I went to the Cruel Intentions NY premiere and Miramax after party last night. The after party was at ... Henri Bendel. Yes, the department store. Hollywood people are fully odd. They gave out champagne at the MAC counters and goody bags with lipstick and nailpolish. (Trish McEvoy and Laura Mercier -- I was psyched, actually. Nothing like free cosmetics to make my heart beat a little faster) Rob, from Matchbox 20, and his fiancee, Marisol, latched onto Dave and I, Rob leading the way like a proper Rockstar. "You guys are in our car, okay?" A black stretch. I kept giggling from the sheer absurdity of it all. From Bendel's to Joe's Bar for Salsa Music to Elbow Room for Kareoke. I ran into a friend with the salsa band at Joe's which made me feel all super cool. Dave and Rob did "Islands in the Stream," at Elbow Room and won a gold Jesus statuette for "Best Duet." The best, though, was a thick-moustached Japanese man who did "Now or Never". It was REALLY GOOD. No kidding. Elvis was in the building. I nearly threw panties. (Oh, wait, wrong rock star...) The lead singer from Shudder to Think did "Love on the Rocks" - super sexy. And, you know, they toured with Soul Coughing. And I just got my Cough tickets yesterday. Which is of course yet another sign from the universe.

Oh, hush.

D took me to a screening of GO! in the Sony building. We stopped for drinks at The Subway Inn first and arrived maybe a minute late for the film -- the lights were still on for chrissake. This nasty copper-haired woman, however, felt compelled to sneer at us as we made our way to the back. We had to squeeze by her, of course, which prompted her to -- I'm not kidding -- add an audible "hiss" to her contemptuous glare. At some point (actually I remember EXACTLY where, but I don't want to ruin it for you) I had the nerve to LAUGH ALOUD. The bitch turned full around in her chair -- I thought she'd spit.

I plan this evening to burn her in effigy.

The movie's alright. It's Pulp Fiction, pretty much, but I liked Pulp Fiction.

Oh. That guy with the pointy sideburns is hot.

Hot and muggy Monday. Put on my slip, painted my toenails red and took a nap by the window. Felt oh so Butterfield 8.

It's March. How did that happen?

D's birthday was the 14th. Big party Chez D Saturday night. Met The Blonde at 7B, had a drink and signed the card, then headed over to D's about 10.

It was spacious at first, packed by midnight. I compared it to Tailhook and The Blonde berated me: "You're fond of 'Tailhook' lately." Yes, I am, Bigshot. Tailhook, Tailhook, Tailhook! Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade? Tailhook. Baby Jupiter on a Saturday night? Tailhook. Twilo? So *very* Tailhook.

Pretty Boy shown as usual. He's so good at parties. My favorite moment of the entire evening may have been sneaking off into the bathroom to discuss his haircut. I thought he was offering me drugs. I'm such a dork. We did that "hold a discussion by making eye contact in the mirror" thing. I deemed the haircut suitable but recommended Roberto at Warren Tricomi anyway. Pretty Boy was wearing Prada shoes, Helmut jeans and a Patagonia pullover. "High" and "low" he explained with a wink. *Love*.

I, on the other hand, looked like Punky Brewster. "Low" and "pre-adolescent." Sigh.

There were a handful of minor celebs in attendance, which always amuses me. (I'm shallow; forgive me.) I'll spare you my usual name-dropping except to note that one red-faced young man showed up on Page Six the next day for ditching his friends at Halo post-birthday soiree. Ha. Now, you know I'm only mean because I'm jealous.

The Blonde turned out to be a near perfect party companion: neither clingy nor absent, and pleasantly well mannered. (Excepting the Tailhook comment, of course.) He even brought a gift for the birthday boy: "Sing Along with Mitch," complete with THREE pull-out and pass around the campfire lyrics sheets. A fine choice for a Karaoke host—or anyone really. Make note.

I spent the latter part of the evening chatting with a cute cute boy named Lee, who sported Elvis Costello specs. At some point I realized I was drunk and RAN AWAY like Cinderella after the ball. I don't think I said good-bye to him or D or anyone. Oy.

Other big weekend events—Side Burns and I picked up my adopted rats, Betty Blue and Betty Page. It was the most surreal experience. The Upper West Side apartment where I picked them up is home to nine rat colonies. Forty-four rats and two people. Which is, I believe, the standard ratio for NYC, but it's usually not so obvious. Anyway, Side Burns has taken a liking to Ms. Page. I think she provides him the affection I withhold. I'm only half joking.

Monday night was PhotoShop lessons with... does he have a name yet? Let's call him Blue Eyes. Monday night was PhotoShop lessons with Blue Eyes. We colored a butt.

I ache for Anna Sui's liquid foundation #001.

So Side Burns and I went to the opening of Taming of the Shrew in Central Park last night - you know the piece: our hero, Petruchio (like all good heroes, marrying for money), uses starvation and sleep deprivation to "tame" his spirited spouse. Disturbing as all hell when you think about it, but great fun to watch. The production was hilarity - Max Wright (the Dad from that classic American psychodrama, "Alf"), Jay O. Sanders and Allison Janney: hammy, trashy, and raucous - straight from the This Is The Way Shakespeare Ought To Be Done manual. The costumes were obnoxiously AMAZING (with the exception of Lucentio's NIN-meets-Gary-Oldman-in-Dracula get up - what was that about??), my favorite being a toss-up between Kate's 1940's-inspired wedding dress - in crimson -- and Tranio's pimped-out sherbet ensemble. The original music was sung by four bawdy monks, in Latin, with supra-titles. The Viagra joke was too easy, but you absolutely cannot go wrong with monks in a kickline. The only real disappointment for me was Erika Alexander as Bianca, which *completely* bummed me out because she plays Max on "Living Single" and I love that theme song. ("…with my homegirl standin' to ma left - and ma right!") She pretty much sucked. Not, like, Keanu Reeves-as-Hamlet-type suckage, but suckage nonetheless.

(Speaking of Living Single, Brooke Shields was with three pals, including a blonde whose artistically disheveled pigtails were the envy of us all.)

Belvedere Castle hosted the after-party. (Michael Musto was there, so of course I feel I've arrived.) Jay O. Sanders swept in like a gracious and proper, albeit *sweaty* star - shaking hands and patting backs heartily. Scott Denny looked pensive most of the evening, surgically attached to his tube-top sporting girlfriend, who may have had the best shoes of the evening -- her feet appeared to be taped to a four-inch block of wood and painted red. At some point H pulled me aside to do sketches for a bong we'd discussed at the last big shin-dig. Oh, yes, I am a classy broad. (I have the sketches, by the way, and they make no sense whatsoever …) The pinnacle of my evening: dancing to "Rapper's Delight" with a Golden Gloves boxer named "Biggie." Oh. Yeah.