High life
Pink girls are best
Taki
Washington Aong with the Forsythia, the pansies and various Massachusetts Congressmen were out in force last weekend in the nation's capital. Politicians galore, some of Hollywood's finest, ink-stained wretches, smiling wallet-lifting lobbyists, electronic media persons and members of the White House press corps were all in evidence, for this was the 80th annual White House Cor- respondents' Dinner at the local inn that bears Conrad Hilton's name.
Two thousand three hundred people first went through a metal detector and into a cavernous room for the kind of nosh Pen- tonville inmates would revolt against. Had a comet hit the place, government, Tinsel- town and the Fourth Estate — not to men- tion the great Pants Dropper himself — would have to be re-invented. (Not a bad idea at that.) Mind you, it did bring back pleasant memories. The last time I attended this particular dinner, it was back in the good old closing days of Ronald Reagan's watch in 1988, and I sat next to Fawn Hall, of 011ie North fame Unlike the present mot- ley group of liars, she admitted having shredded evidence, and told those bums in Congress to get lost. And she was a beauty to boot.
This year I sat next to Leslie Cockburn, a lady far to the left of Joe Stalin, but one, alas, I found so attractive I decided to go pinko-commie. One thing is for sure. I must stop going out with dumb girls. One hour next to Leslie Cockburn at dinner sure beats one night of wild sex with some bimbo. I even made friends with her hus- band, Andrew, who promised to take my name off the list of those to be executed immediately after the Left finally takes over.
The dinner finished with the traditional light-hearted jibes of the President against the press. Mind you, the great Pants Drop- per managed to sound unpresidential even while addressing a basically pro-Clinton crowd. He spoke — and showed slides — yet again of his underwear. He has as much gravitas as Edwina Currie.
The hottest party in town followed. This was given by Graydon Carter, Vanity Fair's fiihrer, in Christopher Hitchens's pent- house, a flat somewhat larger than Rhode Island, but with fewer bathrooms. Christo- pher Hitchens has come a long way since his radical Left London days. In fact, the only personality missing from his party was Salman Rushdie, but then again, Rushdie may have been there, disguised as George Stephanopoulos's father, a Greek Ortho- dox priest.
Jack Palance, Matthew Broderick, non- stop kissing with actress S4rah Jessica Parker, ex-bad boy Dennis Hopper, the one and only Conservative Tom Selleck, Ron (the louder the voice, the smaller the intellect) Silver, the great Peggy Noonan, Michael Kinsley, P. J. O'Rourke, Naomi Wolfe, George Stephanopoulos, Barry Diller, well, you get the picture.
Having fallen in love during dinner, I then had the good luck to get stuck in a lift with Penelope Ann Miller, an actress so beautiful, she is singularly resistant to ver- bal definition. Penelope I first saw in the film Other Peoples' Money, and Carlito's Way. She was even better in person. When I told her that lifts in Washington always got stuck overnight, she blanched. When I suggested she become comfortable, she pailed. When the damn thing moved, she laughed with delight. When I threatened to throw myself off the penthouse unless she married me, she realised she was dealing with a psychopath and tried to give me the slip. But we ended up friends when we found out that we had some Greek shipowners as close friends in common, namely the Embiricos clan, and that she as a very young girl had sailed on the Kyma, Andy Embiricos's sailing beauty.
Needless to say, not having had a drink since 11 March, to be exact, I made a total fool of myself. Penelope turned out to be worse than her Ithaca namesake, and for some strange reason the management of my hotel informed me the next morning that just because I had slept outside my room, in the corridor, I would nevertheless be charged for the night. I did not mind. Dreaming of Penelope makes one immune to discomfort. In fact, I could have been sleeping next to Hillary Clinton, and still be in seventh heaven.
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