Updates on the sensational sitches we participated in (but, trust, did not start) regarding Jen Garner and Ben Affleck, not to mention Brangelina's balmier abodes. Plus, Paris puzzles while K-Fed muzzles. It's enough to make Britney Spears chain-smoke in court.
It's no secret that the same source who first told us that Jen Garner was leaving Michael Vartan for Ben Affleck recently let us know Ms. G was now getting ready to similarly relieve herself of Affleck, or at least, the darlin' dimpled star was putting together an exit plan, getting ready for the big split, as it were. Affleck's camp strongly denied. Garner's camp, on the other hand, was mum toward us. Until now:
"No truth," relayed J.G.'s tough-talking New York rep. "They are fine." That's all we got until additional members of the family guiding the former Alias star added: "Someone really has it in for Jen. I don't understand—she's the nicest girl." Said Garner insider also insisted Jen's mom-in-law and Jenny are BFFs, quite contrary to what our original tipster implied. Who's tellin' the truth here, everybody?
As is always the case with a gossip column (which this happens to be, in case you've forgotten, hons—Anderson Cooper's gray-haired hotbed of unarguable fact we are not), time will most likely tell. Here's hopin' the predictors of marital peril are off!
Media P.S.: Some gosses sure are piranha-esque. Us Weekly screamed with an “exclusive” that our Jen and Ben story was “fabricated,” per Jen’s flack. Uh, no, not made up. I don’t do that. I’m not 3 years old, dears. And had you bothered to contact me for this story—or the one below, which Us editors apparently also delighted in putting their debunking spin on—I would have gladly offered up some edifying specifics and why we originally ran the items. But apparently, checking in with reporters isn’t done. Only gatekeepers to the stars are rung up for their spin control—to ensure future access to said celeb minders, natch. Journalistic integrity’s about as alive and well in this town as Michael Vartan’s heart.
Witness, too, our item about Brad and Angie selling their New Orleans home, a real-estate nugget gifted to us from Louisiana locals familiar with the French Quarter mansh. Some of these tipsters, by the by, still insist the Jolies are done with N.O., but the beautiful couple’s reppers say it ain’t so. These mouthpieces saw fit to respond to other publications about the story. Per usual, didn’t have the good graces to give us a comment when we originally asked, but hell, we're used to it.
Official word, then, has it that B, A and the gang still have their names on the lease, so residents can still point and stare at the celeb spot. Personally, we’re über pleased the Jolie-Pitts are staying put in their elegant, politically correct pad. Brad-babe’s always up to some do-gooding when he’s down in that area, and we so know this sexy couple must love Mardi Gras and all that spicy Cajun cooking. But a note to any tourists traveling in that neck of the woods: good luck spotting the movie stars and their army of tots in the area. They’ve got so much property purchased and leased all over the damn world, we bet not one of their huge pads will ever really feel lived in. Or is that the point?
Also spoke with a Brangie source who knows not so much about the couples’ titles, but their deeds, rather. As in emotional ones. I mentioned to the Brangie camper that some other buds to Mr. P had complained to me that the Brad-ster was becoming veddy fancy since hooking up with the big-lipped star. Private planes. Majorly expensive coffee tables. Rented posh digs, etc. I asked how long until A breaks his newly materialistic heart (as she is wont to do with men).
“They’re really tied emotionally now with the kids,” she relayed. “So it’ll be longer than it would have been otherwise, I think.”
Wow, that’s a glowing love report.
“Britney's here! Britney’s here!”
So chanted all the attorneys in the area when the pop mama showed her mug at Family Court in downtown Hell-Ay this past Tuesday. Looks like even lawyers lose their cool when the über-famous and flawed entity known as Britney Spears enters their eyesight. So professional.
Brit-babe managed to convince the judge of her mental health and got some overnight visitation with her kiddos, congrats to unstable moms everywhere. We still think her fashion sense is lacking, more importantly. B.S.’s legal wear included green capris, tan wedges and a tight white top, topped off with Baby Jane Pancake makeup and one greasy-looking weave. Seriously, that thing falling from Spearsie’s head is like the anti-Rachel cut for today’s generation on how never to wear your coif. Didn’t Britters shave her head more than a year and a half ago? Surely enough musta grown back since then, why damage your dome with excruciating extensions? We’re no judge (in the for-real sense), but if gal can’t get a hold on her hairdo, we think two kids are still too much to handle.
Kevin Federline, on the other hot-mess hand, donned a suit, ya know, like grown-ups do. Not a touch of bling on him. Never saw this metamorphosis coming...We almost miss the white-trash, faux-rapper K-Fed. He was a lot more fun to make fun of, that’s fer sure. Now we sorta respect him. Is it the apocalypse already? And lest you think any of those rumors of a mommy and daddy reunion romance are true, neither Kev or Brit-Brit looked at one another a bit the whole time. Tommy and Pam Anderson they are not. Consider them kaput, for good.
Most importantly though, we must mention the court’s public information officers behaved much more like star-struck celeb assistants, fetching Brit (not Kev, mind you) water whenever she needed, frantically cooing over her and escorting the popped tart to the roof whenever she felt like a smoke. This is what taxpayers are funding? Servicing the already overly serviced? Paris Hilton in the joint, all over again. Speaking of...
Photos have been flung on the Interwebs of P-Hil and her b-f, Benji Madden, sunbathing on the shady balcony of a Bev Hills mansion. What we find more ridiculous than these silly sunbathers searching for a tan in the shade is the thought of these hons sharing the same oxygen, much less swapping spit. In one corner we have the quasi-talented (sorry sweetie, we’ve seen your clothing designs and your sex tape, you’re not exactly expert at either) socialite who is constantly coiffed within an inch of her life whenever she stumbles out of her house. So who knows what Par-poo saw in the other corner: Benji-boy, a musician with one extreme bald spot, a gut and a bod of god-awful tattoos—including the obvious choice of inking “punk” across his nonabs. It’s like the prom queen slumming it for the mysterious boy in black who was stuck in the back of the class and spent all his time in the garage playing with his bad band. They’re straight out of a John Hughes flick, these two.
Did Princess Pee’s stint the slammer really open up her oculars to see more than just golden Greek shipping heirs when looking for a mate? A month without a male model must make a gal lonely and desperate for pretty much any dude. Or is P.H. still the attention-seeking snob we always saw her as, and all this Madden marriage talk is purely just that—talk? That sure would stick it to buddy Nicole, who got on everyone’s good side by finding a nice, grounded guy like Joel to make babies with.
Oh, forgot to tell you about this little bit from when I blabbed with my old E! News colleague Jules Asner, who just penned a fab, bitchy novel called Whacked and who’s married, ‘course, to George Clooney’s main man, director Steven Soderberg. J’s lucky enough to hang with Mr. C. Like, a lot. She loves him. So do I! Which is why I just had to ask if his broken heart (for the millionth time with his latest undeserving g-f) was going to mend. Would he ever recover and finally settle down with the right lover, I pressed Jules.
“Why would he want to,” she asked, as if I were the biggest cupid idiot in the world. “He’s George Clooney.” Hey, don’t sexy ‘n’ gray love gods need tender settling down, too, eventually?
Apparently not. Nor does this one plan to. Trust.