MOST PEOPLE WOULD be perfectly happy to follow Traci Lords ...

He's got some funny insights into those days, too, but you'll have to take my word for that. As Coupland later explains in a cab ride uptown, he can't be quoted in my column. "I won't be a true B-Lister," he says, "until I've published Generation X II: Attack of the Arachnids."

To his credit, let's note that Coupland has never come anywhere near publishing a Generation X II. Also, his new Hey, Nostradamus! is a really good book, and it's not his fault if people still go around using words like "McJob."

But maybe it's reasonable to blame Coupland for the kind of hipster subculture that's lead to the Graphic Graphite night at the Martinez Gallery out in Greenpoint. Grady T. Turner didn't waste any time using a brief stint as the curator at the Museum of Sex to declare himself the Curator of Sex, and it's not like someone else thought to grab the title first.

He's not abusing the position, either. Turner has invested in plenty of sketchpads and charcoal to be sure that everyone's an artist at his nude modeling class/nightclub party. And it's a reasonable $5 attendance fee, as long as you've stripped down to your underwear. Otherwise, the door charge is $50.

"It's a standard of performance art," Turner modestly asserts, and the Martinez Gallery is one of the few venues where you'd want to see performance mixed with some art. The drinks are reasonably priced, the airy space is more pleasant than many nightclubs, and there are lots of nooks and crannies for adventurous types?though the announcement that "sex is not allowed on the premises" seems a little wishful.

As it turns out, only one scary beardo gets lured out to ogle girls half his age. Otherwise, the event turns out to be a very smart move for Turner. He's got about 60 people lounging around in their underwear, and many are attractive female exhibitionists who are young enough to be Douglas Coupland fans. Special credit goes to my photographer, who shows impressive restraint when a hot gal strolls up and asks, "What do I have to do to get my picture in New York Press?"

Turner, whose personal reputation is more of the Curator of Ambiguous Sexuality, certainly has a fine time himself. He's not such a purist that he doesn't decide that the night's female figure model could stand to model some sexy hosiery. He's even thoughtful enough to personally remove the hose later.

"I'm teaching here," Turner often explains, while strolling amongst the artists and checking their work. He also deftly assembles some Saran Wrap g-strings after somebody remembers to ask if this whole thing is legal. As far as clever ways to get people naked, it's certainly a better idea than strippers doing Shakespeare.

DJ Qool Marv rises to the occasion with a soundtrack worthy of a happening. David Hemmings, however, is only represented by a cameo in a photograph downstairs. That's courtesy of photographer Elana Levin, whose exhibition of nudes has given Turner yet another hook to support this cagey idea.

Levin, incidentally, is considering keeping her own clothes on as a bid for artistic legitimacy. "This is just like college," she comments, looking out at the crowd of fairly naked people. Make a note to have your own daughters settle for a GED. As for myself, I'm envious of the guy who's running around and proudly displaying a press pass. I'm usually ashamed to be on the list for events, but this is one time I'd rather not be mistaken for a guy with $50 to spend on this kind of thing.