Along with yet more Britney-style silly (and sad) nonsense from Vegas, goss girls 'n' boys, have we got overindulged, overdone Posh 'n' Becks blab for you! So, unzip, lie down and grab some massage oil, already!
Mischa Barton’s mother is having a war with my email auto-reply (no joke). More on that weirdo sitch tomorrow, but for today—before we get to further fallout from Britney’s jiggly hijinks in Vegas—thought you’d like to know about other day-to-day doings in Hell-Ay. Ya know, just sort of how the stars survive at any given moment during their storied existences here.
Say you’re Posh ‘n’ Becks, for ince. The entire world has just watched you relocate to town. You BFF it up with TomKat, strip ‘n’ strut on the field (and off) and get paid so many millions for the palm-tree-laden privilege. How does one cope? Like this:
The powers that be at Hell-Ay’s tony Sports Club/L.A.—not the tawdry one over on Sepulveda Boulevard, darlings, I’m tawkin’ the really snotty one in Bev Hills—tell me they were buzzed during a late-night dinner to get back to the Wilshire Boulevard location ASAP—if they knew what was good for them. See, a really big-ass duo was coming in, and they needed pampering pronto. “Posh called,” one SC worker bee was told, “she’s scheduling an emergency Pilates session—now.” Okay. Is that like some sort of ligament-saving endeavor? What the ef is an “emergency” Pilates class? She get all tangled up getting schtupped by Becks in front of a bunch of Condé Nast photographers, or something?
Apparently, as Mr. Bee was pretty much in a knot himself. While P was getting stretched and streamlined at the gym where Katie and Tom also break a moist sweat (hmmm, what a coinky-dink), David requested a massage. And this is where things get dangerous.
Nancy Kaszerman/ZUMA Press.com
‘Kay, remember last week when I told you about the legions of lads at New Yawk’s David Barton Gym, where Anderson Cooper is known to stop by for a workout? There’s a, uh, sizable group o’ dudes who like to time their urinal visits to be precisely when Anderson does the same, wonder why?
Could it be the same reason Clive Owen had the restroom at the Regal Union Square, where the manly Brit appeared for his Shoot ‘Em Up premiere, cleared out so he could take a leak? Prolly. And trust, those dudes Owen had hauled were not happy—you all can take your guesses why.
So, with that lascivious, slightly pungent mood set, here we are back at the Sports Club, where Tom C. likes to stroke it in the pool. You can take it from this goss, a silent alarm went out through myriad highly informed Sports Club regulars that the man who's stripped on the Internet would be doing so in the executive gym and locker room—no plebeian membership for our Becks, ‘course! So, a few very rich, very curious members saw fit to wait outside the massage area, ya know, moussing that errant hair for hours, or whatever it took.
But guess what came outta that dimly lit room? Well, rubbed-right Becks did, darlings—but not before three humongous goon-guards did first. Wonder why Anderson and Clive don’t plan ahead like that? And what in the world were those guys doing in there? Helping the masseur flip Mr. B over, or somethin’?
Oh, by the by, those loiterers actually hit penis dirt in the end. See, Becks ain’t one of those prissy guys who puts his underwear on under a towel, or anything. He just, well, lets it all hang out.
Many more meaty VMA morsels to get to. From the red carpet to the show, the suites and, of course, the after-parties, Awful’s gotcha covered all over! Just like a David-style deep-tissue job!
• Although Justin Timberlake dissed the Hills hons who presented his award—as well as the Simpson sisses—in his acceptance speech for Male Artist of the Year, he did show some love to one female fan in Timbaland’s Fantasy suite. After a pretty blonde told J.T. she was a big fan, Mr. Tee thanked her with a kiss. Jessica Biel, pretend you didn’t read this.
J.T. later sat down to din-din with two special gals: Ms. Biel and Justin's mom, Lynn, at Tableau restaurant at the Wynn. J was expected to show at the IGA party at Blush and at Timbaland’s bash held at Jet, but he opted to go back to his room after dinner instead and make it an early night. Or did Jess catch that kissy-poo job earlier, I wonder?
• The same retiring behavior could not be said for Pete Wentz, who hosted an after-do with the ol' Fall Out Boy bandmates until 3 ayem at the Palms' Belvedere Sky Villa. Earlier, Pete hit the carpet (without Ashlee Simpson on his arm, as she was most of the weekend) and dished on his best hangover cure.
“Hair of the dog, I guess,” dished the raven-maned rocker. So, why do people get so friggin’ crazy in Vegas? “Because there’s neon lights in the desert, and it tricks you into thinking you’re happy,” he explained. “And because they pump oxygen into the casinos.”
Although Pete opted to plead the fifth when we asked what was the dumbest thing he’d done in the desert, maybe it went down later that night at the Belvedere party. This time, Ashlee was in attendance and was seen giving Pete an über-public lap dance for almost two hours. Ash’s moves were surprisingly good, but her uninhibited gyrating might have had something to do with the martinis she was gulping.
Jean Baptiste Lacroix/WireImage.com
“Ashlee and Lauren Conrad both said they were too wasted to get their photos taken,” said a sinful insider. Speaking of Saint Lauren, she arrived holding hands with Paris Hilton’s former flame Josh Henderson, but she left without him. Shut up!
• Lauren’s not the only Hills girl who likes to get crunk. Upon entering the Pearl theater and making her way past legions of screaming fans lining the casino, castmate Whitney Port was overheard exclaiming, “I need, like, five shots!” We always thought she W the good girl on that show. Guess not.
• Speaking of swishy-swashy, Britney didn’t leave Vegas immediately after her disastrous performances, as some media claimed. The somewhat disgraced diva stopped into her bud Diddy’s after-party at LAX briefly. Like this is news, so let’s move on.
• Mel B, aka Scary Spice, hit the carpet with her new hub, Stephen Belafonte, in tow. The best part of being married? “I get to have my dinner cooked for me,” she dished, “and I get foot massages!” Good for her, because we’re so betting Eddie Murphy wouldn’t be down for kneading dough or toes.
And I just don’t see midnight calls to various Sports Club locales being Mel’s speed, somehow.