Mexico’s Riviera, outside Puerto Vallarta, where I’ve been sponging at Joan Rivers’ dinky hacienda, which rents with 14 in help — the hills were alive with the sound of Bieber. The talk was larger than the kid himself.
My Spanish, only slightly better than Bloomberg’s, deciphered that Justin and Selena Gomez came for the holidays. Together. Staying at El Rancho, another rented mansion in a gated community. Subsequent chat over tacos and sangria was that whatever’s the Espanol word for “tiff,” they tiffed. And split. He to the Four Seasons Hotel, she to the Ritz-Carlton.
Hot with celebrities, the area’s where Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor had their house. It’s a showbiz hideaway. Not so hidden away previously were Lady Gaga and Kanye and Kim Kardashowian-types, who hide away about as much as Chuck Schumer.
Gossip is Selena thought Justin’s still seeing another senorita named Barbara. She got miffed. She went to a party. Told partygoers that, while arguing, he said things like: “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
Selena’s mother told her on the phone: “Don’t stay there. You’re alone. You have no security. Come home.” She did.
More I don’t know. Or couldn’t even understand.
A WORD about Puerto Vallarta. Meteorologists say it never ever rains there in January. Never. Ever. It rained.
I shopped. Stores sell nice gifts like a plastic gun that shoots tequila. OK? Drugstores post the sign: “You don’t need a prescription.” OK?
Houses hire armed guards to patrol beachfront communities, where haciendas run 25,000 square feet. Nice. But you’re assured no drug-running’s in the vicinity. As one driver put it: “Not here. No kidnapping, no murders. Maybe Mexico City — not here.”
The gay community outdoes San Francisco and Mykonos. Names are “Eros,” “Si Senor,” “Wet Dreams.” They specialize in “Hot Fridays,” “Tuckered Out Tuesdays,” and “Suck It Up Sundays.” There are Gay Bingo nights and Dirty Bitches nights. Saturday, it’s “Sexy Male Dancers.” We’re talking strippers, nude pole-dancing, dark rooms and high colonics featured. Also lesbian-owned clubs. Also, you should know, advertised is they’re “pet friendly.” Perfect place to schlep your Jack Russell.
Joan Rivers is asked to do a gig next New Year’s Eve at one of the establishments. Great idea. Forget the price of the house. At least she can defray the cost of those 14 servants — plus food, wine, flights, guests, gifts, tips, cars and drivers.
ST. Nick has it right. Visit people only once a year, and you’re always welcome.
It’s now bye-bye to NYC’s holiday finery. I mean, Florida at Christmas and New Year’s? Shloompy Santa in shorts? Mrs. Claus in flip-flops? Visitors rushed to see our winter wonderland because our city was as enticing as Britney Spears’ navel.
But, being a grinch: Greeting cards that no Latin pharmacist can read? One-name handwritten signatures? I fretted and sweated. Was it Tina, Toni, Tom, Tim or Terry? Maybe even a shaky version of Tess. Also could’ve been Pom, Pin, Pam or Perry. Pippa, no. She’s too busy shaking her behind. Those cards made me so nervous that I now dislike the kindly illegible humans who remembered me.
Also stop with family photos. Better to see shots of Donder and Blitzen. Maybe an elf. Close-up of baby Gregory? Who cares? Who even knew there was a baby Gregory? This particular one’s parents spend money like it’s cement. Opening their wallet takes a Heimlich maneuver. Daddy was 43 before he used a withdrawal slip.
Another thing. The paw print. I’m on the ASPCA board. I run the annual Blessing of the Animals. But cards with sprinkles that say: “Happiness from the Delaneys and Ruff-Ruff”? Please. My Yorkie, with no sense of Loving Thy Fellow Animal, peed on it.
Worst is the full single-spaced typed pages detailing the cretin’s past year. How Phyllis and Sally visited Kurt and Halley in Iowa and a Dr. Redding patched them up when they fell, but that was nothing because Max and Gloria came with Dora and Phil to visit Marvin and Lisa, who entertained Bridget and Don. Etc.
Had I yearned about this human in the first place, I’d have seen him and gleaned this B.S. already. Anyone wanting to spare that time for reading could’ve opened “War and Peace.”
Another favorite is the nudge: “Happy 2013 from garage attendants Chris and Sal.” Translation: “Want your front fender dented?” Another is, “Greetings from your friendly postman — second notice.”
MOROCCO’s King MohammedVI New Year’s Eve’d in Marrakech. His palace takes several hundred guests . . . Bernie Kerik’s wife, Hala, who didn’t get His Majesty’s invite, enjoyed dinner at Canaletto on East 60th . . . If you haven’t already heard, Sarah Jessica and Matthew Broderick saw their son James Wilkie play Tiny Tim in a “A Christmas Carol” at Theater for the New City.
TOKYO. Chic vicinity of Daikanyama. American lady Daryl Sherman, who for years played Cole Porter songs at the Waldorf, at the piano. Waiter comes up with a song request written on paper. Phonetically it reads: “Buy Me Meat Asean.” An elegant Japanese lady seated close to the podium read the characters and interpreted it as “Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen.”
Only in Daikanyama, kids, only in Daikanyama.