"CRAZY MOTHERFUCKER named Richard Barone," I say to the crazy ...

"We'll see," responds the smug bastard, and he's earned the right at the afterparty for his Carnegie Hall tribute to Peggy Lee. The downtown messiah and neglected pop star has truly come through with his all-star salute to one of the music industry's most beloved performers?including a nod to hipster fans with a duet between Deborah Harry and Nancy Sinatra. The dream team even screwed up their transition in a medley, and wouldn't it have been disappointing if they hadn't?

I'm also happy to see that Sinatra is looking gorgeous and has completely recovered from the misguided makeover she endured for her '95 Playboy pictorial. I'm happy to see a lot of things at the penthouse at Shelly's New York, which is why I'm rapidly getting drunk. The more I drink and squint, the easier it gets to pretend that I've finally willed myself back to 1966.

It's very pleasant to watch Ms. Sinatra, Rita Moreno and Pet Clark sign autographs and chat with millionaires. I know they're all millionaires, of course, because of some young douchebag who's already informed me in great detail about how his family is the world's largest manufacturer of widgets or gizmos or something. I even feel like I've dredged up some fine 1966 gossip, thanks to these JVC Festival shows bringing in a lot of old-timers?including the guy sitting behind me who muttered "that bastard" as legendary songwriter Cy Coleman was introduced onto the stage.

So I'm positively slumming when I show up for the next day's lunchtime showcase at the Rodeo Bar for Texas legend Joe Ely, whose new album, Streets of Sin, is surprisingly great for a guy who used to be so lame that he was Joe Strummer's idea of a country star. WFMU's Meredith Ochs politely allows me to explain this to her before pointing out that I'm standing next to Ely.

But it's not like that guy's often heard a discouraging word, as opposed to myself at the American Women in Radio & Television's awards dinner in the Grand Ballroom of the New York Hilton. This is where the organization honors Lifetime shows in which grown women explain that they were raped because they got "tired" of "pushing away" their male acquaintances. Are today's women so exhausted from the demands of work and motherhood that they can't grab a pushy male acquaintance by the balls?

There's also an award for CNN's Christiane Amanpour?accompanied by her Clinton crony husband?whose speech saluting the First Amendment sounds a lot like a celebration of leftist media bias. Everyone instinctively ducks for cover when war correspondent Amanpour shows up anywhere, but the only reporter who interviews her on the red carpet notes that it's probably because it's like interviewing Daffy Duck.

It's goddamn 90 degress outside, though, so any cooling shower should be welcomed. That's why most journalists are already upstairs at the cash bar, which means that arriving celebrities don't have anybody outside to ask them questions. As a result, I jump in to talk with genuinely nice gals like Curb Your Enthusiasm's Cheryl Hines, who cheerfully explains that her show seems so realistic to me because I'm a neurotic mess.

It's always good to see Frank Gorshin, though, so I don't mind being the only writer waiting for him to finish talking to Access Hollywood. (The awards are called "The Gracies," so nobody's surprised to see a George Burns impressionist in the house.) I wasn't paying attention, but Gorshin looks a little baffled from his tv interview. His handler brings him over, but Gorshin ignores me. "I wanna get out of here," he explains. "I never wanna go through that again." Then Frank gives me a quick look. "Sorry," he adds.

Hey, no problem, Frank. I know it's Access Hollywood's fault. Still, you would've thought I was that bastard Cy Coleman.