Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo star ROB SCHNEIDER appeared at Planet Hollywood last week to lick a prosthetic leg (long story), threaten to do three more Deuce Bigalows, and tell the crowd, “I want to thank SYLVESTER STALLONE for not letting me buy stock here 10 years ago.” After his posh presentation, I—an Ivy League graduate—got to discourse with the shtickmeister on some topics of even greater profundity. Like, is the Tower of Pisa—which practically shoots out of the guy’s crotch in the movie’s ad campaign—really an accurate representation of his marvelous manhood? “Well, if you look at the postcard and then look at the billboard,” Schneider said saucily, “it’s somewhere in between.” (Mine, with its delectable hint of fromage, is more like a billboard of a tower of pizza, ha ha!)
Was Amsterdam a suitable setting for Deuce Part Deux‘s tempestuous tale of misbegotten man-whoring? “Yeah!” Schneider smirked. “There’s more to it than just great hash. There’s Ecstasy and Special K!” He paused sheepishly and added, “Actually, I don’t even know what Special K is.” I generously told him, down to my vivid reminiscence of every last club kid’s killer K-hole, complete with crystalline drool and frozen pupils.
No connection here, but we started talking about the late, great, living WHITNEY HOUSTON and Schneider exulted, “She was the biggest star in the world. I’d love me six months of that!” I’d love me six ounces of that. But suddenly, ultra-professional Rob seemed a tiny bit weary after his demanding day of promotion and prosthetics-humping. (All right, I’ll spill. The leg was a Deuce Bigalow prop that he donated to the restaurant. Maybe it can go next to the arms from Murderball.) So I left him alone, only to exit and walk past the door employee crassly explaining to passersby, “Rob Schneider. He’s the guy that works with ADAM SANDLER.”
JOHNNY KNOXVILLE—the guy that works with JESSICA SIMPSON—co-hosted the glittery Garden of Ono party for MICKEY BOARDMAN‘s 10th anniversary as Paper magazine’s “shmashion” advice guru Mr. Mickey. Knoxville brought his wife and daughter, case closed. Anyway, why was he there? “My two heroes are Johnny Cash and Mickey Boardman,” the ex-Jackass star told me. “The man in black and the man in the back.” Does Dukes of Hazzard—which I’ve strangely missed—offend Southern people, I hope? “A couple of Southerners have gotten offended by the portrayals,” said Knoxville-born Knoxville. “But my parents watch The Beverly Hillbillies and that pretty much lampoons Southern culture. We get the joke!” Fine—just don’t pin a cherry bomb to my gooch, honey pie.
Keeping things below the (Bible) belt, Junebug is a culture-clash flick about an art-world city slicker who rings some sheltered Southern belles. At the premiere party at Suede, star AMY ADAMS sweetly told me, “I wish I was as optimistic as my character, Ashley. Maybe if I came from North Carolina.” Yeah, maybe—but I never exactly heard JESSE HELMS singing “The sun’ll come out tomorrow” in a fright wig and goo-goo eyes.
Moving on to poisonous Beverly Hills, Pretty Persuasion shines a klieg light on the cult of celebrity via various high school harlots and harassment high jinks. At that premiere party in some other crowded lounge, I engaged director MARCOS SIEGA in my by now expected high-road banter about celebrity sexcapades. When prompted, Siega told me his wife couldn’t believe JUDE LAW would cheat on such a beautiful woman. (But he did—so much for pretty persuasion.) “I said, ‘It has nothing to do with beauty,’ ” related Siega. “Men are pigs!” And that reminds me—check out the amazing Canadian bacon in the house salad over at Ben & Jack’s Steak House, oink, oink.
I’m a slave 4 aged porterhouse steak with balsamic reduction
While we’re coating our tonsils, I finally found some comfort food that doesn’t make me nervous. Remember BRITNEY SPEARS‘s old joint NYLA (which spelled backward, I think, is Al-Anon)? Me neither, but that space—at the Dylan Hotel—has become Chemist Club, and not only are the unpaid bills and food poisoning bouts out the window, but all that purple has been replaced by softer whites and yellows and the metallic balustrade is now tastefully woodworked, as if in a less uppity university club. At a tasting last week, we were served six shmancy wines between eight grown-up courses, complete with narration that—in a further rejection of Britney’s residue—was not the least bit lip-synched. Now someone should redo that husband.
In clubland, Bidet, I mean Duvet, is still the flaunt-it place on Thursdays, at least once you’re past the barking door thug ordering you to get on line. Ignoring him as if in a K-hole, you sail right in and find two floors overflowing with a mixed—yes, truly mixed, with croutons—crowd of gays and straights, family and Jersey, fabulous and affectless, filling the club’s painfully narrow open spaces between all the beds. They load up the mattresses too, but most of these people are such professional poseurs there’s no chance of sex-making ever happening there (or even in the bathroom). Still, the club’s mood is refreshingly sunny—like a college mixer at a school with an open drag queen policy and a not particularly heavy workload. The only down note was the girl who kept buzzing up to me and screeching, “What show are you on?” Annoyingly, she wouldn’t accept “All of them” as an answer.
Kindly accept my one bit of movie news—that an audition notice just popped up in Back Stage for the large-in-every-way role of Effie in the movie version of Dreamgirls. I guess now that they have enough highly paid superstars lined up for the period rhythm-and-bluesical, the key part can go to a fabulous nobody who’s not above going on an open call. BOBBI KRISTINA?
The gripes of wrath
And now please remove your shoes and step into the gripe corner, the home of a semi-annual consumer kvetch-athon that will prove deeply cathartic and soul-cleansing—for me, anyway: Carmel car service is the devil! They recently gave me a price quote for a ride I’d told them every detail of, and the driver even confirmed the amount before I got into the car, but once we were moving, that all strangely changed. The dispatcher promptly called in to inform me that the actual price was gonnas be 10 bucks more than I’d been told! Could you scream? (Yeah, but you couldn’t get out.)
Carmel really should be renamed Car-smell. I know that’s not very witty, but I’m a little on edge. End of gripe corner. Suck my gleaming tower of pizza. Please.
At CUCKOO CLUB—the idyllic Sunday-night gay bash on the Maritime’s terrace—cute waiters take an hour to bring you the wrong drink and you couldn’t care less because, as I believe I mentioned, they’re rather attractive. Last time around, TORI SPELLING was heard asking the shirtless one with a chest more ribbed than my favorite socks, “Do you work out?” (which is like asking the pope, “Pray much?”) “Say no!” RICHIE RICH urged the stud. “It’s much hotter!”
In another corner, Scissor Sisters’ JAKE SHEARS was gushing about the inherent sweetness of The Aristocrats. (It’s fucking true. The comics’ journey into unbelievable extremes of obscene silliness is even more poignant than the march of the penguins.) By the way, spies say FAYE DUNAWAY is directing some kind of movie and wants Jake’s bandmate ANA MATRONIC to appear in it. Fabulous Faye thinks Ana is “creamy.”
In unrelated news, mommie dearest MADONNA doesn’t find it creamy when her employees get too friendly with each other. Whispers say one such worker found herself axed after marrying one of Maddy’s other underlings. She should have said no! It’s much hotter!
Speaking of exes, I loved the ex-gay on THE VIEW who cited relationships with “simblings” as a possible cause for homosexuality. Ex-literate too? And what’s with those cagey bus shelter ads for Kaletra, which urge you to ask your doctor about it, while not even hinting at what it might be. Well, silence equals death, honey, because it turns out it’s a protease inhibitor! My guess is if you don’t have AIDS, you probably shouldn’t ask for it.
There are so many desperate gossip rags decorating your local newsstand that the second JENNIFER ANISTON spilled her guts to Vanity Fair, they all lined up up with tongues out to mooch their own second-hand covers off the VF exclusive. “Jen Speaks Out!” blared In Touch magazine. Yeah, but not to them. “Jen Breaks Her Silence!” screeched People magazine. Yeah, to someone else. “Jen Tells All,” crowed Us Weekly. Yep, to a much better magazine. Of course now that I’ve written about this, it’s celebrity journalism about celebrity journalism about celebrity journalism, and really boring.