Did you all enjoy Saturday's Art for AIDS? Well, not me! Oh, sure, it was chock-a-block with the world's most beautiful gays (Paul, darling, I'm talking to you!), and there were all kinds of old friends who had many nice things to say about my story on cock. But I guess after last year's orgy, where one girl in a prom dress swayed by the staircase, moaning that she didn't have her keys ("It's okay, sweetie," we reminded her. "You gave them to the valet"), while another leeeeeeaned onto her escort in a slow-motion dive and the publisher of a local fabulous lifestyle magazine passed out in her chair and all kinds of people got into chest-bumping matches with security, well, I'm guessing that this year they were aiming for low-key.
Last year? People were fucking plowed.
Low-key? Doesn't really work for me, no matter how many gay husbands are dressed up shiny and nice.
We sneaked out before the speeches and before Cybill Shepherd was to sing (Remember when she sang "Blue Moon" on Moonlighting? Girl has pipes!) because, well, we didn't have a good reason—hence the sneaking. So if it turns out that after we left, there was a huge gay brawl and we missed it, I apologize now.
But I bet there wasn't. Everybody was all nice, and the only celebrity was Shirley Jones.
Shirley Jones is such a whore.
See this picture? It has nothing to do with Art for AIDS (no, seriously! It doesn't); it's a Ryan McGinley photo in the Orange County Museum of Art's incredibly beautiful (and losery) "Beautiful Losers." (See next week's art column, by all means!) From the people smoking joints in the parking lot to the veritable thousands inside or outside watching the skaters on the ramp, the place was the kind of madhouse Saturday night that Art for AIDS had been the year before, but without the rich people in fancy dresses vomiting on their own Manolos—and with pot!
I went home early, completely intimidated by all the pretty sk8r bois, a little paranoid and a little peckish. Nixon would be so proud.