Thursday, Sept. 14: Linds tells her mom to go to hell on her birthday and storms out of the restaurant. Dina is allegedly feeling ferociously emotional and makes multiple trips to the powder room. Listen, sweethearts, if that evil-eye D.L. wore to the women's room was anything close to the one she shoots me at the gym we both share, well, then, sugarcakes, I assure you, Offspring Lohan was justified, at least a li'l bit, gettin' grouchy with the mom-unit.
Friday, Sept. 15: Lindsay falls and breaks her wrist in two places at a Fashion Week event in NYC at Milk Studios.
Thursday Afternoon, Sept. 21: Lindsay goes to lunch at M Café (read below), whines about paps, drives off topless.
Also, rumors have it that her semi-longtime boy-toy, Harry Morton, dumped her freckled butt at Chateau Marmont, of all places. Plus, the younger version of walking-accident-magnet Liz Taylor landed in the hospital yet again last week, as discussed. I mean, unlucky Linds visits the hospital almost as often as I see my hairdresser and the bench press, for gawd's sake.
I do give L2 snaps for variety, though: Her most recent trip was for a broken wrist, not the usual asthma or "exhaustion" excuse. Way to mix up those ailments, girlfriend!
Lose a boyfriend, get a cast? Not exactly the best trade-off, in my opinion. But anyway, the gal with the busted wrist and possibly broken heart hit M Café de Chaya here in Hell-Ay last week for lunch and caused quite the commotion.
Linds opted to lunch inside while she complained to an M worker that a friggin' helicopter had been following her and that she was so sick of all the attention.
Yeah, just like I'm not way gay. Oh, puh-leeze.
She even had her gal-pal ask the staff to call the cops, 'cause those pesky paparazzi kept buggin' her...which mighta been true. I mean, I know those shutterbugs can be pretty damn aggressive as they try to snap shots of Linds, mid-bite.
But the funniest part is that after whining about all the attention, Linds still dropped the top on her convertible before zooming away after lunch.
'Cause, ya know, that doesn't scream, "Look at me!" or anything. Speaking of screaming, let's check what you all bent my ear about this time:
Potty-Mouth P.S.: But wait, wait! This just in! According to those TMZ terribles, Linds' finally realized they can't snap ya if they can't see ya! As L2 exited the Dragonfly Sunday night shrouded in black sheets by bod-guards, she told paps to "F--k off and die!" Would you expect any less from Dina's little angel?
PPS Vienna /ZUMApress.com
I keep asking and get no answers from anyone, so you're the next one I'm asking. Have you seen any pics of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie where they're actually looking at each other at the same time? Touching each other? He always walks ahead or behind her. Somethin' ain't right.
Dear Detective Domestic::
Yeah, it's the amount of time you folks devote to celeb conspiracy theories. I know, I know, I have my share of those cover-up thoughts (to be sure), but get a grip. Brad's been screaming--fairly loudly to his buds--for aeons that he's never been "touched" by a woman like he has by A.J. In every sense.
Would you evah call Brad Pitt "the aging man-stud," like you did George Clooney? Considering Brad and George have less than two years' difference in their ages, shame on you! G.C. is salt 'n' pepper by choice--could try to hide it, but why? He's still the hottest brunette stud-muffin over 40.
Dear End o' the Weak:
Can't say I disagree, love-muffin, so calm down, and don't get your thong in a wad.
Dear View from a Broad:
You're actually kinda close, my dear, but no bitchy cigar, ain't my old E! colleague, E.H. Right look, but wrong on the politics.
You said this about George Clooney: "What, cozying up with a brass boy with a nice ass doesn't do it for the hunky star? Go figure!" What are you talking about?
Oh, doll, you sound just like my sour, talented breeder editor from white-picket-fence-ville, Steve Root. I'm just talkin' 'bout all that cozying up Mr. C.'s done with his new b-f, Oscar. Can you blame him?
Dear Nice Try:
Why do you remind me of those go guys who ask to do ya without a condom, "just for a little bit, promise." I ain't falling for that one, Ms. F.! Oh, and you're wrong, by the by, think much older, less celebrated.
Chris Klein certainly earned all that publicity, and you were sweet to give it to him.
But of course!
Is Traceless Turncoat Nancy O'Dell of Access Hollywood, and would that would make Maria Menounos Dorky Dingleberry? I hope it isn't, though. I really thought Nancy was a class act.
Dear Rose Dud:
Totally off, darlin', which should make you mucho happy. Think far less polished, though you're in the right 9-to-5 park.
Recently, I was shocked to see a picture of John Travolta in a full lip-lock with a man! Nobody else seemed to be surprised. I haven't heard anything more about it. What is your take on Johnny?
El Paso, Texas
Dear Smooch Searcher:
He's a lovely man, I've always liked and admired Travolta, both as an actor and as a human being. But as a public-relations performer? J.T. gets an F. He really should do better.
The Kristin Cavallari Do Me Meter was not only right on the money, it was pretty funny, too.
Dear Clothes Cop:
Thanks, couldn't have done it without my fellow fashionista Cristina Gibson. I swear, between her Jersey roots and my real ones, nobody's safe in this town.
Is Mona Streamline Annette Bening?
Long Island, New York
Dear Lawng Shot:
Nope, and are you really serious? With stud-emeritus Warren on mattress tap, you think Ms. B. needs the porno stuff? Not what I hear.
The Academy doesn't choose the host, the exec producer of the show does. So, thank Laura Ziskin for bringing Ellen on board. She also had Whoopi host back in 2002, probably the only memorable Oscars of the last decade.
Dear Gal Galore:
Thanks, babe, you're right-on on all scores.
Could One Porn-Addicted Blind Vice perhaps be Felicity Huffman? I hope I'm wrong...Both she and W.H. Macy seem so well adjusted.
Dear Believes Everything:
Yeah, right. Doesn't mean to say F.H.'s Mona, 'cause she ain't, though, doll-cup, you are awfully close.
How the hell do Mel Gibson's proselytizing-freak ways have anything to do with you being gay? And writing celebrity gossip?
Walnut Creek, California
Everything and nothing, so get used to it. (Oh, and do you have any idea what Mel likes seeing done with fagolas on film?)