Mini-Gawker

Was that Steven Dorff I spotted at Houston and Mercer this afternoon???

And even if it was, would you give a fuck? I know I don't. I hear he's still trying to get the director of The Gate to return his phonecalls. Something about a sequel idea.

Speaking of hasbeens. For those of you who are devastated that your pre-ordered copies of Citizen Girl may never arrive, I'll give you a synopsis of the 19-page proposal, which was shown to me by a mysterious woman in a caftan* this weekend. I'm not allowed to give you any direct quotes, save this one, which already appeared in the Times last week.

"In New York City, if you are of any age, denomination, or race, and own a penis, you can say anything that comes into your penis-owning head to anyone, of any age, denomination, or race, who does not own a penis."

The story is narrated by a twentysomething named Girl who is having a really ::stomp:: hard ::stomp:: time ::stomp:: at her nonprofit job, where she's being bossed around by a bunch of her superiors, all of whom are cretinous, backstabbing fatsos who love hemp clothing. A great deal of consideration is given to the colors of photocopy paper and desk space. Ooooh, potshots at the nonprofit world! There's an idea that's sure to resound with America's readers.

I'm not sure where the penis thing comes in because none of the (stereotyped: I mean, I've seen subtler renditions in the Protocols of the Elders of Zion) characters are male, but whatever. The whole thing read as though the writers were snorting rails off each others' fat advance checks the entire time. And also being distracted by butterflies. Reading it made my sphincter tighten impossibly and I became nauseated. "I'm impressed you got through the whole thing," Caftan Lady told me right before she ripped the smudged pages from my hands and roared off on her Ducati.

*Dominick Dunne told me that if you need to protect (or totally fabricate) someone's identity, refer to them as a mysterious woman in a caftan.