Swelter

The where-did-our-life-go-wrong marathon marked by several sobering public appearances, rife with longing and creeping surrealism. Celebrities lending their plate-signing patronage, if not their actual presence, for the Design Industries Foundation for AIDS gala at Pacific Time, an irate onlooker railing at a pleasant assemblage of benefactors: "Give your money to me, I'm a drag queen with AIDS A I need makeup." Former sex kitten/C-level celebrity Sheila E. performing at Stephen Talkhouse, refusing to be engaged or photographed, comedian Paul Rodriguez somewhat less persnickety. The likable visionary Amir Amor working on a one-nighter called "Celebrity," featuring appearances by impersonators of well-known personalities: "The concept is kind of cheesy, but really cool, too." Sliding into other disses and delights A evil children screaming "faggot" on Washington Avenue, a brief tour of the upcoming nightclub "The Ruins" A and eventually winding up in Les Bains with a pitiful playboy from New Jersey. Our new best friend futilely dangling an enormous jeroboam of Cristal champagne before wayward girls, both of us mournfully watching a famous pussy hound, blissful in the City of Women. Carnality everywhere at once, a negotiating tool for status and power, deadly and oddly joyless. But it's still the only game in town, and people with full sex lives -- for now at least -- live without regret.

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