Dear Shaded Viewers,
To get myself in the mood for my assignment in Nashville next week, I had my birthday dinner at the Cowgirl Hall of Fame in New York’s West Village. We all pigged out on corn dogs, Frito pies, beef barbeque, mashed potatoes, fried catfish fingers, chicken pot pies and deep fried squirrel and possum belly from the "road kill children’s menu." As part of our repentance, today we have all gone on the "Japanese Women Don’t Get Fat or Old" diet and will be eating nothing but seaweed and miso soup for the next 85 years.
My friend Heidi Chen was the only guest who obeyed the Nashville-themed dress code, with her salute to the style of Dolly Parton. I wonder if Tom Ford, the designer of Heidi’s Saint Laurent blouse, would agree with the Dolly dictum, "It takes a lot of money to look this cheap!"
Journalist Johanna Lenander and my collaborator, Thomas Onorato. He is the subject of my St. Martin’s Press book, "Confessions from the Velvet Ropes: The Glamorous, Grueling Life of Thomas Onorato, New York’s Top Club Doorman." Thomas had the vegetarian mock-possum belly stir fry for dinner.
The old drunk cops a feel. Of course I am scrutinizing the quality of Heidi’s Saint Laurent mutton leg sleeve fabric, rather than groping her breast. Later, I did lewd things to her broderie anglaise embellishment.
Rupert Goldsworthy is one of my oldest friends. We met during the Belle Epoque at one of the Marchesa Casati’s clambakes, when Rupert was wearing spike heels and a purple Madame Gres leotard. He’s always ahead of the fashion curve.
Seven boutique kingpin, Joseph Quartana. A class act, Joseph was the only guest who didn’t stoop to roasting me with old-age jokes about Depends diapers, denture cream and Alzheimer’s. I do, however, get a senior citizen discount at Seven.
Me wondering if I have enough air in my lungs to blow out one candle. Cowgirl’s speciality dessert is the "baked potato", made from vanilla ice cream, hot fudge "gravy", whipped cream "sour cream" and pistachio "chives". It was delivered by a pot-bellied urban cowboy who also bore a bent-up old metal triangle which he banged LOUDLY as he hollered "We got ourselves a birthday here! HAPPPPPYYYY BIRTHDAY" CLANG! CLANG! "AWWWWWWW, HAPPPPPY BIRTHDAY!!!" CLANG! CLANG! It was the most humiliating birthday moment ever. I would have preferred being buried up to my neck and having C-list celebrities hurl rocks at me.