Let's be a sapphic dinner party hosted by Susan Sontag and "mercilessly bullied" lover Annie Leibovitz

I'm the ivy slowly growing over the walls of the house while this debate takes place, covering, covering.

I'm the razor in Sontag's shirt pocket.

I'm the leather and vinyl.

I am a copy of Camille Paglia's "Sexual Personae" that someone has smuggled in and displayed in the guest bathroom.

I'm the bag of Doritos, Cool Ranch flavor AND the Friendship Sour Cream served right from the container.

I'm one of the many manques. I am the strict absence of area rugs. The fort!/da! of drapery free windows nevertheless hazed in cigarette smoke.

I’m the salt being passed to Laurie Anderson

I'm The Joy of Gay Sex with a flattering inscription from Edmund White sitting incongruously on a kitchen shelf between a copy of the The Perennial Political Palate by Bloodroot and a can of Dean & DeLuca branded lobster bisque.

I'm brining the moussaka

I'm an ancient ‘Joe’ Carstairs, Standard Oil heiress, wearing what she swears is Mercedes de Acosta's eye patch.

I'm Terry Castle, wallflower, mentally caricaturing the other guests.

I’m the tall, commanding David Byrne.

I don’t understand their style. Tell me more.

I'm Ashton Hawkins (invited himself) hitting on a Glorious Foods cater waiter (pissed he didn't get the Oscar and Annette de la Renta gig uptown) (Ashton is pissed he wasn't invited to Annette's party, as well.)

I’m the dildo cock hidden under the bed

I'm the three cases of chilled Dom Perignon sent as a gift to Annie from Richard Geoffroy that at the last minute Susan refuses to serve. "Too obvious, I will not be gauche caviar!"

I'm Lou Reed, imperiously stubbing out my cigarette in my half-eaten dinner, then thrusting it behind him without a glance, certain that a servant will remove it from my hand.

You bitches are good at this.

I'm Rita Mae Brown and I'm pissed that everybody here is being so goddamned snooty about my cat mysteries.

I'm David Rieff suddenly invading the Sapphic sanctum and rudely demanding my coke allowance.

I am Susan attempting to explain to Ms. Leibovitz that her smoking a cigar qualifies as camp only if she holds it like Groucho did without being aware of it.

I'm Mia Farrow and I just can't DO this tonight, okay? I mean, I told you I just couldn't do this, remember?

r14

Extra points for the Ashton Hawkins reference!

[quote]I’m the tall, commanding David Byrne.

I always thought David Byrne was very tall, but then I served him a drink at a club where I was bartending. I barely recognized him because he's not even 5'10".

I’m the monotonous drone of Robert Wilson’s voice.

I'm the distinct, alluring, sweet spicy smell of opium coming from the fire escape. Why, that's NOT YSL Opium.

I’m the punch bowl of clam dip.

Sometimes one does have to ‘femme up’ in order to earn one’s supper

I'm Susan's assistant, coming back from the store with cigarettes for Susan, Annie, Lou Reed, Gary Indiana and Jim Jarmusch. They each smoke different brands. When the assistant (who doesn't smoke) gets Jim's brand of choice wrong, Susan calls her a "fucking idiot."

[quote] Susan calls her a "fucking idiot."

But in an ironic way, of course.

I'm Fran Leibowitz, and rest assured that I have nothing to do with these pretentious twats.

I'm the crate of remaindered copies of THE VOLCANO LOVER, rescued from Barnes and Nobles and banished to a dark closet. Just pretend I don't exist.

I'm Cookie Mueller (who will never be invited back), bored out of my mind, shooting up in the bathroom.

Did Sontag bully Leibovitz or was that a joke?

[quote]Did Sontag bully Leibovitz or was that a joke?

Sontag bullied everybody, but especially Annie Leibovitz.

I'm the non-artist/non-celebrity being ignored. At least I'll get a good article out of this nightmare dinner party.

I’m Camille. I am not invited

I'm the lipstick-lesbian portrait that Annie took of Jodie Foster in a slinky red dress, in Malibu, in 1988. The guests can't see me. I have been hidden in the fired maid's water closet, away from Susan's jealous, critical eye. But Annie whispers her eternal love to the photo late at night, while secretly listening to recordings of John Hinckley's pre-assassination attempt calls to Jodie.

Even in that dress and posed like that, Jodie is still butch af.

I’ll be the eggshells that Annie has to navigate on a nightly basis.

Annie Leibowitz deserves to be bullied for her awful current-day photography.

I'm Sontag's output, and while I'm wildly inconsistent, I display flashes of genius, lyrical design, and insight decades later.

I'm Leibowitz's output. I don't even come close.

And everyone present knows this.

I’m Jordan Roth toasting to “this great nourishment of words and supplication of images”.

I’m the icy stillness that descends over the table the moment a guests begins to gush.

I'm the darting eyes that accompany the icy stillness.

And I'm the icy stillness that falls when someone speaks the word "diesel."

Dead. Silence. Frost. Forming. On. The. Insides. Of. The. Windows.

Never mind that its use was in a sentence about energy economics in the transportation industry.

Suddenly Fran Lebowitz's cell phone rings and its ringtone is a truck honking its monster horn. She says, "Fuck me!" and everyone relaxes.

For a moment. No one was relaxed for more than 30 seconds in Susan's presence. She saw it as a sign of sexist disrespect, even with other professional sapphics.

I'm Kathy Acker and I have fucked both of you.

I'm the uneaten dinner.

Except for "special guest" Dolly Parton's portion, which was consumed in a half-second. Because the plating comprises a lengthwise-third of a green bean, four grains of just-sprouted quinoa, and a thumbprint of "foam sauce."

Dolly then says, "Ladies, pass those plates, please. Susie, go grab me the pots and something to put them on so the - is this table masonite? - doesn't burn. I'm going to see if I can fill one cheek at least because, honey, I am HUNGRY! Any salami in that big ol' Meneghini La Cambusa fridge in there?" They do as they are told.

I'm Pauline Kael, rolling my eyes.

I'm Robert Downey, avant-garde filmmaker. I'm currently resenting the fact that my stupid fucking useless kid has refused to be photographed in the nude by Annie.

It's just masturbating in front of lesbians, kid. We've all done it.

I'm Mary Boone, seething with rage at the fact that Barbara Castelli has also been invited. Fucking Gold-digging WHORE.

I'm Barbara Castelli, makin g the sign of the evil eye at Mary Boone. Foul WITCH.

I'm Robert Downey Jr.

Help.

Please.

I'm John Waters trying to make a case for the release of the Manson girls but nobody is paying me any attention.

I’m Susan’s long sigh of disappointment when Annie asks who wants to play Pictionary.

I'm the 20-year-old NYU intern whom Susan spent three hours chatting with and flattering her intellet before trying to fuck her. (True story. It happened to a friend's niece.)

I'm the wind whistling between the gap in Lauren Hutton's teeth.

I'm Ultra Violet, about to serve the lobster thermidor in a rather unusual way.

I'm Gerard Malanga. I'm a famous photographer. Somehow.

I'm Karen Finely, right behind Ultra Violet, with the baked yams.

^^^Finley

I'm the Phranc CD playing quietly in the front room. The CD player is set on repeat, so I play over and over and over.

I'm Monica Randall, Annie's deranged Victorian-era-obsessed piece on the side. Watch me out-twirl Stevie Nicks as I remove six shawls, two stoles and a sable scarf.

Mentioning Barbara Castelli & Mary Boone. You guys are GOOD.

I'm Rosie O'Donnell, and I want to bring this dinner party to Broadway as a psycho-drama. I want to cast myself as Annie, and cast Madonna as Susan Sontag. It will be a box office hit and win all the Tonys.

I'm the portraits of Spring Byington, Agnes Moorehead, Mercedes de Acosta and Elvis Presley on the walls of the hallway leading to the powder room.

I'm the joint Lauren Hutton plants firmly in her cuspid gap to stop the whistling.

We’re the after-dinner organic cigars.

I'm the woman dressed as Virginia Woolf (People assume she is a hired "statement.") reminding guests that Susan's "real" surname is Rosenblatt.

We're a plate of "Alice B. Toklas" brownies.

Robert's teenage kid ate five of us. He's taking a little nap under the piano now.

Ah'm Jerry Hall.

Ah just love beautiful things.

I'm Ingrid Sischy and her date, who used to be in The Symbionese Liberation Army.

I'm 22-year-old Sarah Paulson loitering outside the building entrance, hoping to sneak in with Nicole Stéphane and hit on her in the elevator before crashing the party.

I'm Uma Thurman. I am also refusing to be photographed in the nude, but only because I have large zit on my navel and I feel all gross.

R37, Jesus Christ, Camille managed to out-cunt Susan. I didn't think that was possible.

I'm Renata Adler's already-greying braid.

I'm Wallace Shawn. making notes about the conversation for my new play, My Dinner With Angry.

I'm Joan Didion and why is this Cruella-haired cunt always stepping on my lines?

I’m the glaring absence of television sets in the apartment

Glaring

I'm the glaring, period.

Glaring.

I don't understand most of these references. I'm lost.

Well, Tom Wolfe at R81, you weren't invited anyway so fuck right off.

I'm a decrepit Diana Vreeland. I'm half-sozzled and under the impression that I am somehow visiting Lauren Bacall and Lauren has done something rather unfortunate to her hair. Everyone humors me because they love my red silk cape.

I'm Dick Cavett. Have you met my lovely wife, Carrie Nye?

I am Alice Notley, my feminist poetry is iconic.

I'm the sharp whistle of displeasure drawn in between Lauren Hutton's teeth when Sigourney Weaver enters the room.

I am Gore Vidal, rolling my eyes even more violently than Pauline Kael.

I am Philippe de Montebello.

And you're not.

I am Janet Flanner and I am beginning to get a little bored.

I am Lee Bontecou, and they are not vaginas, god fucking dammit.

I'm the joint Robert Downey Jr. and Uma Thurman are passing between them under the piano.

"One day...I'm going to be as famous as Valerie Bertinelli!" Uma says.

"Coooooool...." Robert murmurs.

I’m Sontag hip checking Leibovitz and telling her sharply to put her fucking camera away.

I’m Annie’s epic financial problems. I cleared this entire guest list quickly once I was revealed.

I'm Alice Neel. I've painted nude portraits of everybody in the room. Everyone sags.

I'm Annie Sprinkle. I'm a feminist too!

Put your tits away, Annie.

Camille Piglia doesn't have many rooms she can enter without being knifed in her ugly cunt.

I'm Judy Chicago and I've brought my own pussy pink dinner plates--with lips, lots of lips.

I'm Avital Ronell and I'm making fun of American feminists wearing ugly shoes. Oh, there's Annie Sprinkle - I'll go over there, she's more interesting than these pseudo intellectuals.

[Nobody has any idea that I'll be MeToo-ed one day - and over a male student!]

I don't really believe that Susan invited Barbara Hershey Seagull. I cannot sit at a table where she will attempt to prod a forkful of "Juiced Oyster Delicatesse" through those two red pillow lips that obviously have no feeling.

I heard sometimes she just stabs her lip with a canapé pick and there it wobbles until she bumps into it and rams it through to where she still has sensation. Meaning her tongue.

And never any blood. It's terrifying. A woman should bleed.

What year is this party taking place? 1972? 1985? 1993?

I’m Annie secretly digging through the guests’ coats piled on the bed, looking for spare change.

I'm Lydia Lunch, waiting in the alley outside. Fuck, Annie is taking forever!

I am the quite vicious slap given to Leibovitz by Sontag and the lively after-dinner debate it provoked: was this camp worthy of Crawford or mere bullying?

I’m Edmund White. Just popped in for after dinner drinks and coffee. Everyone sparkles and laughs when I speak. Susan glowers. Annie L looks more relaxed.

I can't tell if this evening would be legendary or something I would outrun sound getting away from.

I’m Susan, ashing her cigarette in Annie’s drink and then laughing.

I'm Victoria Floethe.

Am I late?