VALENTINE's Day brings "He's Just Not That Into You" with Scarlett Johansson, Drew Barrymore, Ginnifer Goodwin, Jennifer
Con nelly, Kevin Connolly, Jennifer Aniston, Ben Affleck. Stardoll, which I don't know what that is, and Philosophy di Alberta Ferretti,
which I don't know what that is, either, co-sponsored a screening. What a Ginnifer Goodwin is I know so, since she alone showed for
the screening, she ever date anyone who was just not that into her?
"Ohhh, God, yes," she said. "I've had a few beauties. We all have. But I've decided we must embrace rejection. A girl cannot make
excuses for a man's bad behavior. These male egos have to meet us halfway."
"No. Happily single." Then:
"I actually suffered one of those exact rotten guys only maybe two weeks ago. It was just like a scene in the movie. I was at a bar. A
fellow who'd texted me promised follow-up texts. I sent follow-ups when I didn't get anything from him. And I made the excuse to
myself that my phone must've been blocked. That I didn't hear it. That it had SIM card issues. I told my mother. She said, 'Call him.'
People at the bar said to me, 'You're acting out from the movie. He's just not that into you.' So I . . . reluctantly . . . decided the hell
And let it be known Ginnifer Goodwin is gorgeous.
MORE: The Post's Review Of 'He's Just Not That Into You'
It was a Cinema Society evening at the trendy Tribeca Grand Hotel, which occasionally houses bones like Mariah's, J.Lo's and
Lindsay's. And, who knew, there's a small side enclave that owner Emanuel Stern had christened The Cindy Adams Room. Like I
said, who knew? Showing it to me Mr. Stern said: "Since we have a screening room and VIPs come, I carved out this little space for
interviews and when we opened in 2000, I labeled it The Cindy Adams Room."
I hadn't known that. I was honored and thrilled. Also perspired. The Cindy Adams Room hasn't any ventilation. Mr. Stern's idea
obviously connects me with hot air.
A THOUGHT. Are all aspects of our nation screwed up? Sports. There's Michael Phelps and his bong. There are films. Christian
Bale and his string of obscenities. There's Washington and our president's pick of tax evaders. Is it something in our drinking water?
EVERYONE reads the New York Post's Andrea Peyser, even if they disagree with her as I did when she basically said about that
creep boyfriend who last year killed his ex-girlfriend's adored cat - "so what?!" Andrea, whose mouth is as large as her talent, is out
with the book "Celebutards: The Hollywood Hacks, Limousine Liberals and Pandering Politicians Who Are Destroying America."
And what's all that mean? "Means that in a fun, light way I try and take down these celebrities who wield far more power than their
background or education allows."
Which means what? "Which means we all know Michael Moore and Madonna's thinking. Streisand's potty mouth blabbers
endlessly about liberalism. Remember Sean Penn in Iran and Venezuela? Even Al Gore became more powerful post his vice
presidency. He's now a celebrity. Opining on global warming, disagreeing with Nobel Prize winners, he's become a rock star of the
left. And his mansion uses 20 times the amount of electricity than an average home. I do more for the environment than he does
because I live in an apartment and take the subway."
The publisher is Kensington. Please read her book so she doesn't holler at all of us anymore.
MICHAEL Salem owns a business that outfits cross-dressers. When Rudy was mayor and tarted up as a fishnet-stockinged blonde
in spikes for the politicos' Inner Circle Dinner, he shopped at Michael's. Michael was also first cousin to Harvey Milk, as in "Milk," the
film up for Best Picture. He says now: "Harvey was my investment counselor in the '60s. He'd have agreed with me today that
stockings beat stocks. Transvestites go for bondage, not bonds."
Off to the post office to mail packages, Michael then said. "They're going to California. Marina del Rey. Transvestites are all over that
SO this New Yorker calls a friend at 9 p.m. The friend's out for the evening and she leaves the message: "Call you tomorrow." The
"tomorrow" time she calls is 8:30 a.m. The friend, who had a breakfast meeting, is gone. She phones again - this time 4 in the
afternoon and says: "No answer at night, no answer in the morning. What's with you? You getting your face done?"
Only in New York, kids, only in New York.