High life
Clinton's cocaine kick
Taki
New York What a week! Last Wednesday, I even shook hands with a woman who had recently shaken Willard — for further identification of Willard, please see Gen- nifer Flowers's opus 'Passion and Betrayal.' For any of you unfamiliar with la Flowers, she is the woman who revealed taped evi- dence of her affair with Bill Clinton just before the 1992 election. The Draft Dodger apologised to Mario Cuomo for the slurs about Mario's 'scary Mafia-like looks,' and then went on to deny the rest of the tapes. Par for the course. The historic handshake took place at the National Review, William Buckley's Conser- vative fortnightly, and the bible for those of us who believe in the sanctity of the indi- vidual rather than of the State. NR, as the John O'Sullivan edited magazine is known, has been taking the high road, ever since it was started 40 years ago. Hence my sur- prise when I was invited to attend a cock- tail party in honour of la Flowers.
Thank God, I was in for a pleasant sur- prise. Gennifer Flowers comes out far bet- ter in person that on the idiot box, especially when she's not accompanied by a publicist. Mind you, she's no Scarlett O'Hara, but she does have a straightfor- ward, southern, clean quality to her.
The ladies of NR kept a polite distance, however. No embarrassing questions were asked until Bob Tyrrell, of the American Spectator demanded to know 'whether the President has any distinguishing marks that we should be aware of'. Gulps and looking at our shoes all round. What la Flowers did tell us at length was about Clinton's drug taking. Not only did he inhale, according to her he sniffed like hell, too.
Oh well, some people go to the pokey for doing it, others become President of the United States. Mind you, despite the occu- pants of the White House at present, this is a wonderful time to be in the Bagel. The weather is simply perfect, and I've been driving out to the country to train for the Big Olive's veteran tennis championships starting next week. Going from the Piping Rock club in Glen Cove to the Athens ten- nis is a bit like leaving, say, Drew Barry- more's bed for that of Bianca Jagger — but such are the joys of having been born Greek. Things in Europe's filthiest capital still matter, and I'm determined to win both singles and doubles or fall on my sword in the process. (Far more likely, I will succumb to the pollution and will never even get to draw the bloody thing.) One of the places I've enjoyed this time in the Big Bagel — Mortimer's and Elaine's aside — is the Bowery Bar, a new trendy hangout downtown, full of beautiful female and male (or so them call them- selves) models A more apt description would be that of the most recent profes- sion, as far as Hollywood is concerned, that is. The velvet mafia, as the hideous clique of Sandy Gallin, David Geffen, Barry Diller, Calvin Klein and now Yenn Wen- ner, is called, not only runs Hollywood, it also dictates the Bagel nightlife.
Gallin is a gay agent who looks like a piece of waxwork after multiple facelifts, ,while Diller is the closest I've ever seen anyone look like a male circumcised penis. Geffen and Klein are the male equivalent of Dolly Parton and Joan Rivers, while poor Wenner is a modern day Hamlet, walking around in a fog, ambivalent about boys versus girls. The former are winning.
These are the types one sees at the Bow- ery Bar, but fortified by drink and when accompanied by female beauty, it's not half as bad as one imagines. But my God, how chic gays primp and pose in this country. And what control they have in the film industry! It is now the most powerful clique in El Lay, sharing their strongest desires, sex and power, and screwing their fellow men. Oh yes, I almost forgot,. They all still worship the coke-sniffing War Hero.
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