We can already imagine the Oscar campaign: "What could possibly be the last, great performance of Michael Douglas' long career!" But Mr. Soderbergh has a way of taking stock genre films and giving them a fresh spin. Even in his worst efforts, like the Ambien on film stock that was The Good German or the stiff sci-fi of the ultimately empty Solaris, Mr. Soderbergh brings his own particular brand of sensibility to something we've seen countless times before. A movie about Liberace might seem like a hack idea: a blustery tearjerker with a big star turn at its warm gooey center. But that's probably what we were saying when we heard about Erin Brockovich too, and we think that turned out just fine.

We're halfway through my bridal shower. Having had a few glasses of Chardonnay, I'm not intimidated by this quiz. I know all the dirt, even the name of his first doll or, as he called Stanley, his "buddy." (Sorry Brian!)

"For every correct response you earn a piece of lovely bling," Diane says, displaying a ring purchased from the Liberace Romance collection. The crowd seated before me 'oohs' and 'aahs.' "And for every wrong answer," she continues, "you get a piece of gum--and you have to chew it!" (FYI, I hate gum.)

Joy gazes at me intently and asks: "Let's say you are going out for hamburgers." I nod. "Brian wants you to bring something home for him. What toppings do you request for his burger?"

"I'd get mustard, ketchup, barbecue sauce, cheese, and lettuce," I answer. Joy sighs.

"What about his bacon?" she demands, "and the mushrooms!?" I extend my hand for the Bazooka.

Ten gaudy rings and several Bazookas later, I'm ready for the final question.

"Brian has a favorite exclamation he uses to express frustration," Diane says gravely. "What is it?"

"It's 'Don't ya hate pants!'" I answer with confidence.

"Correct!" Diane shouts. "You can now officially marry our brother!"

OK. Onward and upward.

OdlR: Be careful! You might start melting. And Brie smells horrible when it gets old. For myself, I never think about my age. I don’t celebrate birthdays.

SD: My knees got creaky when I turned 50: How are your knees?

OdlR: I wish it was only my knees.

SD: What’s your favorite reality-TV show?

OdlR: Falcon Crest was the last TV show I watched regularly.

SD: Paris Hilton? Appalled or intrigued?

OdlR: Who is she?

SD: Let’s talk about your amazing runway shows. My favorite thing is always the white-cotton-eyelet tropical-hostess outfits. I cannot decide if they’re saintly or sultry. Is this intentional?

OdlR: It’s a reminder of my grandmother—beautiful but always very starched—and the fabulous nuns. I was an altar boy [growing up in the Dominican Republic]. I miss the nuns and the way they dressed. But not the priests.

SD: I have a theory that, as they get older, people always revert to the underwear of their childhood. I now wear Marks and Spencer underwear. Are you wearing Dominican underwear?

OdlR: There is no such thing. My underwear is made in Switzerland. White—never colored. It has to be clean and white, even if it’s only me who’s looking at it these days.

SD: A psychiatrist once told me that once people hit 70, they become disinclined to look at the ocean. How about you?

OdlR: I love the ocean. When I’m down in my house in Punta Cana, I wake up every morning and walk straight onto my balcony—I am sleeping almost naked—and I look at the ocean and I say, “ Dio gracias.”

SD: Iraq—should we pull out and let them try to sort out their own problems, or stick around and play nanny?

OdlR: I think we must stick around.

SD: You are one of the last surviving members of the Beautiful People, and you are still beautiful. What’s your secret? Green tea? Caribbean voodoo?

OdlR: I never committed the folly of getting a facelift. For a man, this stretching is not a good look. But I am blessed with good genes. If I looked like a Shar-Pei, I might feel differently.

SD: I am very common and nouveau riche, and you are very posh and soigné and glamorous, and yet we each have a Norwich terrier. Explain.

OdlR: Better to be nouveau riche than nouveau poor. What is the name of your Norwich terrier?

SD: Liberace.

OdlR: Poor thing!

SD: What’s it like being groovy all over again? You and your gorgeous clothes have been embraced and accepted by a whole new generation of uptown broads—I refer to the Aerin Lauders and Marina Rusts of the world. Is this a shock to you?

OdlR: No. My daughter Eliza makes me aware. Everyone in my studio is three-quarters my age. I am happy that there is a new generation of women in New York who are proud of their femininity and wear Oscar.

SD: Give me an adjective or two to describe life in New York as a septuagenarian.

OdlR: Energetic. New York is still the center of the world.

SD: Are you getting cranky with age?

OdlR: I’m very positive. I hate cranky people.

SD: Are you a Proust reader or an Us Weekly reader? High or low? Have your reading habits changed with age?

OdlR: I almost never read fiction. I’m just finishing Lenin’s Tomb by David Remnick. Totally fascinating.

SD: How do you feel when crazed lefty people say that we, in the U.S., are living in a police state?

OdlR: Ridiculous. I have lived under two dictators, Trujillo in the Dominican Republic and Franco in Spain. There is no country in the world where you can enjoy so much freedom as you do here.

SD: Why aren’t you more pretentious? Is it a Latin thing?

OdlR: It’s so boring to put on airs.

SD: Raw seams? Pro or con?

OdlR: It was started by the Belgians. It gives a fresh look, but we’re getting over it now. The consumer doesn’t want to walk around with a million threads dangling off her.

SD: Lots of your peers have kicked the bucket. Who do you miss the most?

OdlR: Bill Blass. He was such a friend—I miss his sense of humor. But we were very different. I love to travel; he hated it. He always said, “I hate abroad.”

SD: How do you want to die?

OdlR: Quiet and with no pain. With my family.

Long live Oscar! ¡Feliz Navidad!

It started off with the arrival, on Sunday, July 31, of The New York Times. Lurking in the Book Review was a less than complimentary appraisal of Nasty, my latest book (Simon & Schuster). Let me rephrase that: Lurking in the Book Review was a less than complimentary appraisal of myself, Simon Doonan. Instead of reviewing my book or my writing, the reviewer, one Ben Sisario, chose to focus on me and what he saw as my underexamined self-image. With a daringly un-P.C. stroke of his pen, he dismissed me as “foppish and superficial.”

Was the Old Gray Lady getting homophobic on my ass? It’s hard to imagine her calling Plum Sykes or Cormac McCarthy “foppish and superficial.” Back in the 1960’s, England’s Private Eye mag always used the phrase “tired and emotional” to describe celebs who were drunk in public (e.g., “A tired and emotional Richard Burton arrived at Heathrow airport … ”). Is “foppish and superficial” some fab new Old Gray Lady code for “gay”? Should we all start using it ASAP?

Slightly bewildered, I asked my dog, a feisty, non-foppish Norwich terrier incongruously named Liberace, for his reaction. “Calling somebody ‘superficial’ in this day and age is a bit like accusing them of bad taste, i.e., retarded and meaningless—woof!” he arfed, and paused to slurp some water. “However, honesty compels me to admit that Ben has a point—you are a tad on the foppish side. But so was my namesake, and he was, by all accounts, a wonderful bloke. Woof!” Liberace then grabbed the Book Review in his teeth and, in a half-hearted show of loyalty, began to pretend to gnaw at it.

Unbeknownst to Liberace and me, the fops of Manhattan were circling the wagons in support.

On Tuesday, Aug. 2, I attended a 10th-anniversary bash for Paper magazine columnist Mickey Boardman in the Garden of Ono at the Hotel Gansevoort. This thoroughly enjoyable and superficial event was Fop Central. Co-fops included Isaac Mizrahi (teary and devastated over the death of fop genius designer Donald Brooks), Boy George (an old acquaintance from the heady and insanely superficial New Romantic era) and Village Voice royalty Michael Musto. All were quick to offer words of support, especially Fop Musto. “Darling, ‘foppish and superficial’ is high praise, especially in these times that seem to demand dour seriousness and macho posturing,” he said, reclining languidly on a banquette. “Besides, The Times should talk—now it has all those foppish and superficial Style sections.”

Honoree Mr. Boardman was even more vociferous: “I am proud as a pea hen to be a fop,” he said, giving his signature disintegrating, beaded evening top a petulant tug. “I truly respect all the classic social types who are often maligned: ladies who lunch, courtesans, fops. It takes a lot of work to look shallow, social and superficial.” Mr. Mickey waved coquettishly at host Johnny Knoxville, who was looking rather butch and profound, and then continued, “I want things to look nice and to be fun and make people forget their troubles. That doesn’t mean I’m not interested in serious issues.” He surveyed the party, crammed as it was with creative, culturally contributing fops, and let out a satisfied sigh, adding, “After all, I am an Economist subscriber.”

This week wasn’t all parties and posing. Many of my waking hours were devoted to holiday marketing. Yes, I’m talking Christmas. At Barneys, we’re in the throes of planning windows and shooting our gift catalog. Surreal though it must seem, while you were melting in the furnace that was Manhattan this week, I was up to my eyeballs in tinsel garlands and snowmen. Inspired by the Camilla/Chuck nuptials, I have opted for a regal theme. Don’t worry: There won’t be any tampon wreaths.

On Thursday, a fop dropped in: I got a surprise visit from an old L.A. actor friend named Robert Lopez, a.k.a. El Vez, the world’s only Mexican Elvis impersonator. El Vez has delighted audiences for years with such songs as “You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Chihuahua” and his version of “Suspicious Minds,” entitled “Immigration Time.” Growing up in Chula Vista, Calif., Robert always thought Elvis was Mexican because, with his tight pants and his foppish black pompadour, he looked just like all of Robert’s uncles.

Anyway, El Vez was in town doing research for a play that he’ll be staging in New York next year, about the life of deceased über-fop John Sex. Those of you who lived in New York in the early 1980’s will doubtless remember John’s brilliant and visionary lounge act. It is no exaggeration to say that the sleaze of John’s shtick prefigured the quagmire of pornographic tackiness into which we have all sunk during the intervening years. (See, Ben—we fops are smarter than you think.)

Friday: My potter husband is scheduled to go to San Francisco. I will be alone all weekend with nothing but my foppish superficiality and my loyal(ish) hound. I am concerned about my fragile mental state. By the time my Jonny comes back, I will probably be wandering round Shelter Island with a skinned rabbit in my purse, like Catherine Deneuve in Roman Polanski’s masterpiece Repulsion.

I resolve to pass the time by planning a theatrical career for my potter husband—who, quite frankly, would benefit from becoming a bit more foppish and superficial. How about the world’s first Jewish Elvis impersonator: Oy Vez?

Fop off!

It started off with the arrival, on Sunday, July 31, of The New York Times. Lurking in the Book Review was a less than complimentary appraisal of Nasty, my latest book (Simon & Schuster). Let me rephrase that: Lurking in the Book Review was a less than complimentary appraisal of myself, Simon Doonan. Instead of reviewing my book or my writing, the reviewer, one Ben Sisario, chose to focus on me and what he saw as my underexamined self-image. With a daringly un-P.C. stroke of his pen, he dismissed me as “foppish and superficial.”

Was the Old Gray Lady getting homophobic on my ass? It’s hard to imagine her calling Plum Sykes or Cormac McCarthy “foppish and superficial.” Back in the 1960’s, England’s Private Eye mag always used the phrase “tired and emotional” to describe celebs who were drunk in public (e.g., “A tired and emotional Richard Burton arrived at Heathrow airport … ”). Is “foppish and superficial” some fab new Old Gray Lady code for “gay”? Should we all start using it ASAP?

Slightly bewildered, I asked my dog, a feisty, non-foppish Norwich terrier incongruously named Liberace, for his reaction. “Calling somebody ‘superficial’ in this day and age is a bit like accusing them of bad taste, i.e., retarded and meaningless— woof!” he arfed, and paused to slurp some water. “However, honesty compels me to admit that Ben has a point—you are a tad on the foppish side. But so was my namesake, and he was, by all accounts, a wonderful bloke. Woof!” Liberace then grabbed the Book Review in his teeth and, in a half-hearted show of loyalty, began to pretend to gnaw at it.

Unbeknownst to Liberace and me, the fops of Manhattan were circling the wagons in support.

On Tuesday, Aug. 2, I attended a 10th-anniversary bash for Paper magazine columnist Mickey Boardman in the Garden of Ono at the Hotel Gansevoort. This thoroughly enjoyable and superficial event was Fop Central. Co-fops included Isaac Mizrahi (teary and devastated over the death of fop genius designer Donald Brooks), Boy George (an old acquaintance from the heady and insanely superficial New Romantic era) and Village Voice royalty Michael Musto. All were quick to offer words of support, especially Fop Musto. “Darling, ‘foppish and superficial’ is high praise, especially in these times that seem to demand dour seriousness and macho posturing,” he said, reclining languidly on a banquette. “Besides, The Times should talk—now it has all those foppish and superficial Style sections.”

Honoree Mr. Boardman was even more vociferous: “I am proud as a pea hen to be a fop,” he said, giving his signature disintegrating, beaded evening top a petulant tug. “I truly respect all the classic social types who are often maligned: ladies who lunch, courtesans, fops. It takes a lot of work to look shallow, social and superficial.” Mr. Mickey waved coquettishly at host Johnny Knoxville, who was looking rather butch and profound, and then continued, “I want things to look nice and to be fun and make people forget their troubles. That doesn’t mean I’m not interested in serious issues.” He surveyed the party, crammed as it was with creative, culturally contributing fops, and let out a satisfied sigh, adding, “After all, I am an Economist subscriber.”

This week wasn’t all parties and posing. Many of my waking hours were devoted to holiday marketing. Yes, I’m talking Christmas. At Barneys, we’re in the throes of planning windows and shooting our gift catalog. Surreal though it must seem, while you were melting in the furnace that was Manhattan this week, I was up to my eyeballs in tinsel garlands and snowmen. Inspired by the Camilla/Chuck nuptials, I have opted for a regal theme. Don’t worry: There won’t be any tampon wreaths.

On Thursday, a fop dropped in: I got a surprise visit from an old L.A. actor friend named Robert Lopez, a.k.a. El Vez, the world’s only Mexican Elvis impersonator. El Vez has delighted audiences for years with such songs as “You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Chihuahua” and his version of “Suspicious Minds,” entitled “Immigration Time.” Growing up in Chula Vista, Calif., Robert always thought Elvis was Mexican because, with his tight pants and his foppish black pompadour, he looked just like all of Robert’s uncles.

Anyway, El Vez was in town doing research for a play that he’ll be staging in New York next year, about the life of deceased über-fop John Sex. Those of you who lived in New York in the early 1980’s will doubtless remember John’s brilliant and visionary lounge act. It is no exaggeration to say that the sleaze of John’s shtick prefigured the quagmire of pornographic tackiness into which we have all sunk during the intervening years. (See, Ben—we fops are smarter than you think.)

Friday: My potter husband is scheduled to go to San Francisco. I will be alone all weekend with nothing but my foppish superficiality and my loyal(ish) hound. I am concerned about my fragile mental state. By the time my Jonny comes back, I will probably be wandering round Shelter Island with a skinned rabbit in my purse, like Catherine Deneuve in Roman Polanski’s masterpiece Repulsion.

I resolve to pass the time by planning a theatrical career for my potter husband—who, quite frankly, would benefit from becoming a bit more foppish and superficial. How about the world’s first Jewish Elvis impersonator: Oy Vez? Fop off!

Well, she got that much right.

Looking pert in an orange turtleneck and suede pants, Ms. Corcoran was supposed to be headlining an evening of business-themed comedy to benefit N.Y.C. YMCA children's programs. But somewhere along the line, she decided to ignore the topic and focus on an uncomfortably personal subject: the shortcomings of her past and current husbands.

The evening began giddily enough, with an army of brokers-mostly women in pearls and pinstripes from the Corcoran Group, the real-estate firm she founded but sold in 2001 to NRT-in the audience, whooping with anticipation.

But then Ms. Corcoran began her act. "I told [my first husband Dale] one night in bed-when you're not supposed to attack a man's confidence-that 'Dale, the reason I'm not getting pregnant is that your damn sperm is too slow!'" she said early on.

"I left him immediately," Ms. Corcoran continued. "Three years later, Dale had three kids, and I was on my hands and knees at Mount Sinai's in-vitro clinic, begging my baby sister for her eggs!" The audience murmured uncertainly.

Ms. Corcoran regrouped, moving on to the subject of her current husband, Bill Higgins, a former Navy captain who was sitting near the front.

"I proposed to Bill. He said yes, and then-I should have seen this as a bad sign-he wouldn't sleep with me for seven months. He said I wasn't ready. I was so ready, I wanted to attack the dog!" Ms. Corcoran said. "But I shaved my legs for seven months, every morning, because I didn't know when the big night was going to be. He was a perfect gentleman, but I waited. Then I married Bill, and Bill immediately slept with me!"

Ms. Corcoran went on to describe Mr. Higgins quitting his day job, purchasing 13 digital cameras and putting on 50 pounds, which was achieved "peanut by peanut" with M&M's.

"Bill chronically complains about not getting enough sex," she said at one point. "Anybody have that problem?"

The square-jawed Mr. Higgins, looking husky in a navy blue jacket with gold buttons, called out from the audience: "Not anymore, hon!"

"Last week I went to bed, and picture this: Bill's lying in bed, electronically wired," Ms. Corcoran continued. "He's got wraparound black goggles over his head, he's got a camouflage helmet on his head, and he's got these suction cups with wires. And he's wired into this black electronic box, and it's beeping and blinking-beep, beep!" She never explained the purpose of her husband's getup, but raced for the punch line. "And what does he say? The same thing every guy says: 'Ya wanna have sex?' And I said, 'No, thank you!'"

Ms. Corcoran paused during the uncomfortable silence that followed, then said: "Oh, shit, man-I'm getting off this stage!"

But she didn't.

Instead, she described her habit of smacking Mr. Higgins around and inspiring him to invest in hockey padding. Around that time, Ms. Corcoran pointed at a silver-haired gentleman in the audience. "Hey, you, would you want to be married to me?" she asked. The man stared at her, wide-eyed. "Noooo!" Ms. Corcoran said. "Neither did Dale. Neither does Bill!"

Once the squirm-inducing performance came to an end, the M.C., David Moore, returned to the stage and said: "How many people think that Bill's going to get laid tonight?" That got a laugh.

-Sheelah Kolhatkar

Melanie's Yarn

"It's the Chita-fer!" said the hulking song-and-dance-man-cum-TV-actor Jerry Orbach, swooping in to embrace Broadway veteran Chita (Anita before Rita) Rivera in the press room at the Drama League's annual "Musical Celebration of Broadway" on Feb. 9. The black-tie gala was held at the Pierre hotel in honor of Antonio Banderas and Melanie Griffith. Both had stints on Broadway last year-him in Nine, her in Chicago-but entered the room like the movie stars they are. Anna in the Tropics spark plug Daphne Rubin-Vega preceded them, telling the shutterbugs that her sleeveless black dress was from a thrift store. Then Ms. Griffith-whose arms were covered in gold glitter-struck a pose. And where had she gotten her black sleeveless? "Versace," she said.

However, Ms. Griffith added that she is capable of enjoying more simple sartorial pleasures as well: She likes to wear sweaters knit by Mr. Banderas, who explained to a cluster of reporters that he learned to purl when he broke his "esternon" (sternum) on a film set in Spain in the early 80's. "Were you born then?" he asked The Transom. Alas, the ladies from Hoy then pulled the duo away for more intense questioning, but Ms. Griffith didn't let her honey talk to the fawning journalistas for long. Her flack, a fleck of glitter on her nose, was giving the "wrap it up" signal with her finger. "You have to be done now," Ms. Griffith told them, dragging Mr. Banderas over to talk to the English-speaking television reporters.

Ms. Rivera-who's currently working with Terrence McNally on a musical about her life-then bounced on by to rave about Mr. Banderas. She played opposite him in Nine. "Antonio's a nice, nice, nice guy, on top of being a sexy, sexy, sexy guy! And he's so professional! And charitable! And giving! Everybody falls in love with him, not just because he's … what he is," she said. But did she know that Mr. Banderas really knew his way around a yarn store? "Who told you that lie?" she said.

-Anna Jane Grossman

Simmons Says

What better place for a hip-hop impresario to explain his political intentions than a fashion show? And that's just what Russell Simmons did at Marc Jacobs' fall show at the Lexington Avenue Armory on Feb. 9. On Feb. 4, the hip-hop baron crashed a summit hosted by the New York Society for Ethical Culture, which had been organized to brainstorm ways to oust President Bush in the next election. "The shit y'all doing is corny!" the hip-hop impresario had told the crowd, which included financier George Soros, Vanity Fair editor Graydon Carter, Rolling Stone founder Jann Wenner, Miramax co-chairman Harvey Weinstein, actors Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins, socialite Anne Cox Chambers and fashion heir Alex von Furstenberg. "You have to at least include people. We are not included!"

"I was just trying to get the inner circle to know me," Mr. Simmons told The Transom, his omnipresent baseball cap cocked to the side. "This is one little group, and they're great and they're smart and they have good ideas. I'm a fan of what they are doing, but I just want to be a part of it. We've had a lot of great discussions since then, and I think it's going to be fantastic." In the meantime, Mr. Simmons said he was narrowing down his presidential choices. "Obviously, I'm not a big fan of Dennis Kosevic"-we think he meant Kucinich-"and Sharpton. Oh, and I was with [Bill] O'Reilly last Friday night, and he told me I should vote for the Tin Man and Toto!" Mr. Simmons laughed. "Tin Man and Toto! That was a very good line for him."

Mr. Simmons wasn't the only one in a jaunty mood. Later, as Karolina Kurkova and Giselle Bundchen frisked down the catwalk, the Strokes' Albert Hammond Jr. and Nick Valensi swigged from bottles in brown sacks they'd smuggled into the show, while giggling models wriggled in their laps.

-Noelle Hancock

Just Like J. Lo

If you found yourself walking out of the local cineplex screening of Gigli while trying to whisper breathily about your "pussy" just like Jennifer Lopez did, then have we got the art exhibit for you! On Feb. 14, 32-year-old video artist Candice Breitz will unveil Becoming at the Sonnabend gallery at 536 West 22nd Street. The show will be composed of seven split-screen TV monitors. The front of the screens will feature seven female Hollywood actors-including Ms. Lopez, Julia Roberts and Meg Ryan-emoting for minute-long loops. Playing behind those loops will be black-and-white loops of Ms. Breitz lip-synching and otherwise imitating their words, expressions, gestures and Hollywood tears.

"It's a minute of Cameron Diaz talking nonstop about how to trap a man, or Julia Roberts talking about how to lose a man," said Ms. Breitz excitedly about her first major show in New York. "In those romantic comedies, it's all about getting the man, thinking about the man, marrying the man, breaking up with the man."

Ms. Breitz's show will be all about becoming the celebrity. "Our expressions are taught to us from Hollywood-people watch how she looks when flirting, breaking up, manipulating a man. It's a series of conventions that's manipulating our culture," she said. By juxtaposing footage of herself against the polished celebrities on the other side of the screen, Ms. Breitz explained, she'll be saying that "I'm not as beautiful as they are; it's awkward for me to act like they do. We're never going to be like them."

The artist said she actually came up with the idea from the MTV show Becoming, in which a suburban teen is treated to her idol's stylists, makeup artists and coaches. "They'll take a kid to Britney's hairdresser, and the sad thing about it is, she is allowed to become Britney in every way-clothes, looks, everything-but never can have her own voice. At the end, they pipe in Britney's voice when she starts to perform," said Ms. Breitz. "It's all about the idea of never quite being able to become the star."

-Alexandra Wolfe

Liberace Lives!

Johnny Depp, Robin Williams and Dustin Hoffman may get another shot at playing the flamboyantly dressed Vegas mainstay, Liberace. The British team of director Don Boyd (My Kingdom) and television writer and novelist Reg Gadney have co-authored a screenplay based on the flamboyant pianist's turbulent trip to Britain in 1956, and producer Barry Krost said that he has two major studios interested.

"I'm waiting to hear," said Mr. Krost, who produced the 1993 Tina Turner biopic, What's Love Got to Do With It? Entitled I'll Be Seeing You after one of Liberace's signature songs, the film is built around two stories. The first deals with the pianist's 1956 trip across the pond, when, at the height of his popularity, the Daily Mirror outed him as gay; Liberace eventually sued the paper for libel and won. The second is a coming-of-age story about a talented adolescent boy who plays the piano and worships … Liberace! The two eventually meet, demonstrating what Mr. Boyd referred to as "a powerful appreciation of what love and friendship can mean in the context of hero worship."

Both Mr. Krost and Mr. Boyd, who is attached to direct the script, say that it's far different from the Liberace film that reportedly was to be directed by Philip (Quills) Kaufman and had everyone from Mr. Depp to Mr. Williams to Mr. Hoffman allegedly interested in the role. (That project has since languished in pre-production at New Line Cinema.)

"It was a very different project from ours," said Mr. Boyd, who last worked with Mr. Gadney in 1989 on Goldeneye: The Secret Life of Ian Fleming, a made-for-TV movie about the creator of James Bond. "I think it was much more biographical, and they cover a much larger period of time."

Mr. Boyd said they're considering eight to nine "A-list" actors to fill the rhinestoned shoes of Liberace, but Mr. Boyd did say that Mr. Depp "would make a brilliant Liberace-truly brilliant.

"I really think we will attract that kind of star," Mr. Boyd continued, admitting that Mr. Depp is probably rather busy these days. "[The role] challenges the [actor's] range. It deals with [Liberace's] private life; it deals with his public life. They have to play piano, they have to sing, they have to have that charisma-and all of those things are combined in this extremely human story."

-Jake Brooks

In order to find out what, if anything, was going on in the little guy's head, I invested $99.95 in the latest Japanese pet-communication system, the "Bow-Lingual" bark translator. Using "voiceprint" technology, the Bow-Lingual translates your dog's bark: A microphone around his or her neck sends the bark to a handheld unit that receives and analyzes the data before providing you with a text-message translation. Liberace's readouts, though inconsistent and impudent, were mercifully devoid of erotic intention: "These are my rules," "Don't bother me" and "Give me the stars and moon" being the most common. According to the folks at Takara, the Japanese company that has so far sold more than 300,000 Bow-Linguals, this is not a gag gift: The Japanese prime minister gave two Bow-Lingual systems to Vladimir Putin last May, and Matsumi Suzuki, an eminent Bow-Lingual researcher, has been called upon to authenticate supposed voice recordings from Osama bin Laden, fur chrissakes! Bow-Lingual devices can be purchased from the Sharper Image stores and, improbably, from Lord and Taylor.

Shirley MacLaine didn't need voiceprint technology to channel her dog's thoughts; she- quelle surprise! -did it herself and then spewed the resulting ramblings into her latest book, Out on a Leash: Exploring the Nature of Reality and Love (Atria Books, $23.95). The big shocker? Shirl's fab little rat terrier, Terry, is more insanely New Age and bonkers than her showbiz owner. If Ms. MacLaine's channelings are to be believed, the average pooch's thoughts read like a series of inspirational office-wall plaques, e.g., "Humans should play more … " and "The more deeply she [Shirl] learns to love, the younger she'll be when she dies."

Other canine curiosities currently hitting the stores: a little book called All About My Dog (Broadway Books, a steal at $12.95), an insanely detailed Q&A that allows you to annotate your borderline J.R. Ackerley–ish obsession. Questions include: "Do you feel embarrassed when your dog sees you naked?" and "Has your dog ever had a kosher meal?" (In case you didn't know, J.R. Ackerley was that English bloke who was in love with his German shepherd and penned My Dog Tulip , a touching homage to their amour fou . It's currently going for $10.36 on Amazon.com.)

On a more wholesome note: The William Secord Gallery, the world's schmanciest dog-painting resource, is about to unveil an exhibition and sale of the work of Bert Cobb, an American artist of the early 20th century who drew and painted rich folks' pooches. These uptight, anal-retentive dog portraits will add a Bill Blass butch restraint to your décor-without the gasp-inducing prices that punctuated the deceased and closeted fashion designer's recent, highly charged estate sale. An 8-by-10-inch drypoint Cobb etching of your fave breed will set you back a mere $1,800. (Compare with the Bill Blass estate bunny painting, for which Nina Griscom paid a whopping $66,000.)

Another reason to visit the Secord Gallery is Mr. Secord himself. Not only is he good-looking in a classy, Blass-y kind of a way but, as the world's leading authority on 19th-century dog paintings, he's in a unique position to scour the stately homes of England for ancestral portraits of your dog. The Secord Gallery is located at 52 East 76th Street; for more info, call 212-249-0075.

Re proliferating dog-tote options: We used the lesbian, airline-approved "Sherpa" bag; anything else would be too nelly for Liberace, who is very masculine despite his name.

P.S.: Shirley and Terry met in a previous life in ancient Egypt. According to Malibu Shirl, Terry was a canine deity named Anubis.

Woof! Woof!

1) Question: What do you get when you combine Che Guevara and Liberace? Answer: Liberache, a revolution in rhinestones. A company in San Francisco called www.thewrongelement.com has merged these two 20th-century icons into one gorgeous image and applied it to the fronts of 100-percent-cotton T-shirts ($18). Apart from being a guaranteed cheerer-upper, the "Liberache" T-shirt is a great gift for male friends who like to leaven the rigorously butch atmosphere of their gyms with a bit of upbeat frivolity. Female recipients might prefer the Mahatma Blondie: Give Bleach a Chance! model.

2) Buy gifts while hanging out with cheery, optimistic sailors! The Target Holiday Boat is moored at Pier 62 at the Chelsea Piers now through Dec. 1. My pick: the kid's wooden art easel ($29.99) with large paper roll ($9.99), the perfect gift for control freaks whose only moments of calm occur after they have left insanely emphatic don't-forget-to-clean-under-the-sink-type messages for their loved ones and domestic support staff.

3) Cheer up an aging baby boomer: Buy him a Vespa ! Yes, the star of such movies as La Dolce Vita and Quadrophenia is back and more resonant than ever … and more expensive than ever. So, if your partner is having a poignant-but very mod-midlife crisis and you have about $3,000 bucks to spare, head to the new Vespa boutique at 13 Crosby Street. ("Dragon Red" or "Verde Carducci" are my recommended colors.) Don't let your doddery boomer ride his new toy in the city. Position it in your apartment as a ragingly hip decorative accessory, and then, when summer comes, throw him on the back and drive out to your beach rental where he can safely go stark-raving mod in the backyard, under your supervision.

4) Send a message to Martha: Tell her you love her by purchasing gifts willy-nilly from her Catalog for Living-800-950-7130. Support her! She's a good woman who is being witch-hunted for stuff that male cigar-smoking corporate muckety-mucks do all the time. During her career, La Stewart has created jobs for thousands and, almost more importantly, she has taken schlumps like you and given them domestic savoir-faire and style. Free Martha! Avoid the gooey edibles and cookie-making kits: Inflicting calorific temptations on people who are struggling with their weight (i.e., everyone) is sadistic and unseasonably hostile. The Chiffon Wire Bug Kit ($28)-an incredibly Martha-ish gift which sentences the recipient to days of obsessive hard labor making his or her own gossamer-insect tree ornaments-will provide soothing occupational therapy for any friend who is addicted to watching Showdown Iraq on CNN.

5) Here are two reasons why you absolutely must purchase a significant number of your holiday gifts from Jonathan Adler's shop at 465 Broome Street. First, he has great stuff. And second, he is my husband and if I put him in this gift guide I will win much-needed brownie points in our relationship, which is important to an aging poofter with a boyfriend 14 years younger than himself. My 2002 pick from the Adler oeuvre : a $165 meticulously needlepointed Seven Deadly Sins pillow . Choose from yellows, pinks, blues and black/gray.

6) If you are the kind of boozy funster whose idea of a Yuletide greeting is to slur "Who d'ya have to fuck to get a drink around here" as you push your way past the carolers and dive headlong into the Christmas tree, you are no doubt increasingly frustrated by the diminishing emphasis on alcohol at Manhattan holiday gatherings. Here's a holiday hostess gift which obviates the need to drop heavy hints: Lilly Pulitzer cocktail napkins , $38 from the God's Love We Deliver holiday catalog. Force your hostess to open them upon your arrival and yell, "let's try 'em out!" Re the morning after: Beg Santa to bring you an Amemand Divadourian luxe cashmere hangover pack , $98 at Barneys. You supply the ice.

7) Fellas! Ever wondered why your girlfriend weeps copiously when you present her with those twinkly pieces of jewelry every holiday? I hate to break it to you, but those are sobs of disappointment, not joy. Yessiree, she is completely and utterly horrified by your depressingly ditsy selections. Bring a smile to her face this season with a giant diamond-, pearl- and amethyst-encrusted Duchess of Windsor–ish Pagoda brooch ($17,600) from Mish at 131 East 70th Street and buy it now before some lunatic decides that pagodas are defamatory to our Asian community.

8) Are you married to a mogul/entrepreneur whose ascension in the business world is being retarded by a lack of charisma? To become really successful your bland bloke needs a memorable idiosyncrasy or perhaps a tick or two. Even Amazon head Jeff Bezos has that annoying laugh. Enhance your breadwinner's image with a stainless-steel designer yo-yo from Prada ($184 at Prada, 724 Fifth Avenue). Make sure he practices before unfurling his new image-enhancing toy at the next board meeting.

9) Legendary photographer William Claxton's new book of work entitled Photographic Memory (Amazon, $45.50) is extremely soothing, unless you happen to be a highly strung Judy Garland fan. His shot of a pre-performance, panic-stricken Judy captures her agony just as a bottle of rubbing alcohol is torn from her hand by one of her caretakers. Bottoms up!

10) Foist an extra-long "Isadora strangulation" scarf -the accessory du jour-on a really short friend who is prone to colds or flu. Banana Republic purveys a luscious cable-knit number for $88. Your tiny friend can wind it round and round his/her neck, thereby soothing a sore throat or even protecting a gland or two.

Happy Holidays!

"All this effort wasted on a dog. You and Jonny would make such wonderful parents. Have you thought of adopting children?" I restrained myself from replying "Bugger off!", then realized that I am now regularly bombarded with these kinds of intrusive, Jewish-motherly suggestions.

The sanctimonious, and successful, proselytizing of child-rearing seems to be raging through Manhattan, sending gay and straight alike rushing pell-mell to road-test their fallopian tubes or adopt the disadvantaged. The goal seems to be some kind of unspecified personal fulfillment.

In my childhood, people either had kids or they didn't; nobody fetishized the act of procreation. Having kids was not seen as anything other than a by-product of "a bit of slap-and-tickle." Unmarried aunties with hairy top lips and confirmed bachelors with porcelain collections didn't have kids, and it would have been considered downright unsavory even to suggest that they try.

When well-wishers and acquaintances suggest that I would make a great parent, it inclines me to adopt marginal behaviors–wearing a feather boa, or daubing rouge on my ear lobes–in order to look manifestly unsuitable for the role. This would enable me to get back to the important tasks at hand: plucking Liberace's eyebrows and rubbing Kiehl's creme de corps (4 oz.: $14.50 at Barneys) into his paws.

So if you would rather have a dog than a baby, don't feel guilty. California researchers have shown beyond a shadow of a doubt that people with pets are much happier than people with children. Dog owners live longer and are clinically proven to be less burdensome to those around them than dogless folk. And choosing a dog is such a gas, especially if you pick one with an insane name.

Cesky Fouseks are hot, as are Arubian Cunucus; Strellufstovers and Krasky Ovcars are very entre deux mers . Jack Russells are a bit 1995–and they have a scary Charles Manson side to them. I'm on the fence about Xoloitzcuintles and totally confused about Norrbottenspets, so I decided to consult Sweetie, Elle magazine's canine fashion columnist and four-legged fashionista. If she didn't know which breed is the Helmut Lang or Prada of dogs, then who in tarnation would?

I invited Sweetie over for an ostensible play date with Liberace, my real goal being to pump the bitch for critical style information. She arrived accompanied by her channeler and escort, writer Mark Welsh.

"What is the trendiest dog at the moment? How about an Aryan Molossus?" I asked Mr. Welsh innocently enough. Sweetie's top lip retracted and so did his.

"Aryan Molossus! Hairyan nation!" said Mr. Welsh. "Listen, poncy bastards like you with too much disposable income–you're only interested in status dogs and you make me sick. Bulemic bichon frisees, dim-witted dandi dinmonts and wimbly wind-ups–you're trying to make the dog world as sick and pathetic as the fashion world. Sweetie's a mutt and proud of it."

I tried to diffuse Sweetie's Cujo-esque rage with a liver treat. Sweetie responded by growling, while Mr. Welsh told me that the North Shore Animal League (for which Sweetie is the spokeswoman) currently has in its custody "plenty of small nelly dogs suitable for apartment owners. There's adorable little Spice, and Biscuit, he's a cutie. Oh, and Butterscotch, and Frosty and.… October is National Adopt-a-Shelter-Dog month. Call 516-883-7900 and ask for extension 254. And one more thing", said Mr. Welsh, poised to make his strongest argument yet: "Gisele Bundchen is a mutt–German, Latin and quelque chose d'autre . I rest my case."

Meanwhile, the feisty fashionista Sweetie concluded her visit by shoving Liberace off his Versace pillow. Then, in a Myra Breckinridge-esque role reversal, she grabbed his pure-bred torso between her front paws, humped his head briefly and was gone.

You are cultivating a more polished look for fall, and you're loving your new edgy lady-like chic–but wait … what's that horrible smell? It's you! You persist in wearing that tired old hippie fragrance. You can't go around smelling like Janis Joplin's armpits.

Run immediately to your Yves Saint Laurent counter and purchase Rive Gauche. "The Rive Gauche woman never ceases to attract, surprise and fascinate her admirers," or so claims the audacious press material. But this tough fragrance is far more than catnip–it's the accessory du jour.

This 29-year-old fragrance was created at the height of the YSL revolution, when Yves was designing safari suits with grommeted belts and buccaneer lacing and selling them in boutiques that were a symphony of brutalist chrome. If you remember this incredible moment, then relive it. If you don't, then embrace it for the premier fois .

The blue, silver and black packaging is still the hippest thing going–and even if you don't like the smell, the metal eau-de-toilette vaporisateur (3.3 oz., $53) makes an extremely groovy bathroom accessory.

You're allergic to your own apartment–it's like an interior-decorating version of lupus. But you're too pathetic to redecorate. Buy a fantastic new light fixture for the center of the room. A + J 20th Century Designs, at 255 Lafayette Street, has a gorgeous Lotus light for $295–it's 20 inches wide and 12 inches tall. Choose from white, yellow and red and hang it low, low, low.

Speaking of non-procreating, feather-boa-wearing, marginalized freaks: Adela Quebec's The Girls of Radcliff Hall has finally been published (Asphodel Editions, $50.) Written by one Lord Berners, and originally printed for private circulation only in the late 1930's, this waspish roman à clef purports to describe the antics of a snotty girls' public school. The truth is that this book is really a teasing exposé of the most exquisite poseurs of the day: Every rosy-cheeked gal is really one of his lordship's effete male pals, who just happen to have been the most creative people of the time. Cecily is Cecil Beaton, Olive is really Oliver Messel and Daisy is the notorious aristocrat David Herbert (who, incidentally, is reputed to have spent his sunset years on the beach in Tangier wearing nothing but a colostomy bag and a toupée). Bon appétit !