Mr. Nice Guy and I went to a predictably good cookbook party the other night that was remarkably free of assholes (only two that I could hear), but, as usual, a truly frightening Baby Jane was there to up the celebrity quotient. I always mentally hear Richard Thompson when she’s around, and I never even get close enough to determine if she smells like something fresh from the tomb — I just imagine Madonna in 50 years. Usually I miss her queening around, but this time she doddered up to the door between the dining room and the garden and bellowed imperiously, “Someone come help me!” The P for please was apparently running down her leg; this was shades of Jennifer Jason Leigh shoeless in the airport in “Georgia.” My consort happened to be sitting close by, and before I could stop him he bounded over and assisted the crone over the ledge. But he redeemed himself when he sat back down and said, “Hey, you talkin’ to me?” Whatever you do, if your path is likely to cross hers, do not watch “Midnight Cowboy” again. . .