President Clinton.

Wednesday, October 5

Walk It Off

El Camino de Santiago is an ancient religious pilgrimage that for centuries has led Christians to a cathedral in northwestern Spain. It’s said to be the final resting place of Saint James. It’s also the subject of a new film, The Way, starring Martin Sheen and kin, Emilio Estevez (what, they couldn’t get Charlie Sheen?), as, what else, a father-son duo. But tragedy strikes! Mr. Estevez—who also directed the film—plays a character who gets caught in a Pyrenees storm, and his father has to come to Galicia to collect his remains. The film premieres Wednesday at the School of the Visual Arts, in conjunction with the Walkabout Foundation, a nonprofit devoted to donating wheelchairs around the world. As far as religious pilgrimages go, the one from the screening to the after-party, at the Mondrian Soho’s Imperial No. Nine, is decidedly less treacherous, even if you take the subway. If you survive, the late-night bash is sure to impress, with the likes of Ivanka Trump, Mike Myers, Christy Turlington Burns and Chris Pine joining keynote speaker Bill Clinton in the fund-raising. With all these saints of entertainment involved, let’s hope things get ecstatic!

An evening to celebrate the Walkabout Foundation: 7:30 p.m., screening at the School of Visual Arts, 333 West 23rd Street (between Eighth and Ninth avenues); 11 p.m., after-party at Imperial No. Nine at Mondrian SoHo, 9 Crosby Street (between Howard and Grand streets). Tickets available at www.walkaboutfoundation.org. $300 for cocktails, screening and after-party, $125 for after party.

Thursday, October 6

Pretty in Pink

Polo Guru Ralph Lauren showed his spring/summer 2012 collection on the last day of New York Fashion Week, as he often does, and brought to the runway a shimmering bunch of looks that came off as resolutely American, rooted deep in the mythos of the Roaring ’20s. It was lovely. One thing missing, though? There wasn’t that much of the color pink in there. Some airy peach tones, splashes of silver and burnt-gold beige, but none of that soft feminine hue. The brand is more than making up for that with the party for the 2011 Lauren Pink collection, which goes down Thursday night at Lord & Taylor. The event, co-hosted with Glamour, will allow visitors some choice deals on threads, as well as trays of cocktails and hors d’oeuvres (of course). And it being fall, there’s a cause to benefit from all the haute shopping. The Polo Ralph Lauren Foundation’s Pink Pony Fund—a global effort to fight the effects of cancer—will receive 10 percent of all the proceeds, and additional donations will earn you a big pink balloon. So head over to Lord & Taylor to shop, sip bubbly and maybe indulge in some casual helium intake, all for a good cause.

The Fall 2011 Lauren Pink Collection, 6 p.m.-8 p.m., Lord & Taylor, 424 Fifth Avenue, fifth floor; invitation only.

Friday, October 7

Pistols and Portraits

Last summer, a new spot in the meatpacking district had the cute idea of repurposing the grit and grime of ’80s East Village to the city’s most notoriously bottles ’n’ models hood. It’s called Gunbar, and though it’s got stickers and neon all over the place (and maybe there’s a dirty corner or two), it comes off more like an exhibition on The Dive Bar set to open at the Met in 2200. For its next trick, Gunbar will open a show by street artist and graffiti maven Aliosha Daumerie—or, to use his nom de tag, Senz—who has spent time terrorizing blank city spaces here and in Paris, as well as in conjunction with agnes b. and Alice+Olivia. Will all this be enough to justify $14 cocktails? Or the mini tattoo parlor, set up for the truly dedicated scene rats? There is a certain excitement in Senz’s unhinged take on street art. But maybe you should take the broke-artist route and pregame the thing before with a brownbagged bottle of Wild Irish Rose.

Aljosa Daumerie a.k.a. Senz at Gunbar, 9 p.m.–late, 55 Gansevoort Street (Ninth Avenue), (646) 427-0457, www.gunbarnyc.com.

Saturday, October 8

Fasting? Nyet Anymore

This Saturday, the city’s Jewish population will spend the daylight hours trying desperately to distract themselves from the aromas, textures and imagined pleasures of New York’s culinary offerings. It’s Yom Kippur, which means no food or beverage from sundown Friday until sundown Saturday. O.K., yeah, it’s only one day, but things get pretty rough around Saturday afternoon, when one begins to aimlessly stare out the window waiting for darkness, sugar levels low, stomach rumbling, no end in sight. Oh, and all your goy friends are gloating over Twitter and Gchat about the huge sandwich they just ate, accompanied by a beer, and then another beer, and then ... Right. And then you shut your laptop and weep. The silver lining of this otherwise cruel day of starvation? The epic guilt-free gluttony of the break-the-fast meal. The Russian Tea Room, that old-timey vodka den on West 57th Street, is hosting one hell of a feast Saturday night after the sunlight washes away. End your noneating streak with borscht, chicken liver, and zakuski­—“a tasting of latkes, smoked fish and leak, and potato blini with red caviar.” Um, yes, please. Follow that up with lamb stew and fried chicken. Then polish that off with what can only be some world-class kugel. After all that, you’ll want to fast Sunday, too.

Sundown, the Russian Tea Room, 150 West 57th Street, (212) 581-7100, www.russiantearoomnyc.com; prices vary.

Sunday, October 9

Lemony Fresh

In 1992, the Lemonheads released their fifth and best album, It’s a Shame About Ray, a near-perfect collection of sunny pop that made lead singer Evan Dando’s drug problems sound like a walk through a park holding the hand of a nice, flannel-clad girl. How many bands can do that now? Not many, but if you want to see the real thing go down, head over to the Bowery Ballroom, where the reunited band will play the album in its entirety. No doubt the crowd will clap along to “Kitchen,” follow Mr. Dando’s hard yelps on “Alison’s Starting to Happen,” and thank the lord that the singer survived his addiction to crack cocaine when he breaks out “My Drug Buddy,” the best song about scoring since Lou Reed was waiting for his man. With luck, they’ll even run through the album’s two pitch-perfect covers, the radio-hit version of “Mrs. Robinson” and the heartbreaking “Frank Mills,” from Hair. Yes, yes, we really like the Lemonheads. But how can you not? And it’s not like Nirvana’s playing Nevermind in its entirety this year so, grunge fans, this might be your best bet.

The Lemonheads performing It’s A Shame About Ray, doors open 7 p.m., show at 8 p.m., the Bowery Ballroom, 6 Delancey Street, www.boweryballroom.com; $22 advance, $25 day of show.

Monday, October 10

Titanic Mechanics

James Cameron’s been the self-proclaimed “king of the world” going on 13 years now, but it can’t hurt the guy’s ego to hand over another award every year or so. On Monday, he’ll head to Hearst Tower to pick up the Popular Mechanics Breakthrough Leadership Award, for his innovative camera technology that made immeasurable leaps in the art of filmmaking (to put things in Cameron-ian hyperbolic terms). Remember when he dunked a camera underwater to find some rotting ship, and then made a movie about that? Or the time this Austrian-accented robot came from the future to kill the savior of mankind? Or the time astronauts discovered some crazy planet with dinosaurs and skyscraper-size moving plants and … O.K., we’re still a little hazy about what Avatar was about. Being honored with slightly less fanfare than Mr. Cameron will be the team from NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory that built the Mars rover, the scientists who pioneered innovation that helped a paralyzed man move his legs voluntarily, and a team of doctors who developed universally compatible blood vessels for surgery. Mr. Cameron, though, is the undisputed headliner.

Popular Mechanics Breakthrough Awards, Hearst Tower, 300 West 57th Street, 959 Eighth Avenue, 8 p.m.;
invitation only.

Tuesday, October 11

Katie Couric Says, ‘Wear Sunscreen’

With her new daytime talk show, Katie, not set to air until fall 2012, ABC News correspondent Katie Couric has taken up charity function duties with enthusiasm, appearing at film premieres, benefits and other events all around town. Next Tuesday, she’ll helm the Skin Cancer Foundation’s Annual Skin Sense Award Gala, a bash at the Plaza to raise funds and awareness for the disease. Summer might be over, but the hot rays can still come through the clouds, no doubt, and Ms. Couric will be the one to remind everyone that you can never be too careful. Can we be so bold as to predict a certain S.P.F.-rated skin balm might be in the goodie bags at the end of the night? We don’t want to be presumptuous. Either way, attendees will get to mingle over cocktails with the likes of Julia Stiles, Gretchen Mol and Tony Sirico, who will forever be known as Paulie Walnuts from The Sopranos. If Paulie tells us to lather on the S.P.F.-50, we’ll listen, that’s for sure.

The Skin Cancer Foundation’s Annual Skin Sense Award Gala, 6:30-7:30 p.m. Step and Repeat/Entrances, 8 p.m. dinner, the Plaza, Central Park South, (212) 759-3000. Tickets, which start at $1,750, are available at http://www.skincancer.org/Events/.

Wednesday, October 12

Va-Va-Valentino!

For someone as worshipped and reclusive as Valentino—Italy’s most revered living designer—it seems the guy is all over the place these days. We had the otherworldly experience of watching the man walk up the Lincoln Center steps to the tents during Fashion Week, as a mob of onlookers darted toward him, hoping for a picture, before he was whisked to the front row of the Diane von Furstenberg show. And once he arrived there, few other people in attendance mattered. Then, a few nights later, he showed up at the once-ratty former strip club Westway to sign karaoke with Carine Roitfeld. He went with “My Way,” if you haven’t heard yet. Then it was off to Europe for the next three rounds of spring/summer collections—including his own in Paris—but the parties in his honor continue in New York. Last week saw a kick-off luncheon at the Valentino boutique that served as a preamble to the real party: a blow-out at the Four Seasons next Wednesday held in conjunction with the Museum of the City of New York and Graff. The New York After Dark party is always a good one, so try not to miss out. Unless you’re stuck in Italy, that is.

Museum of the City of New York Director’s Council, New York After Dark, Four Seasons Restaurant, 99 East 52nd Street. Tickets from $250.00. Contact: Stephen Diefenderfer, (917) 492-3326, www.mcny.org.

The documentary, narrated by Martin Sheen, argues that economic imperialism is the cause of widespread poverty in the Southern Hemisphere. According to the film, international economic policymakers at the IMF and World Bank ransom the natural resources of poorer countries, using coercive loans and crushing debt. At the same time, “structural violence” left over from colonialism has rendered these nations helpless, passive witnesses to their own despoliation.

In describing 500 years of the West’s unalloyed villainy, the film turns to a long roster of experts—from Nobel prize winner Amartya Sen to John Perkins, author of Confessions of an Economic Hit Man. The documentary alternates these experts with impoverished people from places like Brazil, Kenya, and Tanzania, who tell their stories of hardship. The film seems to be at pains to give equal billing to experts and ordinary people. But when spliced into the film’s lengthy discussion of the historical roots of inequality, these present-day narratives feel slightly out of place.

The movie’s title, a reference to Columbia economist Jeffrey Sachs’ 2006 bestseller, The End of Poverty, is not meant as an homage. With its provocative question mark, “The End of Poverty?” is intended as a rebuttal of Mr. Sachs’ prescription for alleviating poverty through mosquito nets and fertilizer. “Of course, I have nothing against mosquito nets and fertilizer, but for the fact that we tried that for the last 100 years, and it didn’t change anything. In fact, it became worse,” the film’s director, Phillipe Diaz, said after the screening.

The director’s real target is neoliberal economic policy, championed by Mr. Sachs in the 80s and 90s, which promotes privatization and globalization. In particular, Mr. Diaz is hostile to the idea that natural resources can be owned by a corporation—one of the film’s experts, Clifford Cobb, advocates a return of “the commons,” an ethos of shared ownership. In this, the movie echoes the ideas of the 19th-century economist Henry George; the documentary was financed by the Robert Schalkenbach Foundation, which promotes George’s philosophy.

In an interview with The Observer, Mr. Diaz pointed out that the foundation allowed him complete editorial freedom. “I told them right away, if they want me to make a movie on the ideas of Henry George, I’m not the right person,” Mr. Diaz said, although he acknowledged the influence of George’s ideas on his own thinking about private property.

Despite its title, the film is short on prescriptions for improving the situation. Mr. Diaz suggests that violent uprising is likely, but does not propose a system for the imagined revolutionaries to install in the place of late capitalism. One of his experts, Serge Latouche, suggests that the West submit to a diet of “de-growth,” in which Americans would work and consume less. But Mr. Latouche’s idea isn’t given much time in the film, leaving the specifics vague.

In a question and answer period after the film, the earnest East Village audience pressed Mr. Diaz on questions of doctrine. “There’s no reason to think that over-consumption is the problem, and you’re misleading people with that,” one irritated viewer complained. Another suggested that Mr. Diaz was preaching to the choir, and questioned whether he would be able to inspire real change with his film.

“We put ourselves in this situation,” Mr. Diaz said. “Our system is based on the resources of the South. Unless we can change that, we will arrive with this war over resources and this permanent terrorism.”

Isn’t it great when this show starts over from the beginning on Bravo? Don’t get us wrong, those later, Obama-forecasting episodes were fun, and who doesn’t love Alan Alda? But there’s absolutely nothing like those first few magical seasons of The West Wing when the show was under Aaron Sorkin's rule. Today brings us the pilot episode, introducing us to the fast-talking, fast-walking characters—each one unbelievably witty and flawed and totally lovable. (Except you, ill-fated and annoying Mandy character. Enjoy your single season!) The major plot points involve dimpled Josh (Bradley Whitford) getting in trouble with religious nutbags while Sam (Rob Lowe) mistakenly sleeps with a high-class call girl played by House’s Lisa Edelstein! God, this show is awesome. [Bravo, 8 and 9 a.m.]

Tuesday: Wonder Boys

It's always felt like this 2000 film, adapted from Michael Chabon’s novel, has been sorely underappreciated, when in fact it might feature our very favorite Michael Douglas performance. In Wonder Boys he plays constantly stoned professor Grady Tripp, who’s seven years late turning in his novel, having an affair with married Francis McDormand, and a flirtation with a so-cute-it-will-make-you-break Katie Holmes. Robert Downey Jr. and Tobey Maguire are both excellent (as Grady’s editor and student) and the whole film gets more and more bananas as it goes. And yet, sweet! L.A. Confidential’s Curtis Hanson directs. [AMC, 11:30]

Wednesday: Brideshead Revisited

Do you happen to love period dramas set in England where class is a big deal and the men are irresistibly rakish and dreamy in a totally repressed way? If so, do we have a movie for you! Based on the 1945 Evelyn Waugh novel (and daring to retread on the holy ground of the very popular 1981 miniseries), the film follows young Charles Ryder (Matthew Goode) who goes to Oxford and befriends the flaming homosexual and alcoholic Sebastian, and ends up falling in love with Sebastian’s entire family. The cinematography is worth taking a look at, and Mr. Goode will make you forget all about that Watchmen movie. [Starz, 7:40 a.m.]

Thursday: Stealing Beauty

If there was ever a movie that’ll make you wish with all your might to immediately get to a Tuscan villa, this might be it. Directed by the great Bernardo Bertolucci in 1996, Stealing Beauty stars Liv Tyler as a coltish and virginal American who goes to the lush and lovely Italian countryside to stay with family friends of her mother, who recently committed suicide. We quickly learn that she’s looking for clues as to who might be her father, and also for the local boy she kissed four years earlier. Jeremy Irons, Rachel Weisz and Joseph Fiennes all co-star; the movie can brag about its great use of Hole in the soundtrack; and we can promise it will have you fantasizing about taking a roll in some olive fields. [FMC, 12:30 a.m.]

Friday: Wimbledon: Men’s Semifinals

Here's a question: Is it possible that we’re having more rain than England? It’s hard to see into the future and guess who might be in today’s match, but we’re guessing his name will rhyme with Poger Pederer. It’s a bummer that Rafael Nadal is out, but fun to think who might be up to challenge the mighty Swiss. Andy Roddick? The Scottish guy? We’re rooting for him (Andy Murray) if only because then the Queen will come to the finals—she hasn’t been since 1977. Every day we miss Björn Borg. [NBC, 12 p.m.]

And now that Paris Hilton once again has a TV show to promote, her fake campaign is marching on.  Above, we have another video from Funnyordie.com featuring Ms. Hilton. For this one, she enlisted the help of America's favorite fake president, Martin Sheen, who played President Jed Bartlet on The West Wing (in a call to Ryan Seacrest to inform the world of the video's existence, Ms. Hilton claimed that Mr. Sheen participated in the video because she happened to be "having a party in her gated Hollywood Hills home last week, which is just up the street from Charlie Sheen's house").

The video features Ms. Hilton, who we think looks like a young Cindy McCain, soliciting advice from Mr. Sheen. "Being a fake president is a lot harder today than it was when I was a fake president," he says. "My fake administration started before the country took some hits. It was the go-go 90's. People invested in a website that sold dogfood because a puppet told 'em to do it." 

"Nowadays, soundbites, not sound policies, determine our country's course," Ms. Hilton responds before revealing our new favorite coinage, "FoPo" (short for "foreign policy"). 

Another highlight: "This is the greatest depression since The Notebook."

Bidding Mr. Sheen goodnight, Ms. Hilton concludes, "America was at its best when it was on NBC." Indeed. 

[Via LATimes.com]

Man of the Year stars Robin Williams as a comedian who accidentally becomes President. Mr. Williams wasn’t doing press.

“Al Franken’s running for office in Minnesota,” said Mr. Williams. This was his film’s post-premiere dinner, which was hosted by its director, Barry Levinson, at the Upper East Side eatery Amaranth. “But they already had a wrestler, so what the hell? At least Al is a comedian who I think gets the big picture.”

“Comedians already play a huge role in politics today,” said co-star Laura Linney. “I mean, look at Jon Stewart!”

Mr. Williams said that—when taking into account intentionality—Lyndon B. Johnson was surely the funniest President in recent times. He told that story about when old Landslide Lyndon took some of his aides around a barn to point out a little bird bathing in a little pond. “He pointed at the bird and said”—cue Mork’s best Johnson voice—“‘Boys, that’s the best piece of ass we’re gonna see in Texas.’

“So I think he clearly had a sense of humor,” Mr. Williams said.

“I think Tony Blair is inspiring,” said Mr. Williams. “When he speaks I’m like, ‘Oh, why can’t we have that?!’ But he’s not here. He’s what you’d call ‘Across the Atlantic.’”

“I think we’ve already had a couple comedians in office,” said Richard Belzer. “Ronald Reagan pretty much wrote all my material for about eight years.”

“People are ready for anything right now, they’re just so disillusioned and exhausted,” he said. “I don’t know, maybe a funny, gay black woman would do the trick.”

Mr. Belzer clarified that he was by no means referring to Condoleezza Rice.

—Spencer Morgan

On Booty

“It never gets wild at these parties,” said Zadie Smith. “It’s just a bunch of writers, you know.”

Yes, the New Yorker Festival opening party at Supper Club was chock-a-block with writers—but there were also editors! Oh, and a bunch of actors—including Steve Martin, Mary-Louise Parker and Patricia Clarkson.

Ms. Smith herself appeared more like a movie star than a writer. She is tall and graceful. Her hair was pulled back in a bun and she wore a navy wrap dress with a sparking clasp and tiger-print pumps. She said she wasn’t working on anything much at the moment. The only news she had to share was that she and poet-hubby Nick Laird are planning to move to Rome this fall for a year.

“I’ve come to this party every year for the last six years,” she said. “It’s always pretty much the same, but I always look forward to it because I get to see my friends and fellow writers, like Donald.”

The Transom had stealthily sidled up between Ms. Smith and New Yorker writer Donald Antrim.

“Stick around,” advised Mr. Antrim. “These things sometimes break down a little.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” said T. C. Boyle. “Look, there’s my friend Toby Wolff, the greatest master of the short story working today.”

“This is the only time of year I ever get to see my friend Tom McGuane. He lives out in Montana now,” said Tobias Wolff. “It used to be writers all lived in New York. Now they live all over.”

(The party was also a reunion of sorts for the writers’ children: The daughters of Mr. Wolff, Mr. Boyle, acclaimed short-story writer George Saunders and novelist Andrea Lee created a formidable foursome.)

Mr. Wolff said there used to be many more magazines that trafficked in short fiction, and, therefore, many more parties. “Now you can hardly make a living on short stories.”

“It’s true,” said short-story writer Charles D’Ambrosio, sitting nearby. “That’s partly why I started on a novel.”

The bar closed at 2 a.m., but it took announcements from the bouncers to help put an end to the reminiscing.

Mr. D’Ambrosio, along with some of the staffers, headed over to the nightclub T, where D.J. Michael Mayer and the New Yorker pop-music writer Sasha Frere-Jones were hosting “a night of minimal techno and house music.”

The dance floor resembled a high-school prom more than a club, remarked one observer, who was twirling cigarettes in lieu of glow sticks.

Mr. Frere-Jones said he’d recruited Mr. Mayer because “I knew he would rock it out.”

Was the dance-party dance floor rockin’ out? Were people shaking that ….

“No comment,” said Mr. Frere-Jones.

—S.M.

Tony, Tony, Tony

On Friday night, moviegoers at the Film Forum were treated to the subject of the documentary Wrestling with Angels, playwright Tony Kushner.

They had some questions, and the first one was a toughie: Did Mr. Kushner believe in the existence of God?

“Whether or not God exists is not a Jewish question, it’s a goyish question,” he said, quoting a rabbi. “No, but basically I’m a secular—small “d” and capital “d”—Democrat.”

He went on to express himself on such issues as the end of the world and his battles with weight. Mr. Kushner, it seemed, was a big, lanky, friendly open book. Only don’t ask him to a watch the replay.

“There was no shaping. I still haven’t really seen a frame of the film,” said Mr. Kushner when asked about his part in making the film. “The only thing I said at the beginning was that I may never see the movie and you have to be O.K. with that.”

Mr. Kushner trusted Freida Lee Mock and her camera to follow him around for three years—including on a trip to his hometown, and during his wedding to Mark Harris.

“I have no problem talking about myself, I just hate watching myself. I’ve always hated watching myself,” he said as he made his way toward the exit through a throng of adoring fans armed with books and DVD’s for him to sign.

“But I’ve been very pleased with how the film has been received,” said Mr. Kushner. The film received mostly positive reviews, all of which have noted how Mr. Kushner, now 50, comes off as a real mensch. “I’ll probably see it soon, I’ve just been busy.”

Mr. Kushner’s partner Mark Harris tells a different story. “He’s protecting himself from insecurity. He wants to protect his creative process. I think that’s understandable.”

Mr. Harris said that at one point he and Mr. Kushner’s niece were watching the film on DVD at their home when Mr. Kushner walked in the door. “We quickly turned it off and he sort of ran off into the next room,” said Mr. Harris. He is an entertainment writer and makes several appearances in the film.

Not surprisingly, Mr. Kushner was not sticking around for the cast and crew screening, which was to take place after the Q&A. “I probably would, but I have another engagement.”

Uh huh, sure. “I told him he absolutely can’t see the movie at this point—or for a little while, at least,” said Ms. Mock. A certain burgeoning press intrigue has begun to circulate around Mr. Kushner’s shyness. “It’s like, ‘Is Franco dead?’, you know.”

—S.M.

Palatable Torture

The Transom is pro on celebrities—and totally con on torture! But it likes hearing about celebrities, and totally doesn’t like hearing about torture!

Fortunately, Kerry Kennedy Cuomo has resolved this long-standing conflict.

To promote Speak Truth to Power: Voices from Beyond the Dark, a play by Ariel Dorfman based on Ms. Cuomo’s book—it’s about Good Works!—they paired do-gooders and famous people. Ta-da!

Ms. Cuomo was with—eek!—Lorraine Bracco, and understood The Transom’s pain. That’s why she had the idea for the play, obvs. “’Cause they think, ‘Uh God, I don’t want to hear about torture, and I don’t want to hear about death squads and everything else.’ And I’d get this feeling like there was a terrible disconnect, because I just draw so much inspiration and energy from the tremendous courage and heroism of these human beings.”

Friends were made! “ Mucho gusto,” said Matthew Modine, reaching across the table to pump the hand of Lucas Benítez. Mr. Benítez is a farm worker and co-founder of the Coalition of Immokalee Workers, which has helped lead the fight against abuse of immigrant workers in southwest Florida.

“Oh, si, si, mucho gusto,” replied Mr. Benítez.

Bobby Muller—Nobel Prize winner, hates landmines!—was partnered with Martin Sheen. “It’s become a very necessary part of any advocacy effort to basically get celebrity endorsements,” Mr. Muller said. We can’t hear you—there’s Martin Sheen!

Mr. Sheen was seated close to a half-open door, sneaking a cigarette. Lately, he’s been trying to quit again. Mr. Sheen said that the Democrats were “a bunch of sissies.”

Mr. Sheen recently started college. In Ireland! Studying “computers and oceanography” and stuff!

“I lived in Ireland for the last six weeks, so I’m seeing from a totally different perspective what’s happening to the United States,” he said. “They love us over there, but they can’t bear what’s happened to us.”

Mr. Sheen said the Irish are particularly fond of the Kennedys, which is why he got time off to come over.

Yoo-hoo, Christian Slater! This was like a celebrity version of the Home Shopping Network! “We’re a great country and it feels like something’s being taken away,” Mr. Slater said, running his hand through his hair and flexing his eyebrows. “There’s a lot of confusion, a lot of fear, a lot of choices that have been made that quite possibly might not have been the highest choice.” He took a breath. “That might not have served everyone in the best possible way. We may be experiencing things, choices being made on what seemingly is a greed level.”

Sitting next to him was his “partner,” Ka Hsaw Wa, who in 1988 led peaceful student demonstrations in Rangoon, Burma, calling for human rights, democracy and an end to military rule. He was captured and tortured. Upon his release, he fled the country—only to return clandestinely and interview witnesses and victims in order to document the atrocities. “We’re grateful to these actors for bringing to international attention, to American attention, what’s happening in the world.”

But was he in Heathers? Nope!

Mr. Slater says that now is the time for action. “I haven’t really been sleeping well at night knowing the choices that have been being made and the direction we’re going in. I don’t want to go to war any more. I don’t want to go to war with Iran and fight another. You know it’s a frickin’ mess and if we don’t do something about it soon it’ll be too late.”

—S.M.

The Transom Also Hears ….

It was high drama as usual at Los Angeles celebrity ant farm Hyde when Lindsay Lohan arrived at around 1 a.m. Friday. According to a clubgoer, Ms. Lohan looked “stunning, like she was in Oscar mode or something. Her hair was perfect and had obviously been done recently. She was wearing a really cute shift dress and heels.”

The source reports the starlet sashayed straight to the back of the room—not slowing even a teense to acknowledge her very recent ex, Harry Morton, who was in full canoodle with a mystery brunette.

“She obviously knew he was there making out with this other girl,” said the witness. “She didn’t make eye contact with him the whole night.”

On a more positive note from the West Coast, a very attentive member of the Malibu “neighborhood watch” has noticed a marked improvement in the appearance of Natasha Lyonne. The embattled actress has apparently been spending a lot of time in the area. “I saw her in Malibu like two months ago, and she looked like she was about to die,” reports the local. “She was all puffy and had scabs on her face. She looked like a bag lady and was bent over and talking to herself and generally making a spectacle of herself.” But on Saturday the source crossed paths with Ms. Lyonne, who was clothes-shopping at Madison, a high-end area boutique. “She looked sober. Maybe a little medicated, but sober. She looked much healthier. And she had on pretty normal clothes, too—you know, like, jeans and boots and a jacket. I was like, ‘Go Natasha.’”

—S.M.

Glancing out in the driveway-for reassurance-one could see Dad's Porsche (Arctic silver), Mom's Benz (the G500 S.U.V., in desert silver), Little Tommy's 18th-birthday BMW (a 325i, in titanium silver), Consuela's pick-up (the Nissan Frontier, in radiant silver) and the hybrid Toyota Prius (in millennium silver, offset by a navy blue "Dump Bush" bumper sticker), all shimmering in the golden California sunlight.

Yes, all was well in the immediate environs. We were at one with the world: in harmony with nature, and with the current prejudices of the valet attendants at Morton's, where they park the silver cars in front of the restaurant.

Still, there was something vexing in the air:

Damn! We'd given money to Howard Dean! Damn! Rob Reiner had gone to Iowa and campaigned for the man! Double damn! Martin Sheen, yes, Martin Sheen -he plays the President on TV, damn it-Martin Sheen himself had gone to Iowa for the candidate, and somehow-unbelievably-Dean didn't win by a landslide!

Damn, damn, damn. Between that howling concession speech, the fumble about what to do with Osama (turn him over to The Hague, damn it) and Dean's "interesting theory" that Bush knew about 9/11 beforehand (which, of course, he did), maybe the worst was true:

Howard Dean belongs to the Grassy Knoll Wing of the Democratic Party.

Damn, damn, damn. Why can't running for President be as simple as the Oscars, where Harvey Weinstein just picks the nominees? (In fact, we'd already put in our call to Armani for something to wear to the Cold Mountain Best Picture party).

And with this, the panic passed. For just as quickly as it took a CBS official to say "Sure, Michael, no problem-we'll give you an extra million for the music special if you'll do 60 Minutes ," we realized Dean would be O.K.

As the Internet sage Mickey Kaus points out, everything happens faster today. Spin cycles are compressed. There is no shame. There is no purgatory. Comebacks are all but instantaneous.

After all, wasn't it just a month ago-in mid-December-that we ran into Jayson Blair at the Bel Air Hotel, backslapping his way through the book party for Variety editor Peter Bart's Dangerous Company -not 10 feet away from Sherry Lansing, Michael Eisner, Bill Maher and Harvey Weinstein?

Damn right, it was Blair-with a book deal and a movie contract.

So, yes, there was still hope for Howard Dean. The road to redemption is about one block long today. It's proscribed and codified, and everyone knows their roles.

Luckily, we had the road map-which is reprinted here, in an easy-to-use, four-point, clip-'n'-save form:

THE MODERN MEDIA WASH, RINSE AND SPIN CYCLE

Step One: The Mea Culpa. The morning after you commit a career-ending gaffe-anything from insider trading to genocide-tell the world that you recognize your mistake and you're going to change. Soften your image. Put on a sweater. Stage a photo op with a child, a guitar or-in the worst-case scenario-paid supporters, carrying posters with sound-bite messages of adulation. You don't really have to change, of course. Or truly believe that you've done anything wrong. But the key here is to let Howard Rubenstein, or Dan Klores, or Bob Marston, put out the message that you have changed-and then let the pundits on the 24-hour news channels do the rest.

Step Two: Convene with the High Countesses of Contrition. By 10 a.m. on the day following your career-ending gaffe-or live-broadcast arraignment-you will have heard from both Diane Sawyer and Barbara Walters. (Yes, even after Babs has retired.) Don't be frightened. Because you are no longer just a struggling candidate, or a common criminal-you've been elevated to a higher role. You've become "The Get." The key is to remember that you hold the high cards here. You want a comeback. They want ratings-especially in retirement. So play 'em off against each other. Cut the best deal you can-questions in advance, topics that are off-limits; demand the Barbra Streisand lighting package, with Bill Clinton's fireplace roaring in the background. Your tone should be tense but contrite. And remember, it doesn't matter whether you're trying to influence voters or the jury pool: The goal here is to humanize you. Consider how Diane Sawyer might handle the following interview: "Tell me, Osama. How did you feel when you saw the planes crash into the towers?" Osama: "Diane …of course I felt for the people. I'm only human. But you have to understand the cause …. " If all else fails, you can drag in your abusive parents, racism, bipolar depression or drug addiction. And if none of this is applicable, blame the press, or arch right-wing conservatives, for everything.

Step Three. Turn Tragedy into Farce. Time for the obligatory stop at the Letterman show. You use it-and it uses you-to diffuse the situation and "put it behind you," by being a good sport and making fun of your own foibles. Osama, again: "The Top 10 Things to Do While Living in a Cave, Waiting for the Americans to Find You …. No. 7: Floss. No. 6: Edit those home videos. No. 5: Day-trade Halliburton on the New York Stock Exchange. No. 4: Piss Jack Valenti off and download the director's cut of Gigli . No. 3: Redecorate the cave. No. 2: Get to the 'expert' level on Microsoft Flight Simulator. And … No. 1: Add Dick Cheney and George Bush to your personal network on Friendster!"

Step Four: Schmooze with the Sinecure of Sufferance: Kick back, let your hair down and spend some quality time with Larry King. You're practically part of the family at this point-and here's where you let it all hang out and admit what you've learned from this awful experience. Larry King: "And we're back with Osama bin Laden-father, terrorist, one of the most hunted men on earth. So tell me, O-man: What's next for you?" Osama: "Well, Larry … I was thinking about going to Disneyland." Perfect.

Yes, sitting in Brentwood on the morning after Iowa, we knew Howard Dean would survive. He'd do the shows. He'd tell the jokes. He'd make the necessary course corrections. And short of coming in sixth-behind Dennis Kucinich-in New Hampshire, he'd be all right.

We love him. We believe in him. He's got the money-our money-to compete in all 50 states.

And with this in mind, we fired up a silver car and drove into town to have lunch at the Ivy, where we fell in line behind a dozen other silver cars, waiting for the car valet ….

…. All of us, dialing madly on cell phones, trying to find a Hollywood contact in the Kerry campaign.

Personally, my real concern here is with the North Koreans.

When I was in college, I was perhaps the only student at Boston University who subscribed to the official North Korean newspaper, the Pyongyang Times . Why? I loved the language. I adored then-Premier Kim Il Sung's rhetoric, which his son, current "Father of the Korean People" Kim Jong Il, has chosen to emulate. It was so outlandish-so over the top-that it makes Iraqi Minister of Information Mohammed Saeed al-Sahaf sound like a junior account executive on the Procter and Gamble business at Burson-Marsteller. To really understand what we're up against here, consider the missive I received from North Korea almost exactly 20 years ago this week:

"Loyal Comrade: As you know, today is May Day, the International Worker's holiday, a day set aside to mark the heroic struggles of the world-wide working class and all oppressed peoples against the vicious, colonialist, international rule of capitalists, their cartels, and their imperialist strategies, designed to plunder workers and peasants, and crush all peace-loving peoples. Against the brazen-faced U.S. imperialists, and the hordes of mangy and rabid running dogs and stooges they have enlisted in their world-wide fascist assault on the People, only the glorious revolutionary leadership of Marshall Kim Il Sung, the ever-victorious, iron-willed, brilliant commander and loving father of the 40 million Korean people, can inspire the workers of the world to rise up, and gouge the aggressor with victorious hammer-blows that will utterly destroy the enemy.

"Remember: There is no illness in Korea, because the self-reliant philosophy of Juche destroys the death-dealing squalor of capitalism. There is no tooth decay, because Korean children are not forced to subsist on the chemical and sugar saturated offerings of the Coca-Cola monopoly. Unable to obtain a decent diet, American children are instead forced to brush their teeth with vile pastes, rather than eat nourishing, collectively-grown food, which would give them strong bodies, and healthy teeth."

Somehow, I suspect that it's not a terribly good idea to trust these people with sharp instruments, let alone nukes. Or, as Mohammed Saeed al-Sahaf said so eloquently: "I now inform you that you are too far from reality."

In other news, your diarist remains as appalled as ever by the current crop of American politicians. First there's Pennsylvania Republican Senator Rick ("I have no problem with homosexuality, I have a problem with homosexual acts") Santorum, who doesn't want to put cops on the street, but rather in our bedrooms. It's not enough to say that this man-Trent Lott redux-must go, or at least be stripped of any power in the Senate. The fact that he shot himself in the foot like this only indicates, sadly for us, that he didn't aim high enough.

On a somewhat more benign note, I received my first invitation for a 2004 Presidential fund-raiser, from Howard Dean's campaign. At this point in the race among Democrats, I know little about the former Vermont governor beyond his opposition to the war, and his recent musings as to whether the Iraqis are now better off then they were under Saddam Hussein. But as I glanced down at the invitation, I began to get that old sinking feeling, as I discovered, first, Martin Sheen's name among the sponsors, and then, lower on the page, check-off boxes requesting either $250 for the "General Reception," or $1,000 for the "V.I.P. Reception," running in the same room, at almost the same time. How very, very swell-Hollywood faux populism at its finest. To paraphrase Robert Frost: Something there is that doesn't love a velvet rope. And, from my point of view, something there is that makes it unseemly, and disingenuous, for supposedly populist Democratic candidates.

Thinking about this, I was reminded of a recent interview the Democratic candidate John Edwards gave to the Atlanta Journal-Constitution , wherein he explained how he found his calling in politics, and how the desire for "respect" will be the cornerstone of this candidacy:

"Our family went to a fancy restaurant one Sunday after church. I was still looking at the menu, when my father announced that we had to leave. Everything cost too much. At the time, I was young and embarrassed. But it shaped the way I look at the world. Why does somebody who works in a mill 40 hours a week get less respect than someone who was born into a rich family? That's an outrage. And it's a lot of what drove me after that. Growing up … I would think, 'Wait a minute. We can compete with anybody, if we just get the chance.'"

On the face of it, I find it almost impossible to parse this statement, and find the linkage between "respect" and not being able to eat in fancy restaurants-let alone make sense of what seems to be his more troubling worldview, that only people who were born into rich families can afford them. Last I checked, America was still a meritocracy. Even Martin Sheen worked his way up from nothing. But on the other hand, if Mr. Edwards wants the government to start subsidizing lunches at Michael's or Le Cirque, he's certainly got my vote-so long as he starts by storming the velvet ropes at the next Howard Dean soirée.

Finally, I leave you this month with a short quiz. Question: What's the difference between Halliburton and Janeane Garofalo? Answer: Nothing-they're both profiteering from the war. Following up on her glib and insipid remarks on the new Bill Maher show-wherein Ms. Garofalo proffered that "Arabs are the new blacks"-she confided to The Washington Post that "I've taken my punches. But the positives have far outweighed the negatives," which include unsolicited speaking engagements, stand-up gigs and stage roles-along with finally making America Online's list of "Comedians to Watch." How very nice for Janeane: The anti-war movement was a good career move.

As for me, I remain your loyal diarist-with a deep suspicion that when Mohammed Saeed al-Sahaf said, "I now inform you that you are too far from reality," he wasn't so much deluded as a prophet ahead of his time.