FRIDAY – Got all gussied up in a cunning little Cavalli number and went to Bryan Rabin’s birthday party in the penthouse of the Chateau Marmont. Lots of trust-fund rockers and post-model types, you know the drill. Beyond fabulous. More FLAUNT than VICE. Chatted amiably to Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Kelly Cole, Patrick McMullan, Nick Egan, and the blog editor. I dropped a few drinks, got a little loud, and then sat in the kitchen, eating plate after plate of cold Popeyes chicken. Apparently I missed Amy Lumet, Vidal Sassoon, and Tori Spelling. Oh well.
Then it was off to Thairin’s new night at Arena. I say Thairin when I really mean Joseph Brooks. Thairin and Chris do the video projections – like at Cherry – oh you remember: Chippendiddys, Man being fucked by Donkey, and the Brady Bunch Variety Hour. All good fun. The crowd was very TIGER HEAT, which means it consisted almost entirely of 16-year-old homosexuals. This became obvious when the DJ put on a Kelly Clarkson song and the queens WENT BANANAS. Absolutely bananas. Screaming and crying and clutching onto one and other and jumping up and down and leaping onstage to lipsync. Well, it was just too fabulous, as you can imagine. It’s my new favorite night.
SATURDAY – Stayed home and did a little light grouting, then watched THE UMBRELLAS OF CHERBOURG. Well, it was merveilleuse. Just merveilleuse. The reds! The pinks! The wallpaper! MY GOD, THE WALLPAPER! And the hairstyles! The umbrellas were just OK. Which was odd. I expected really fantastic umbrellas. I’m just sayin. . .
SUNDAY – Went to see CONSTANTINE. My advice? Skip it. Keanu suddenly has that ham-head thing that John Travolta suffers from, and it makes it really difficult to watch him.
BUT GET THIS: After the movie, Thairin and I are sitting at the bar of this restaurant waiting for a table, having a few drinks and chatting with the other patrons. . . when suddenly I recognize Nicholas Alamain from DAYS OF OUR LIVES (Vivien’s nephew who was sleeping with both KATE and BILLIE – mother and daughter — remember?). Well I started squealing to the old, frizzy-haired woman sitting next to me: “Oh my god, oh my god, that’s so hott!” She groaned and says that’s what her niece, Paris, always says. Turns out, her name was Francesca Hilton. We get to talking and she keeps saying “my mother this” and “my mother that” WELL! DING! DING! DING! Of course Francesca Hilton is the daughter of ZSA ZSA GABOR!!!! (Zsa Zsa married Conrad, who was father of Nicky, who married Liz Taylor. . . you know the story.) So not only is she Paris’ aunt, and Zsa Zsa’s daughter, but she was Liz Taylor’s step-sister! I slid off my barstool in ecstacy. No, I really did. You’ll be happy to hear that Zsa Zsa is just fine. I was a little concerned because we haven’t seen her in a couple years. After the accident , you know, she just disappeared from public life. I figured she was in a corner somewhere, drooling. But no. She’s fine. Let me just say it again: I LOVE HOLLYWOOD.