And who will win in the Candy Spelling-Tori Spelling book wars? ‘Course, Tori’s coming out with her tell-all, daughter-dearest-type tome, and we hear from veddy connected sources Candy’s preparing her own vitriolic comeback to the soon-to-be-published pissiness. Oh, daddycakes Aaron couldn’t have written it better. More on both bits latuh, but first, we must be remorseful.
Seriously, folks, we’re way ahead of you. We so called the Awful Truth on this couple after Hart romped in Sin City with some prime, pretty Pollys who deffo weren’t Pink. That’s what happens when you tattoo your beloved’s name on your bod—it’ll always remind you how badly you effed up, long after they're gone.
This ain’t the first time we’ve played psychic on a pair about to fold. We dutifully reported the dissolve of the once tight-knit twosome Sean Penn and Robin Wright Then-Penn before they divorced. Guess we’re the jinx column. And there have been others. Who's next on the chopping block? Our money’s on Brangelina. We give ‘em three more kids, and then it’s back to the bodily fluid vials for Angie, and Brad can take all of pal Clooney’s gal leftovers.
Maybe we shouldn’t put false hope out there, lest Jennifer Aniston be tearing up over the possibility of reconciliation, since every rag mag out there wants us to believe the lonely lass keeps signing Jennifer Pitt on all her checks. Hell, I bet Gwennie Paltrow does the same thing, Apple-cheeked offspring and British hubby be damned. A Pitt stain isn’t easily washed away.
But if ya think stars favor luxury hotels over their just as magnificent mansions 'cause of the views and the room service, you sure ain’t thinking too hard. The desired seclusion of these select spots makes 'em a perfect den for sultry (and not) shenanigans. After all, LSD-addled scribe Hunter S. Thompson was a frequent guest of the Chateau, and some things never go out of style in H'wood.
Need some more proof of the Marmont motel’s link to lasciviousness? Back in the dire day, John Belushi died there after overdosing, and Heath Ledger was videotaped in a swanky suit as other partygoers snorted coke and rolled joints—‘course we didn’t see Ledger’s involvement in the debauchery, but hindsight reveals what the cameras don’t. Lindsay Lohan was found out of it, some more gossipy gangs say, in her room from a heaping, potent cocktail.
No-gooders can enjoy their goodies in the privacy of a pricey pay-per-night pad, without worrying about the paps hanging outside a certain celeb’s abode taking note of who goes in and out. Sure explains Brit-Brit’s constant hotel hopping, don’t it? Looks like our girl’s turning the Beverly Hills Hotel into the next Chateau fer sure.
In fact, B.S. has made the BHH her home away from Starbucks. She prolly thinks of its room service as home cooking by now. And it seems the swanky spot is taking care of its new mascot—who can say no to thousands of photos of free publicity? After the last time Brit checked out of the place, daddy Jamie arrived to pick up her bags, but security put the kibosh on that—only Brit and Brit alone could retrieve her luggage.
Besides the obvious anomaly of someone bringing several suitcases for an overnight stay (just how many souvenirs were you picking up, B?), anyone else think it’s hi-larious that everyone trying to take control of her finances, house and own offspring doesn’t even have the authority to pick up a few bags on her behalf?
While we ponder that one for a bit (just not too long, please), here’s another unanswered Q for all you inquisitive sleuths out there: What’s with Lindsay and those leggings? Everywhere LiLo goes, that ubiquitous black Lycra follows. Is she suffering some major razor burn or what?
Girl’s lack of a high school diploma is definitely showing.