star witness
I never want to be accused of shameless name-dropping.
For one thing, I have to do enough gossipmongering for my day job. And it's kind of like what my friend Arman used to say about giving shout-outs: It just ain't cute.
That's one reason I held off on writing about seeing Sandra Bernhard's new show, which was probably one of the most amazing nights I've had since moving to Metropolis. I took EMC along for the ride, because I knew he still had long passages memorized from Without You I'm Nothing—the cassette tape I loaned him in the late '90s. And Miss Sandra did not disappoint, riffing on everyone from Laura Bush to Julia Roberts.
The stars turned out for opening night: E and I were seated two rows in front of Liza (with a Z—and a carton of smokes, apparently) and Donna Karan. Further down the aisle from us sat Runway's Daniel Vosovic, who is adorable. I chatted him up at a recent NLGJA event (along with Kara Janx), and got an earful about why my magazine sucks. Ouch.
Anyway, at the after-party for Sandra (held at Splash—yikes), I sipped my cocktail in the corner and watched as Marc Jacobs flitted around with his Rent Boy BF, while Charles Busch hid out downstairs. Sandy was there looking stunning, and also a bit distracted. There must have been dust on those mints.
But such name-dropping just ain't cute, and I don't want to be that person. Take my recent visit to the GLAAD Media Awards. I was happy to catch the NYC leg of the ceremonies (held also in S.F., L.A., and oddly enough, Miami) even if we got some of the lackluster categories (Best Spanish Language Newspaper Column? Thrilled.).
I was seated at the same table as Kim Stolz of America's Next Top Model, which made my co-worker nearly wet himself. He, meanwhile, sat next to Tyler from this season of the The Real World, who bragged about his penis size and revealed that he's dating someone in D.C. Bruce Vilanch hosted the event, which went by in a flash for me — maybe that was due to all the white wine I'd guzzled. I expected to be beside myself when Erasure performed: Senior year of high school, I absolutely adored those guys. I was oddly ambivalent. Still, the first song on their new CD, "Boy," is worth downloading.
Speaking of live music, regular readers here (the both of you) will know how deeply happy the double bill of Neko Case and Martha Wainwright at Webster Hall must've made me. I caught the show with JP, who'd also given me the opportunity to wax poetic on Neko's mysterious new disc in the pages of The NY Press. I get chills even now thinking about the show: Neko's voice, a bit more nasal than I expected, still sounds cut from velvet ribbons. Martha, meanwhile, was a wreck: Her performance and vocals were fine, but her stage presence needs a lot of work. I loved the moment when Neko invited her on stage to sing background on "Star Witness," and Martha acted like she didn't know the words and kept leaning over to consult with Kelly Hogan.
But there I go again, dropping names, which we've established just ain't cute, and it's one reason I never blogged about seeing Swamp Thing's Adrienne Barbeau in the dreadful The Property Known as Garland, and held off on mentioning how much I admired Mark Ruffalo in Awake and Sing! (even if the lovely Lauren Ambrose let me down).
True, mentioning a celebrity in a stage role isn't the same as gushing about rubbing elbows with someone at a luncheon. though I do think there can be a certain self-serving insouciance in both. That's why I only told a few friends about my recent starfucking lunch in Midtown, an awards ceremony for an acting studio honoring Cynthia Nixon. I resisted acting like a breathless tourist and didn't introduce myself to Cynthia (there with her daughter and butcher-than-butch partner), though I should have checked my pride and said hello to Sarah Jessica Parker, who looked stunning. She's tiny! Like, Barbie sized. I swear to God, she was wearing Barbie clothes the entire run of Sex and the City and we never knew it. I seriously could have put her in my jacket pocket and slipped out. Also seen: Fran Drescher, Julie Halston (whoever that is).
But there I go again, pretending I'm all cool and stuff, just because I saw some famous people. So what? The joy of New York is, we aren't impressed by celebrity. In truth, celebs annoy us. James Gandolfini seated himself at the table next to the BF and me the other morning, and no one in the diner batted an eye. They actually sort of grimaced. Great, Tony Fucking Soprano's here, and I haven't even gotten my eggs yet.
For one thing, I have to do enough gossipmongering for my day job. And it's kind of like what my friend Arman used to say about giving shout-outs: It just ain't cute.
That's one reason I held off on writing about seeing Sandra Bernhard's new show, which was probably one of the most amazing nights I've had since moving to Metropolis. I took EMC along for the ride, because I knew he still had long passages memorized from Without You I'm Nothing—the cassette tape I loaned him in the late '90s. And Miss Sandra did not disappoint, riffing on everyone from Laura Bush to Julia Roberts.
The stars turned out for opening night: E and I were seated two rows in front of Liza (with a Z—and a carton of smokes, apparently) and Donna Karan. Further down the aisle from us sat Runway's Daniel Vosovic, who is adorable. I chatted him up at a recent NLGJA event (along with Kara Janx), and got an earful about why my magazine sucks. Ouch.
Anyway, at the after-party for Sandra (held at Splash—yikes), I sipped my cocktail in the corner and watched as Marc Jacobs flitted around with his Rent Boy BF, while Charles Busch hid out downstairs. Sandy was there looking stunning, and also a bit distracted. There must have been dust on those mints.
But such name-dropping just ain't cute, and I don't want to be that person. Take my recent visit to the GLAAD Media Awards. I was happy to catch the NYC leg of the ceremonies (held also in S.F., L.A., and oddly enough, Miami) even if we got some of the lackluster categories (Best Spanish Language Newspaper Column? Thrilled.).
I was seated at the same table as Kim Stolz of America's Next Top Model, which made my co-worker nearly wet himself. He, meanwhile, sat next to Tyler from this season of the The Real World, who bragged about his penis size and revealed that he's dating someone in D.C. Bruce Vilanch hosted the event, which went by in a flash for me — maybe that was due to all the white wine I'd guzzled. I expected to be beside myself when Erasure performed: Senior year of high school, I absolutely adored those guys. I was oddly ambivalent. Still, the first song on their new CD, "Boy," is worth downloading.
Speaking of live music, regular readers here (the both of you) will know how deeply happy the double bill of Neko Case and Martha Wainwright at Webster Hall must've made me. I caught the show with JP, who'd also given me the opportunity to wax poetic on Neko's mysterious new disc in the pages of The NY Press. I get chills even now thinking about the show: Neko's voice, a bit more nasal than I expected, still sounds cut from velvet ribbons. Martha, meanwhile, was a wreck: Her performance and vocals were fine, but her stage presence needs a lot of work. I loved the moment when Neko invited her on stage to sing background on "Star Witness," and Martha acted like she didn't know the words and kept leaning over to consult with Kelly Hogan. But there I go again, dropping names, which we've established just ain't cute, and it's one reason I never blogged about seeing Swamp Thing's Adrienne Barbeau in the dreadful The Property Known as Garland, and held off on mentioning how much I admired Mark Ruffalo in Awake and Sing! (even if the lovely Lauren Ambrose let me down).
True, mentioning a celebrity in a stage role isn't the same as gushing about rubbing elbows with someone at a luncheon. though I do think there can be a certain self-serving insouciance in both. That's why I only told a few friends about my recent starfucking lunch in Midtown, an awards ceremony for an acting studio honoring Cynthia Nixon. I resisted acting like a breathless tourist and didn't introduce myself to Cynthia (there with her daughter and butcher-than-butch partner), though I should have checked my pride and said hello to Sarah Jessica Parker, who looked stunning. She's tiny! Like, Barbie sized. I swear to God, she was wearing Barbie clothes the entire run of Sex and the City and we never knew it. I seriously could have put her in my jacket pocket and slipped out. Also seen: Fran Drescher, Julie Halston (whoever that is).
But there I go again, pretending I'm all cool and stuff, just because I saw some famous people. So what? The joy of New York is, we aren't impressed by celebrity. In truth, celebs annoy us. James Gandolfini seated himself at the table next to the BF and me the other morning, and no one in the diner batted an eye. They actually sort of grimaced. Great, Tony Fucking Soprano's here, and I haven't even gotten my eggs yet.
2 Comments:
GEEEEEEZUS.
I love that you've now name-dropped a dozen all at once. That's restraint like I've never shown.
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