July 30, 1984 12:00 PM

What a crashing bore it is, dahlink, to sit in some overpriced box seat and watch other people sweat. Thus persuaded, Zsa Zsa Gabor, 65ish, plans to get sweaty herself by participating in an Olympics-related event. In a noncompetitive horse show of champions from around the globe, Zsa Zsa will ride her prized Tennessee walking horse, a white stallion named Silver Fox. An avid horsewoman since she was 4 and, believe it or not, a polo player for the past 20 years or so, Zsa Zsa rode Silver Fox to a championship in Phoenix earlier this year. “I nearly fainted when I won,” she says. “But Silver Fox is so good you cannot lose with him. He is as famous as I am. When I come out with him, just as many people yell his name as mine.” The mounted Magyar adds with a laugh, “I’m becoming the female Will Rogers. Just call me Zsa Zsa Rogers.”

More Olympic fallout: “Rose Marie and Danny Thomas cordially invite you not to attend their St. Jude Gala this year.” So begins the announcement the Thomases sent canceling their annual charity bash because of all the Olympics commotion in L.A. “By not attending the ‘Phantom Ball’ which we are not giving, you will not be spending so much money,” says the card, urging recipients to stay home and make donations to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital in Memphis. Only one detail bothered Danny. Before Don Rickles received his un-vitation, he assumed the gala was on and sent a check for $1,000. Jokes Thomas, “I’m expecting a call from Don anytime now, asking for his money back.”

Private Eyes, Manhattan’s newest video bar with 36 TV screens showing film clips all night long, attracted many of the people who appear on those screens even before last week’s official opening. The other night, when a Boy George video flashed on, Joan Rivers rushed onto the dance floor and began to boogie as if she never told a nasty about the Boy in her life. Joan enjoyed herself even more when she saw the computer that keeps track of the club’s 6,000 or so video shorts. Under her own name she found a list of 120 clips, each with an identifying title given to it by the club. One in particular—”Farts, Dentists and Bo Derek”—really cracked her up. Ever competitive, Joan then asked to see the file for comedian David Brenner. The computer searched its memory banks and came up with only two titles. “Ha!” Joan trumpeted, with a huge grin. Her evening was complete.

Pop singer Lionel Richie declared his endless love for the breathtaking Canadian countryside at his first concert in Calgary, Alberta, near the Rocky Mountains. However, it took awhile for him to realize how much he liked it. He arrived wearing a pair of brand-new eyeglasses prescribed in L.A. Somehow the craggy, glacial majesty of Calgary’s surrounding terrain was reduced to fuzziness. Just before the concert, Richie whipped off the glasses in frustration. “Suddenly I saw everything perfectly!” he told the audience. Now he calls the specs his smog-relief glasses because they only seem to work when there’s soot in the air.

The quintessential Italian ladies’ man, Marcello Mastroianni, 59, sauntered into the Madison Worldwide Art Galleries in Manhattan last month. Pausing before a painting called The Girls by Ohio expressionist Michael Jolin, he removed his sunglasses just for a few moments. “Mastroianni is a man of great artistic taste,” says investment counselor John Vidaver, who helped with Marcello’s selection. “He wasn’t sure what the artist was trying to say but he liked the symbolism of the many attractive female forms rising from the mist. Without asking the price, he said, ‘I’ll take it.’ It was my duty to inform him it cost $10,000. He nodded his head and said ‘Fine.’ ” Told the story later, the artist thought he knew why the star doffed his shades: “The central figure is based on my wife Susan, who I think is one of the world’s greatest beauties. Perhaps Marcello and I have the same taste.”

About this time last year Christie Brinkley’s Outdoor Beauty and Fitness Book hit the shelves. A few weeks ago folks spotted Christie in the front row at one of Billy Joel’s New York concerts, puffing away on a cigarette. So much for fitness.

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