Still more of Richard Nuzzolese here.

Kenneth calls Janko Tipsarevic Serbia's second-best tennis player, but he hs to be the #1 hottest, right? More here.

People were shaken—and stirred—by Dirty Martini

Had a blast with my buddy Jason last night at the party for Michael Musto's new book Fork on the Left, Knife in the Back (Vantage Point). I guess as I get to know more people and they get to know me, I'm less of a fly on the wall than one of the happy maggots feasting on the fame, quasi-fame and frivolity.

With the man who helped inspire my move to NYC 19 years ago!

A Russian doll, an Italian-American princess and a Countess go into a bar...

Murray Hill at the precipice of Dirty Martini

Michael's a New York institution, like the Empire State Building or that weird smell you keep telling tourists you don't notice. He's also a fabulously funny writer, and his new book has fresh stuff in it, making it a must-buy. (No, really, I must buy it—it wasn't given away for free at his party unlike the Bacardi.)

I'd never been to the Copacabana on W. 47th, but I loved it. It felt like a throwback to the disco era—like 54, or maybe 47—and was oozing with cheesetastic outfits, semi-boldface names and genuine merriment. The love Musto engenders from certain circles is shocking considering his ability to cut a bitch with his words. He's embraced because he's unafraid to cut deserving bitches but is generous to those who haven't earned the scythe yet. He's authentic, and if his book is anywhere near as fun as this party was, you should check it out. (And not ...of the library.)

Fabulous detail

We arrived and ran into my friend Kenneth, who was waiting for artist and designer Scooter LaForge. They'd both turned on Madonna during (actually, before) HydrangeaGate but I have to stick with my gays even over my diva, so I was looking forward to chatting with them more later on. When I caught up with Scooter, he confessed that Madonna's response to HydrangeaGate had won him back. He met Madonna during the American Life era and said she'd been really nice, which is saying a lot since that was the era of, "I'm hot!"

Inside, the low lighting and kitschy decor helped to distract from the fact that most of us were dreaming we were 40 again, and the alcohol made quite a few of the attendees act like 20-year-olds. Mike Diamond, who doesn't need to have lighting on his side in order to make a splash, was interviewing as well as dancing with the kinda-stars.

The awkward moment when you both shriek, "I love your drag!"

Geri and I meshed well

My first celebrisighting was Geri Reischl, who dubs herself "Fake Jan"—she replaced Eve Plumb when Plumb refused to return for those godawful/gotta-love-'em Brady specials. She was decked out in the fishnets she'd worn at Chiller Theatre, when I first met her, and was traveling with her personal publicist/photographer. Nice chick! She'd apparently originally met Musto bar-hopping one night.

Random piece

A Guy Named Wayne

Mike Diamond in a cheap setting

I met up with Joe of Joe.My.God. and also one of his most vitriolic commenters, World of Wonder's Wayne, who I hadn't realized was the dude sitting two down from me at yesterday's screening of The Strange History of Don't Ask, Don't Tell. Wayne was in Versace delecto and like me was roving about looking for good photo ops. He found some.

Does his smile give you an Eddie Rabon-er?

It was also a pleasure seeing Eddie Rabon, one of (one of???) Broadway's finest dancers. (And he dances well, too.) He was there with a friend, enjoying his last month or so as Mr. Gay U.S.A. I then spotted Paul Iacono from (the new) Fame and The Hard Times of R.J. Berger (on which he played a horse-hung nerd), but he was chowing down on the amazing food so I didn't want to give him indigestion by introducing myself over a meat course.

"This old thing???"

What were they thinking in this moment?

Then things got nuts when hostesses Countess LuAnn de Lesseps and Lisa Lampanelli arrived. The clusterfuck around these women and guest Jerry Springer was a nightmare! I mean, Downtown groupies with cameras were unselfconsciously elbowing me to get their shots. But it was unnecessary as all of the stars were beyond accessible and gracious, posing for like an hour, even when they got frighteningly cornered on the second floor.

Three girls three

Hips or lips? Both!

Monday was Blondie night, a gig at the Highline Ballroom in Chelsea. I was going it alone, but instead met up with Kenneth and walked over from the subway. He was in a tie and I was in long pants ("dressed up" for both of us) and we were meeting early because we hoped to get seats. Yes, seats! While the middle of the floor was G.A., there were also a number of tables for those of us who felt like taking a load off...provided we also didn't mind springing for some $30 salmon. (The place had an unenforced $10 minimum PER SET, so we in theory would have had to buy $10 or more during the opener and another $10 or more during Blondie.)

We got a great seat with a nice view of the stage, sitting side by side, only to become embroiled in a controversy when the couple at the table next to ours tried the same thing. No dice! The waitress informed them they could not sit side by side; one of them had to move to face the other person, back to the stage. Why? Policy. They need to fill each seat. It was absurd. The manager came over and forced them to move, whereupon the female half of the couple cattily pointed us out and asked why we didn't have to move. Fuck you, toots—we, without realizing we were helping our case, had told the waitress about the absent third member of our party, who in theory would be arriving any moment to sit with his back to the stage. Frantic e-mails brought Kenneth's partner Michael along in due time, averting a tragedy. (Kenneth cutely though that I might consider leaving my stage-side seat to become the one facing away from Blondie if push came to shove!)

How old are you...66???

The show was pretty great, though felt shorter than usual and Debbie definitely was not as "on" vocally or energy-wise in the beginning. She's sticking with that Emmylou Harris happy hair, but I did for the first time also connect it to Andy Warhol's shock of white wig.

A heart of glass that was hanging over the stage

The 90-minute gig opened with the Eat to the Beat trifecta of "Union City Blue," "Dreaming" and "Atomic," moved into new material with "D-Day," gifted us with classic "Call Me" and neo-classic "Maria," and then settled into a meaty portion of the band's current studio set, Panic of Girls. The new stuff—"Girlie Girlie," "What I Heard," "China Shoes," "Wipe Off My Sweat" and "Mother"—is uneven, but very listenable and with a couple of true stand-outs. By the time the newer songs rolled around, the recently slimmer Debbie was on fire and dancing up a storm and truly having fun. At one point, she joked how New York was not like (their last tour stop in) Michigan. "They have Detroit...gotta give 'em that!"

Other highlights included a genius mash-up of "Rapture" and the Beastie Boys stomper "(You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (To Party)." Other covers that scored were the Johnny Thunders tune "You Can't Put Your Arms Around a Memory" (dedicated, implicitly, to 9/11 remembrance) and the Ramones chestnut "I Don't Wanna Go to the Basement."

"One Way or Another" was a frenetic room-charger, but it was their "Heart of Glass" finale that probably did the most toward making the room "get up!"

This is from a post that went up this past week, but I saved it for 9/11 because it bears underscoring.

I don't care that Rachel Uchitel whored it up with Tiger Woods. Many would have done the same. But as a woman who lost her fiancé on 9/11, she deserves relentless scorn for comments she made to Page Six Magazine:

"I believe [my fiancé] Andy was meant to die because he was too good. I'm almost happy it ended the way it did because I've learned so many lessons from him. It would have been tragic if we got into fights and then divorced...I would be a fat housewife with three kids in Sands Point, LI. "

It always burns my ass when someone makes another person's death or other people's deaths all about them, but really, her narcissism could burn a hole in the ozone layer. Disgusting. She should be ashamed to even think like that. How would his family feel hearing her say she's "almost happy" he perished in the World Trade Center in order for her to learn some things about life and avoid—GASP!—gaining weight?

Via Kenneth: Gawker's choices for the absolute WORST of these United States is likely to be controversial, but I would say right off the bat Florida should demand a recount—Disney World and some beaches are not enough to make me recant this suggestion.

Are there any states you've visited that you thought were abominable?

You'll have to see for yourselves.

I will make this witch disappear as if by magic!

Batshit-crazy Christine O'Donnell stormed off of Piers Morgan's CNN show last night because he insisted on being a journalist and asking her questions...even questions she didn't want to field. O'Donnell revealed the mindset of so many entitled public figures (not just Republicans) when she said:

"Don't you think as a host that if I say that's what I want to talk about, that's what we should address?"

To his credit, Morgan stated that he did not.

Via Kenneth: Speaking of reality breaks and Republicans, we also have Rick Perry steadfastly refusing to acknowledge any error in his crackpot comments about the Federal Reserve, which even Karl Rove has gone on record as saying went way too far.

The Republican playbook is avoid, ignore, deny, lie.

I usually find George Wayne insufferable, but his Andy Cohen interview from Vanity Fair's September 2011 issue is pretty funny. Hilariously, Cohen stumbles into an awkward moment when he proudly claims to have Bieber Fever only to have Wayne bring up Twinkgate. No blood was drawn, it was just the right measure of meow and purr.

It's Nostalgia Day here at Boy Culture, and Girl Day, too. In this video from 1970, taut-faced 71-year-old Gloria Swanson—a throwback to the days when movie stars never let the public see them looking like anything less—inadvertently stumbles into a hilarious double-entendre exchange with messy, all-hanging-out Janis Joplin about oral sex. Shocking to think youngster Joplin was two months away from death and the venerable Swanson had another 13 years.

Also shocking to realize Swanson was only 84 when she died. Not exactly "gone too soon," but today, 84 is hardly ancient. I remember seeing her in the '70s and '80s doing movies or TV and thinking she was an absolute relic.