up the nerve to finally enter, like teens descending on their first dirty-magazine purchase. Kenny explained it to me: “When your whole world is straight but you go to sleep thinking about sucking dick and getting fucked, you push it down, but it comes up again. ‘How do I tell my mother?’ Guilt and fear feed off each other and voilà, you’ve got men like these.”

Well, they seemed nice—and they were only there to catch a burlesque show, after all (and to mix with some fatties who had either wandered in by mistake or who happened to be trannies too). Besides, they were kind enough to wait outside on command because Allanah had called ahead that she wanted some kind of crowd when she arrived. (It was truly heartrending to see nervous nellies who’d finally gotten the balls to go in having to wait in full view on the sidewalk for 20 minutes.) Eventually, Allanah’s limo pulled up, but then it dramatically circled the block—the evening’s running motif—as Kenny murmured, “Is that a tranny move or what?” At last she emerged, all vavoomy, along with the cooing AMANDA LEPORE, who cut the pink ribbon as someone yelled a transsexual’s favorite expression, “Snip it!” By the way, one of the place’s specialties during restaurant hours happens to be “sliced meats.” Maybe just stick to the salads.


The men were men and some of the women were too, over at Out, Loud & Funny, a gay comedy panel at the LGBT Community Center (filmed for Theater Talk), which was razor sharp, funny, and informative, but I liked it anyway. “You make me wet,” KATE CLINTON blurted to LEA DELARIA at one point, and DeLaria promptly mounted her as even I cheered. (How do I tell my mother?) But in between all the homo hilarity, the room was sprinkled with the tears of gay clowns. FRANK DECARO admitted he was crushed when The Daily Show got a GLAAD award two years after his gay movie review segment was canned. (DeCaro cracked that nowadays he’d like to do a sitcom called Everybody Loves Cock, but JUDY GOLD interjected, “Not everybody.”) FLOTILLA DEBARGE said an agent wanted to introduce her to DANNY GLOVER, but advised her, “Don’t tell him that you do drag,” so she canceled the whole thing and stayed home in heels. And DeLaria talked about the notorious Palm Springs gig where she called Dubya a few racy names and said, “I hate him so much I hate his twins too—but I’d fuck ’em.” The organizers promptly pulled the plug—but obviously not their butt plugs. (Sidebar: At least DeLaria got to meet the cast of Laugh-In there, though she said, “They looked really fucking old—except for LILY TOMLIN, who looked great because she’s gay, she’s gay, she’s gay!” “You are what you eat,” muttered someone on the panel.)

The next day, I ran into performer JOEY ARIAS—in town to promote the Nomi Song DVD—who’s been practically eating sliced meats as the longtime star of Cirque du Soleil’s saucy Zumanity show. “It’s like being in a frying pan without the water,” he said about the Las Vegas lifestyle. “But all kinds of delicacies drop by. GEORGE LUCAS came to see us and BRITNEY SPEARS had a sort of baby shower at our show. A sex show! Oh, well. It’ll speed up the baby’s process.” To help things along, Joey tossed a few pesky ad-libs into the pert performance. During the orgy sequence, he made a cute farting noise and said, “Oops, I did it again!” And when he was being swatted on the ass, he improvised, “Hit me baby, one more time.” Apparently Britney loved the gags so much she almost popped little Brevin out right there!


In angstier celebrity-with-child news, comic KATHY GRIFFIN told me by phone that she’s pulling her processed hair out over the MICHAEL JACKSON verdict. “I’m disgusted,” said Griffin (who’s playing Town Hall and coming to Bravo with Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List). “I was so depressed. Obviously, unless you’re SCOTT PETERSON and you kill your pregnant wife, you can just fucking do anything. As an experiment, I’m gonna go kill someone today!

“My husband said, ‘I hope all the women on the jury go home and their kids are molested.’ I said, ‘No, that’s horrible. I just want the jurors mysteriously slain in back-alley murders!’ I love the juror who said, ‘You don’t snap in my face.’ Excuse me, what about the kid fucker? Any issues with him, maybe? And then there’s the one who said, ‘What kind of mother would leave her kid at someone’s house?’ The same kind that would never convict a pedophile, you dumb bitch!”

Of course, these are all jokes—you know, zingy bits of hyperbole, social satire, and so on—and fortunately Griffin had one more wowser to share. “What the fuck is MACAULAY CULKIN doing still hanging out with him?” she fumed. “Sometimes you gotta let go of those old fucked-up friends from the ’90s. It’s a new era. He should say, ‘Don’t call me, call Kieran!’ ”

Nancy Grace: Objecting over the Jackson verdict

photo: Court TV Publicity

Rather than call CNN/Court TV’s fiery NANCY GRACE, I approached the lady in person at her Objection! book party and stirred the same pot, telling her she looked like she was going to cry when discussing the verdict on TV the night before. “I was upset,” she said, looking wounded, “but I was not going to cry. I was stunned.” Does she think Ms. Finger Snaps was the worst of the jurors? “I don’t want to cast blame on the jury,” Grace said (though she was clearly unnerved by the foreman who refused to say on her show what he really thinks happens in Michael’s bedroom). “I only pray that there be no more victims. I’ve spent my life representing child molestation victims and sex assault victims. They never recover. They may go on, but they’re never the same person.” I was so upset I can’t even think of a lame joke.



A stop at the Park the other Sunday night found a (temporary) sign that said, “Closed by court order. Illegal sale of alcoholic beverages.” I’m surprised the Jacko jury wasn’t there ripping the sign down . . . Says Kenny Kenny, “The people who didn’t get into clubs are now opening clubs” . . . Don’t date anyone with meth mouth. Trust Mama.

And you must believe my Crest Whitening Expressions Extreme Herbal Mint Mouth when it says that Manuscript, the Off-Broadway play about cutthroat young authors, builds to a crescendo of woman hating—”You stupid fucking cunt!”—that even the gays wouldn’t like. The whole thing’s based on the horror of stolen literary credit, but Manuscript itself seems deeply indebted to Deathtrap. Security! . . . Meanwhile, a play called Divine Lives!—about the late drag performer—was going to open at the gay center in L.A., but a source says a perturbed JOHN WATERS made a call and had it canceled. (Waters had no comment.) And so Divine Lives! doesn’t . . . But the on-again Radar magazine does, and I have to be honorable and report that I actually just got my check for work done. They make me wet!


Some more reviews for youse to peruse: First off, the audience emerges from Jon Robin Baitz’s play The Paris Letter so convinced that the closet equals bad that even the straight couples head right over to Rawhide.

On Broadway, they’ve dug Maugham’s The Constant Wife out of the closet, but it’s a chirpy foray into sub-Wildean aphorisms that don’t quite ring anyone’s chimes. The revival is a study in artifically done artificiality—though in the second half, things pick up tremendously, the actors click, and you’ll be glad you didn’t run back to Chelsea at intermission after all.

Bewitched is another ultra weird brew. Rather than just adapt the genius old show, the creators obviously lost faith and decided to make a movie about a movie about the show, complete with TWO witch-loves-mortal plotlines. It’s all more strained than spaghetti, especially since Will Ferrell mugs and dominates to the point where Nicole Kidman almost magically disappears, and Amy Sedaris, who’s perfection as Gladys Kravitz, only has two lines! What’s more, the clips shown of the old series remind you of true adorableness. Still, there’s something almost inspired about the insanity of this Bewitched that makes it a pretty noble mess. But next up, someone should do a more literary witch flick in which Nicole twitches her nose from The Hours.

Finally, twitching every imaginable body part and then some, the cast of the latest Broadway Bares—a benefit for Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS at Roseland—dazzled, judging from the saucy, sizzling segments I saw. From a spermatazoa production number to guest star David Hyde Pierce making vagina jokes, this show fertilized MY egg!

So did this year’s fabulous HX awards for gay nightlife, which were held at Lincoln Center’s plaza, making for the biggest cross-cultural collision since Ricky Martin played the inauguration. Scores of uptown ladies en route to Il Trovatore or whatever missed their curtains because they were frozen still and busy gawking at the gussied-up assemblage of drag queens and porn stars. Backstage, I was introduced to “actress Heather Tom.” “Hi, actress Heather Tom!” I gushed. “I saw you in Prymate!” Unhappy expression. But a beaming one radiated from drag performer Sherry Vine, who came back to New York to star in a musical version of Carrie. So THIS musical version of Carrie will be INTENTIONALLY funny, right? “Exactly!” she exclaimed. “We understand the camp value!”