George Gurley, The New York Observer scribe and BlackBook contributor (see his interview with Christina Ricci), is one of the figureheads responsible for the baffling lure of the Beatrice Inn. He's the one I associate with all those nights I manage to lose a bit of my dignity between waltzes on the dance floor (tangos with the stairwells) and all of those clever conversations I seem lose myself in after the second Stella Artois. But arriving at the Beatrice at a respectable hour of 10pm last night for George’s surprise birthday hurrah gives me a strange sort of imperviousness. As much admiration I have for the disarming journalist my own projected cocktail count will not leave any room for finding myself chatting away past 4am. And this time, there will be no negotiating with the stairs on my way out.

The diminutive indie princess is about to debut as a karate-chopping, chopper-navigating super heroine in the Wachowski Brothers’ virtual-reality film adaptation of TV’s “Speed Racer.” Will she be a demon on wheels? George Gurley plays Racer X to her many whys. Like, Why is this guy asking me these weird questions? Collision or collusion? You decide.

Photography by Matthew Rolston Styling by Alicia Lombardini



For the past 15 years, I’ve done my share of interviews with famous and beautiful actresses, approached many more of them, and it hasn’t always worked out. I have written in the past about my bad luck with female thespians, but the list of incidents just continues to grow. Sharon Stone once provided me with a juicy quote, quickly followed by a severe tongue-lashing. When I approached Parker Posey, she simply scowled and looked away. (Granted, I had asked her, “Are you Parker Posey?” I hear otherwise she is very nice.) After I tried chatting up Marisa Tomei, and she walked away, I was told she muttered, “Now I know why I hate journalists so much.” The hour I spent with Amanda Peet? So disastrous I don’t want to get into it. Too scarred. The enchanting Catherine Deneuve hyperbolized, “How dare you!” Midway through our half hour together, Charlotte Rampling stopped my inquiries to ask, “What kind of questions are these? What a boring interview this is. Why are you doing all these sort of… questions? ‘What do you like? What don’t you like? What do you shit on? What do you crap on?’” Maybe I’d do better with, say, Nick Nolte.