Jeez, a bit much, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not like they’re filming something really important, like what Britney Spears does in her Mulholland Drive bathroom after one of her pals makes it past Daddy Jamie. The hills of Studio City, see, are far more tough than UCLA Medical was for the imprisoned pop tart. At least when she wants to have fun (naked), like she still likes to.
And if I hear anybody ask, Why not just adapt Andrew Morton’s book? I swear, I’ll stuff copies of Tori Spelling’s new revenge job right up their butt. Morton’s tome is so not chilling enough for this weirder-than-H.G. Wells tale.
Oh, and on the spooky subject of Ms. Spelling’s prose attempts, must tell you that Mama Candy’s amigos are undertaking the sweetest little effort for their good chum: They’re all taking great pains to try and make certain Candy doesn’t read the silly thing, but they’re making sure to read it themselves, just so they’ll “know what’s said.”
But the flick’s pointless trash, and Jare’s Southern accent sounded like Forrest Gump taking a diction class. Jared was far more interesting and jovial in person than we expected him to be—his put-upon persona as frontman to emo band 30 Seconds to Mars makes him seem as personable as a school bully.
Mascara man talked at length about the difficulty of balancing a film and a music career, when out of the audience, someone screamed, “What’s your band’s name?” Ouch. Betcha Pete Wentz never gets that one anymore. Somebody in the crowd answered, “30 Seconds from Mars!” to which someone else shot back, “It’s 30 Seconds to Mars!” “Same thing!” screamed back the first incorrect know-it-all.
You can drink milkshakes like water and develop gout all you want for a subpar pic, Leto-love, but it’s not gonna win your band any new fans, clearly.
And what’s with all these so-called rockers and their health problemos? Idol’s David Cook was sent to the hospital room postperformance show for high blood pressure and heart palpitations. Don’t worry, D.C. fans, he was just copycatting some unheard-of indie band that was copycatting a time the Beatles went in for medical care.
Nice spin control on that unright slight, Idol producers, for having Cooksie give props to all those bands he’s been “borrowing” arrangements from. If you’re all about tackling controversies head-on, then hey, why doncha discuss what the ef has been up with Paula since day one?
Our Bev Hillz source, tho, saw a perhaps sad side to the beautiful babe’s usually ultraglam life. Zoe-hon, we're told, was perusing Tiffany's on Rodeo Drive, eyeing all the shiny diamonds and such on display. Guess the gal’s fame, along with the plastic in her pocket, wasn’t enough to get on the radar, really, of one par-tick Tiffany employee, who our bauble-eyein’ snooper says was ridiculously snobby to the Dominican-American actress.And just what the ef’s up with retail workers sticking their noses in the air like they’re better than the walk-ins whose wallets keep ‘em employed? Hope Z.S. was able to recoup after her Pretty Woman reenactment and head over to Bulgari, where there aren’t so many snooty salespeeps sneering at you. (Say that five times, very fast, now.) They’re just very smart workers trying to make a little moola in a hideous economy—like, wake up, you idiot Tiffsters. By the by, can remember my mama, Mariah, complaining to her mother about the same clerk crap happening at Neiman's in Dallas. “Just remember, dear,” Grandmother Casablanca snit-shot right back, “they’re behind the counter, you’re in front.” Touché, eh, Zoe?