In this corner, we have Page Six's Cindy Adams, with her teacup yorkies and her "Is it a hat? Is it hair?" crazy-'do, running down in semi-pathological detail the extent of her gambling problem -- without actually seeming to consider it a problem. Adams bet Judge Judy how long it would take to renovate her home. She bet Larry King the election would go another way. She even bet Harvey Weinstein that Young Frankenstein wouldn't last on Broadway -- she had $10,000 riding on that one, btw -- and writes victoriously that "Harvey, that money's going to the ASPCA. Animals have no voice. It is we who must help them."
In the other corner, we have the women of Gotham who, according to the current New York Magazine, have gotten a lot drinkier in the past decade, what with stressy jobs, booze's easy access to an instant social life, and some sort of misplaced feminism that involves keeping up with how much boys drink -- which, as we all know, is a lot, bro. "Drinking feels like our prerogative," writes NYMag ladydrinker Alex Morris. "If we want to get blasted at the company Christmas party or nurse a bottle of scotch through the holidays, no one should, or can, stop us." Yes we can! Yes we can! She quotes a friend name "Kate" in the following slice:
"Sometimes I'm like, I'm an alcoholic. Sometimes I'm like, I just drink a lot. Workaholic. Alcoholic. Workaholic. Alcoholic. How do you know if you have a problem?" She takes a sip and shrugs.
We know the feeling, Kate. How do you tell?