What was ET thinking? Not to mention Justin Timberlake, who's giving Tom Cruise a run for his touchy throne. Jeez, are we all so nuts over the impending additions to the Brangelina brood that we're acting as crazy as Nicole Richie, who's pretending she's some kinda Valley housewife? Yikes!
Yep, it’s Monday, were bitchy and here’s what’s makin' us even more so:
All the News That’s S--t to Print: Who do the folks at ET think they are? Clearly they know the show isn't the New York Times or some other journalistic institution of integrity. But believe us, celeb nonsense shouldn’t necessarily be synonymous with makin’ stories up outta oxygen thinner than an Olsen. Word to the wise, ET, if college students can’t use Wikipedia as a source in bibliographies, then you can’t use a friggin’ goss blog to report on the Brangie twins’ nonbirth. Anyone claiming to be BFF to the Jolie-Pitt brood who breaks the not-so-news on a blog might not be telling the truth. Swallow whatever false sense of pride you think you’ve got and effing retract your merde already.
Just Go to Ikea: Speaking of the Brangie dad, Brad spent $25,000 on the most uncomfortable-looking chair we’ve ever seen, and another couple thou or so on a lamp that looks like Delia Deetz from Beetlejuice designed it (über-classy as it may be). Unless mansion-minded Angie's planning to pop the tots out on that all-too-sturdy-looking chair, we don’t see the point in dropping that much dough on something that was clearly chiseled back in the Stone Age. And isn’t all this crap gonna look like crap once it’s kiddie-proofed? That’s one way we know Jen Aniston is sleeping easy nowadays.
Freedom of the Press: Justin Timberlake is a singer/dancer/actor, and now he desperately wants to add diva to his résumé. J.T. wanted reporters to sign a release prohibiting them from asking any personal questions or anything that doesn’t pertain to his pic The Love Guru. Why bother with interviews? Everyone already knows you aren't up for any free-form gab. The reps for Timbo’s flick have nixed the contracts, but who do you think you are, J-hon? Tom Cruise?
Nicole Kidman, Sh--t-Kicker Enabler? N.K. still hasn’t owned up to the bodily harm the gorilla people in her employ inflicted on members of the paparazzi, who themselves have gone sickeningly silent. Is there no one in this town who can’t be bought? Are we the only idiots sill concerned about what kind of message this sends? Obviously.
More news on the sorta-kinda-couple of the mo'. Kate Hudson and Lance Armstrong were allegedly caught canoodling, and then some, at Cannes. More so, getting frisky in the bathroom at a posh party to a surprised partygoer’s discovery. Guess Lancey-pants is still enjoying the perks of having risen to the ranks of sports celebrity. And benefit numero uno is banging doable starlets wherever you damn well please.
What’s with long-ago goody-two-shoes do-gooder Lance-hon now keeping his privates very much in public while former town-painter Paris Hilton is getting all domesticated? Ever since shacking up with b-f Benji, gal’s turned from social butterfly to happy homemaker, making lasagna for her lover. ‘Course, P.H. hasn’t become a total recluse—she stepped out with B.M. just this week, wearing a babydoll dress that made it appear as though Pare-poo was all dolled up with a kiddo. She’s denied she’s spawning, to the great relief of everyone on planet Earth, so do we blame the misinformation on some suspect angles, too many trips to the salad bar or some clever tailoring? Either way, we aren't so sure this bad-girl/lame-boy pairing is gonna pan out. Just like Samantha on Sex and the City, this wild woman doesn’t do the wifey thang for more than a phase. As soon as she finds another pet to adopt, Benny-boy will be set out to pasture with Hilt-hon’s Tinkerbelle, that kinkajou and any other living creature she easily forgot about.
Then again, mamahood sure worked for Par’s pal Nicole, who went from heroin chic to Harlow in what feels like a matter of mere secs. Nicky and not-yet-hubby Joel (have they seriously not walked down the aisle yet?) ventured out of their home for N.E.R.D.’s CD release party in the heart of Hell-Ay, the Roosevelt Hotel. Musta brought back some sweet, scandalous memories for Miss Richie, who's basically lived and breathed T-town since birth. Guess she’s superserious about this starting over, picking a down-to-earth dude like J. Maddy as her suitor and packing up all her cargo and shipping it to, of all places (gasp), Glendale. Britney Spears and the Valley go hand in hand, and even K-Fed picked Tarzana as his HQ when he coulda used all his Spears settlement money to buy some real estate on Rodeo if he wanted. But Nicky-babe a hill away from H’wood? Girl must be starting to go stir-crazy all cooped up in a slow-going suburb.
If N.R. ever wants to grab some nightlife while keeping it low-key and local, she can always walk on over to the fab Margaret Cho's home, also in the hills of Glendale. Margo surely must send out an invite to the Madden pad for one of those darling bi-leather parties she throws every once in a while. See, Nicky? There’s still opportunity for a local wild 'n' crazy night without risking the chance of going the wrong way on the freeway ramp.
Few weeks ago we mentioned here at the A.T. Scott Raab's salacious book, Real Hollywood Stories, about his Hell-Ay adventures with celebs of all sorts, highlighting one particular passage from the book where Raab had a most intimate sit-down with Robert Downey Jr. on the set of Iron Man. Hilarious, and not at all surprising to see R.D. Jr. acting like a junior. At a small book reading at Latitude 33, a hole-in-the-wall bookstore in Laguna Beach, Will Ferrell's mom showed up to hear the audacious author wax poetic on her baby boy. It was an intimate crowd, but what mama Kay may not have known was that she was in for some fairly intimate info on her son—deets on his tush, for ince. There’s no such thing as TMI in T-town, obvs. Example? Just take a peek at Raab’s convo with W.F. when he asked Willy if he had to shave his derriere for the hilar flick Old School:
“No, no, it was just ready to go,” says Will. “No makeup?” Raab asks. “I don’t think there was, and now that you bring that up, I think I missed an opportunity. I should have requested powder.” And it went downhill and down the backside from there.
Mrs. Ferrell cheerfully took the (literally) cheeky mention of her son rather well, going up to Raab and asking him to sign an old Esquire with her baby boy gracing the cover. “I teach English, and I’m really enjoying your writing,” complimented the funnyman’s mama to Raab, a sort of older, grayer version of Ferrell himself, only slightly better looking. Jeez, little wonder where W.F. gets his roll-with-it demeanor. Gotta wonder how Sean Penn's mama would have handled the sitch, seeing as there aren’t exactly the sweetest things written about the testy actor in the same tome.
I asked Raab recently which Hollywood figure he’d most like to interview. "Bono,” he barked. "He’s such a self-righteous twit.”
Well, darling, at least he has the most divine taste in eyewear and music, to which Raab grudgingly agreed I had a point.
Now that a bit more respectful amount of time’s passed since Sydney Pollack died, thought I’d mention how utterly game I found the Tootsie and Way We Were director (and what an engaging comedian he was, too, as myriad flicks like Death Becomes Her and Husbands and Wives attest). Early on after launching this column, I got a question from a reader wanting to know why Raul Julia wasn’t credited in Havana, a movie directed by Pollack.
I rang him up. He got on the phone. Was rather unusual for powerful H'wood figures who so often prefer to hide behind armies of human pit bulls, also known as publicists, managers, agents and hairdressers. “The role was a cameo,” Sydney politely explained. “I couldn’t give him top billing, and there wasn’t any place else to put him.” What about one of those "special appearance by" tags, I asked. “That had already gone to, uh, that ex cowboy actor, you know, what’s his name,” Sydney said puzzled, laughing at himself in the process.
He made no apologies for not knowing. Loved that then, love it now.
Dear Ted:
You even need to ask why all us girlie girls would go lesbo for Angelina Jolie? Ted, Ted, Ted...she's the de facto go-to in female beauty. And she probably knows what she's doing...counts for a lot! And that is sexy in a man or woman. Megan Fox? Not in a million years, baby.
Kathy
Salt Lake City
Dear Meg Messer:
Fab points until the end, I fear. How the hell do you know what talents Ms. F might surprise you with?