We’re not the types to take cash for coverage, but maybe Happy Valley should put us on the payroll since the club’s gotten more press out of The Village Voice than Paris out of Page Six. And here’s more still. I finally made it for Susanne Bartsch‘s much Musto-vaunted Tuesday-night party. Having never been to a Susanne Bartsch party in the ’80s or ’90s, I could only imagine what it was like back then. Actually, I didn’t have to—the party was a succesful retro homage where Richie Rich mingled with Joey Arias while Willi Ninja vogued nearby. Princess Superstar came for one reason, and she wasdetermined: “I want an Amanda Lepore doll!” The doll, designed by Jason Wu, had a party all for itself earlier at Jeffrey New York. Later at Happy Valley, someone nabbed one of the last remaining dolls for $1,500—with the proceeds going to the AIDS organization DIFFA. Amanda, you’re a doll.
Lepore, the real one, showed up fashionably later and—except for DJ Tommie Sunshine—looking around at the mix of Gatien survivors and the Ninja followers dancing in the basement to New York house circa 1997, it was as if the cabaret law, the smoking ban, and Ghouliani had never happened. It’s fun, but I asked Kenny Kenny, door doll (he’s not a bitch) and Bartsch’s co-host, can we get some new blood? And he said they’re hosting the sometimes bloody, very 2006 party “the Look” once a month. Thanks, dear, and thanks for the free bottle of vodka.
Which brings me to the next order of business: In light of the Page Six scandal, I thought it would be best to fully disclose everything anyone has ever given me. So thanks, Kenny Kenny, and thanks, Honey Dijon, for the $6 for a cab ride and for the 20-minute bitch session on the corner of Second and 5th.
Andrew Steinthal, publicist: Sent free Fabric mix CDs and chocolate for Valentine’s Day. The result—no coverage, but weeks and weeks of gushing e-mails about how much I like free Fabric CDs and chocolate.
Moby: Slept in his house for his New Year’s Eve party two years in a row, used his sauna, cooked on his stove. Saw New York writer Deb Schoeneman naked.
Deb Schoeneman: Let me look at her naked, so (plug alert!) will be covering her book 4% Famous about gossip columnists who trade favors. (Thanks, Deb. Call me anytime, hon).
The World FamousBOB*: Lets me touch her boobs, gets continuous coverage.
Murray Hill: Never given me nothin’. Cheap ass!
Thomas Onorato, door bitch: I wrote a piece about him in Spin, which was turned into a book by Glenn Belverio called (plug alert!) Confessions From the Velvet Ropes. Thomas also pitched an item to Page Six for a silly Lloyd Grove thing, but apparently a spaghetti dinner at Château Tricia on Avenue C wasn’t enticement enough for Richard Johnson. Also, lets me skip the line, feel important and powerful.
Larry Tee: Lets me play with his dog. Gets called King of the World.
Princess Superstar: Made me a latte.
Misstress Formika and DJ Adam: Sent me a bouquet of flowers. Negative reviews that never ran previously have since stopped.
Michael T: Gives me “candy” in the bathroom. Lets me lick his boots. Oh wait, that wasn’t me.
Justine D, Motherfucker: She’s pretty.
James Fucking Friedman: Provides weekly outlet to cuss in print.
Lyle Derek, promoter: Lifelong positive press for introducing me to Deborah Harry.
The MisShapes: Air kisses.
The Trinity: Walked me to the front of the line for the Heatherette fashion show in Miami. Result: They’re genius, bitches.
Carlos D: In exchange for never making the requisite Carlos D you-know-what joke, lets me drink all his beer.
Kevin Hedge, Shelter: Sent me a package of Kiehl’s products, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Every time I put the lotion on, I said to myself—no, not, “It puts the lotion on its skin”—”Shelter is the most amazing party in New York.”
And Tommie Sunshine, I’m expecting your monthly foot massage.