“I have only one thing to say,” said the actor Mickey Rourke at the Box on Sunday, Feb. 24. “I was just excited that Daniel Day-Lewis won.”
Mr. Rourke, sporting long blond locks pulled back, and the actress Annabella Sciorra were among the few famous names at the Lower East Side burlesque nightclub’s Oscar party, which featured a guy in a fat suit and a mesmerizing huge fake erection doing back and front flips; three singer-dancers with canes, wearing spectator shoes and knee-high argyle socks; and a half-dozen girls wearing ruffled panties under baby doll nighties, which they later removed.
The M.C. of the evening was comedian and actor Paul Mooney, 68, a former writer for Richard Pryor, Redd Foxx and In Living Color.
Two years ago, after the comedian’s Michael Richards’ crazy racist meltdown, Mr. Mooney went on CNN to announce that he was going to stop using the N-word and on a BET special, suggested that instead of saying “‘What’s up, my n*gga, say ‘What’s up, my Michael Richards’!”
Tonight, Mr. Mooney was trying to raise funds for the Only Make Believe children’s charity founded by playwright Dena Hammerstein, mother of Simon Hammerstein (owner of the Box and grandson of Oscar Hammerstein, the only person ever named Oscar to ever win an Academy Award, for Best Original Song in 1941 for “The Last Time I Saw Paris” and again in 1945 for “It Might As Well Be Spring”).
“Mickey? Mickey! Hello,” Mr. Mooney called into the glamorous, inattentive crowd. “You know, the last time we talked? Hollywood Boulevard, at the bus stop. You were catching the bus, don’t you remember? … Ladies and gentlemen, give him a big round of applause. Brilliant actor, brilliant, brilliant, brilliant. One of my favorites. Underrated because he can act his ass off.”
Later, Mr. Mooney welcomed the Transom to his table in the corner. “He was the best but he’s changed physically,” he said of Mr. Rourke. “I don’t even know if it’s him.”
Harrison Ford was on the big screen announcing the nominees for best screenplay.
“I know him, we used to collect unemployment together,” Mr. Mooney said. “Julie Christie, I used to hang out with her. She was friends with Richard Pryor, and Warren Beatty and all of them. There was a club in Beverly Hills called the Candy Store, a private club. I used to hang out with them all. There’s a list of them that I used to hang out with: Jane Fonda, Lana Turner, Elizabeth Taylor, I could go on and on. And, oh yeah, Ava Gardner.”
An Ava story, please?
“Yes, I asked her why didn’t she write a book about Frank Sinatra? She said she didn’t kiss and tell. Here’s a better story: Sinatra was really upset with Mia Farrow, who was a big star on Peyton Place but she couldn’t get out of her contract, and she worked all the time. And I told her I said, ‘Start dating me: They’ll fire you.’ That’s a true story. And she did Rosemary’s Baby, she used to have that blond hair down to her butt. Frank called the studio, he didn’t want her to do it”—cut her hair—“and she did it for her career. That’s what broke them up. Because he loved her hair.”
O.K., non sequitur! Who’s the biggest slut in Hollywood?
“Oh, she’s dead. Marilyn Monroe. She’s been dead for 45 years. When you can sell pussy from the grave, you’re the baddest ho ever walked the Earth.”