Well, kids. SIFF 2002 is but a celluloid memory, forever blowing in the wind. But I feel that somewhere, somehow, a little piece of me is forever blowing with it. Let's tie up some loose ends!

In my Week 2 coverage I called Bill Kapfer, SIFF's director of marketing, a great big SLUT for scoping out mass man boo-tay at the Centerpiece Gala, but the quip got cut for space. So, hey! Bill Kapfer! You're a great big SLUT!

I loitered interminably in the SIFF hospitality room at the W Hotel, casually eavesdropping and trying to smuggle free Red Bull and Odwalla Bars out in my fag bag. Dozens of directors blew through, shaking hands and plastering everything with promo materials, while one trollish bitch skulked about, demanding, "Are you a director?" and ignoring anyone who wasn't. One cute thing: Cockettes director David Weisman was overheard kvetching that someone else's film was too long!

So goodnight, sweet SIFF, and may flights of wannabe indie film studs who are willing to go full frontal for "art" wing thee to thy rest.

It was wall-to-wall fabulous at the triumphant opening of the new musical Hairspray. Actor Fisher Stevens sat in front of me. We made eye contact several times, but I wasn't in a throw-myself- at-a-minor-celebrity kind of mood, so I skipped it. Besides, there was plenty of scrumptious young talent to trip over at the cast party at Palomino. I accidentally elbowed hunka-hunka burning lead Matthew Morrison in his gorgeous ribs when he stepped on my foot, and I knocked right into Marissa Jaret Winokur (Tracy Turnblad) while I was staring at choreographer Jerry Mitchell. And for some reason, four very DRUNK and/or NEARSIGHTED people congratulated ME on doing such a great job in the show. Why, thanks!

So if I told you that Vanna Fucking White was bustin' a move with Ivar's Dancing Clams in Queen Anne's Kerry Park last week, would you think I was making shit up? White and her enormous clams were shooting a commercial for some creepy-ass thing called a "wheelmobile."

What's almost as weird as Vanna White with dancing clams? John Travolta on the Spirit of Washington Dinner Train, of course. While in town Travolta also visited the Museum of Flight and the Woodland Park Zoo.

Steven Spielberg and Tom Cruise were mobbed by fans while pulling out of the Four Seasons Olympic Hotel--en route to promote Minority Report at EMP. "I never noticed how crooked Tom's face was until he smiled right at me," mob member "Kdicky" reports. "I'd still fuck him, though."

celebisawu@thestranger.com