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The Spy Who Dined Me

The Diva meets the International Man of Mystery

By Dotcom Diva

Due to grave illness the Diva missed last month's Dotcom Party of the Century at the Regency where the B-52's performed. Fortunately her dotcom informant was kind enough to lift his cell phone like a lighter during the "Rock Lobster" proceedings. The Diva could almost perfectly visualize the glamorous 52's on that stage, but stopped short when she realized that they are in fact "old news." All jealousy aside, the Diva was Over It. But the Feb. 29 Vividence.com party still waxes ever fresh on her mind.

Smothered in black, we arrived at the sumptuous Palace of Fine Arts for the thematic spy party in the Exploratorium. Amongst the momentum machines, mirror mazes, touch theaters and all manner of scientific entanglements lay spreads of international cuisine (salmon coulibiac with caviar crème fraîche, top sirloin and a nigiri circus, to name but a few), TV screens tiresomely reeling up Bond movies (Octopussy? Passé, darlings), and people all dressed up and ready to party. Present were the Matahari, Russian spies, a Sherlock Holmes, and Fem-bots--but it was the "shagalicious" Austin Powers who vociferously took the festivities to new levels.

Down to his blackened teeth, Powers was prime as he thrust his pelvis on the dance floor during the band's spy ditties. He grinned slyly as the ladies--some in Bebe this night--sashayed past. He wined and dined, and nimbly picked at the unagi maki. He littered his lewd comments throughout the room, tainting the minds of do-gooders brainwashed by stock statistics and tedious terminology like "going public." And he winked at the Diva (she nonchalantly turned away), as company reps practically threw DVD players as prizes to the thirsty crowd.

Through a galley of networkers ready to draw business cards like revolvers, the International Man of Mystery strode the Diva's way as a couple of nymphs asked hers truly to snap a photo of them with Powers. The Diva conceded, their admiration of the silly man unabashedly obvious. A moment later, quick as a camera flash, Powers sidled up next to her highness. I sighed and gave in to a few frivolous minutes of conversation, though I admit my interest was slightly piqued with each "groovy, baby" and grind of his nether regions.

The Diva continued the evening sipping vodka Collins, indulging in rich desserts, reluctantly slugging lukewarm champagne, and half-heartedly listening to the mundane blathering around me. Sitting down for a rest, my well-manicured hands settled atop a table littered with dotcom business cards of marketers, VCs, IPOs, whatever--the web armies of our generation. The Diva became quietly introspective, pondering the role of dotcom in her life, and concluded that, beyond the nightly free dinners and free-flowing fountain of martini, the indulgent industry hasn't changed her one bit.

The Matahari ("I'm completely sober," she admitted to me. "I'm sorry," I said) continued her questionable proceedings throughout the room, the networkers shamelessly networked, and by 10pm the night waned and tired itself out. Breakfast meetings come on the morrow, after all. The Diva and her entourage slowly made their way to the exit, but not before bidding adieus to the Man. "Yeah, baby, yeah," he uttered with a libidinous grin. Indeed, Mr. Powers. Indeed.

Have comments, queries, or juicy nuggets of e-gossip? Send them on to the Diva: [email protected]. Party invitations are most welcome.

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From the April 3, 2000 issue of the Metropolitan.

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