No Moans About It

We check in on the Patrick Swayze sadness...plus, is the battle of Nicole Kidman's rep ferociously defending her client's baby condition having a fairly lethal aftereffect? Seems so. And American Idol worshippers, get read for our meanie Monday Pissed List! Very Simon-esque here at AT today, sorry.

If you thought Ghost was a tearjerker before, you’re never gonna be able to watch the flick again without a truckload of Kleenex by your side. Patrick Swayze’s peeps, 'course, confirmed the '80s icon has pancreatic cancer and, naturally, the Internet was instantly a-gaggle with worry that P.S. only has a few weeks to live, tops, though Pat’s publicist and doc paint a more positive pic.

Unbelievably upsetting, but with all respect to the Swayze clan, why, exactly, do we need to know this incredibly hideous problem? Beloved actor, yes, but he’s not a political figure whose demise would mean potential Castro-size catastrophe.

This is some serious stuff, and I feel almost dirty just knowing about its existence. Even if the deadly disease turns out to be zilch (which I’m crossing my fingers it does), I doubt Swayz-babe wants to walk around lookin’ like a charity case in the meantime.

Where the ef is the line in demanding every last detail of a celeb’s life? Is a life-and-death sitch off-limits to our greedy little eyeballs 'n' ears? Guess not. Which starlet’s shacking up with which sports star is small potatoes—now we sniff out addictions and sexual preferences and baby bumps like it’s our heavenly tabloid-given right as Americans to be 110 percent aware of what goes on in H-town 24/7. The e-snoops are totally the new CIA, n’est-ce pas?

That said, remember Death-Mint Myrtle from One Wasted Waist Blind Vice? We’re revealing that waif-thin star who keeps her show’s editors up half the night (in vain digital attempts to make it appear like Death Mint’s actually got an ounce of flesh on her), this week. See, life’s too short for those whose bodies are deteriorating—and not by their own accord.

And as long as we’re on biz that ain’t really ours (read on a bit), you caught that nonsense last week between Nicole Kidman’s publicist, Catherine Olim, and New York Post columnist Cindy Adams, I'm sure. All started with Cindy reporting that Nicole asked for white wine at the Oscars. Pregnant Nic, 'course. C. Olim, like the protective mama-bear flack she be, swung out her big, exquisitely manicured paw and cut Cindy with a bleeding dismissal about how Cindy never gets anything right, and, as if that wasn’t enough, called the venerable goss-gal “an idiot.”

Those fab little Goldilocks types over at Defamer made quite the to-do about it, 'course, and it was all too weird. Did Cindy, who’s delivered heaps o’ correct dish on that Trump dynasty I care absolutely nothing about—not to mention Jessica and Nick’s demise—get one wrong? Does she stand by her story? Or was she just the latest to incur the wrath of take-no-prisoners Olim, famously impatient with those who chronicle H-town not as she prefers (I know this from personal experience, trust).

I rang Adams up. “To what do I owe the honor?” she bellowed. I mentioned Nicole and company. “You must want something,” she quasi-roared. “Yeah, I want to know if you stand by your story,” I most politely growled back. “I am not going there,” is all Adams would provide as explanation. Never known this broad to be circumspect. Ever. 

“What have you done to Cindy Adams?” I then asked Olim, after calling to find out if she’d participated in any further private mauling of the New York institution. No response. I then told Mama Olim I’d asked Cindy directly, and she wouldn’t comment on the veracity of her original story.

“That’s because she made it up,” Ms. O sniffed. “But I must tell you, I’m done with my 15 minutes of fame on this one.”

Fine. Asked about Nicole’s tummy, as everybody in Camp Nic is keeping mum on the sex of Kidman’s expected baby with retired gal-wrangler Keith Urban. When’s the due date? “July, I believe.” Fab, I said, so very gay. Then asked if there was going to be a joint wedding anniversary (June 25) and Baby-X birth celebration. Olim said she found it a “personal” query but nonetheless promised the Awful Truth would be the first to learn if said hoedown goes down. Merci, babe, but quite frankly, I’d rather know what the hell went down to shut up one of Manhattan’s most notorious mouths.

Liza Minnelli in the American Airlines terminal at JFK. Lady M donned a pink T-shirt, warm-up pants and kicks, obvs flying in comfort. That’s the way to do it, Liz—I’m fed up with celebs attempting air travel poised and polished for a runway as though they’re above wearing sweatpants like “normal” folk. L.M. also wore a face pancaked with powder, but not even a mug covered in makeup could conceal her thin and feeble frame. Judy’s little girl seemed to need help even walking, causing everyone from security to other passengers to comment on how frail the Cabaret icon appeared. Hope you’re doing well, Liz-babe! You were a formative figure in my fey upbringing, trust. Also live from New Yawk was...

LL Cool J, heading down to Miami from JFK. Could the rapper-sometimes-actor be flying south for the Winter Music Conference? I hope so, just so all of Ef-Hell-Ay could get a gander of his toned tum. L2CJ flew first class, natch, wearing a zip-up hoodie from his very own Todd Smith clothing line. Self-promotion can be appealing, espesh when it’s on the original Mr. Smith. I’m just surprised El-El doesn’t own his own jet by now. Does his '80s rapping rival Will Smith have his own plane? Or does he just use BFF Tom Cruise's butch wings when he needs to escape?

Hey, it’s Monday ayem, and you know what that means—we’re cranky! More than usual, I know. So let’s hit this week’s highly opinionated listing of things gone awry in celebville with a special American Idol edition:

Strip Slip:  Last Wednesday, the show winked to contestant Ramiele Malubay’s embarrassing Internet snafu by poking her for a quote, but there was nada said on the bigger and more scandalous story regarding David Hernandez and his nude, lap-dancing past. First off, folks, Ram-babe’s sexy shots were lower on the outrageous-o-meter than Miley Cyrus’ leaked MySpace pics, trust. What’s with the unequal treatment between the needlessly humiliated honey and the dude with the gyrating scrotum?

Paula Pound-Stoned:  Paula Abdul’s been stretching the definition of “judging” Idol for seven seasons and still has yet to give one valid criticism. Paul-Ab either pays backward compliments (since when does “You look beautiful” have squat to do with someone’s voice?), or she mumbles incoherently in between sips of extrapotent fruit juices from Peru, we’re sure. When Ms. A is able to form complete sentences, she gets it way wrong. Her critique of the hit show’s only standout blonde, Brooke White, and her acoustic interp of “Love Is a Battlefield” was absolutely unfounded. Can she at least be joined by a newer model, come contract time? Someone with equal doses pop power and crazy? Britney’s got nothing going on nowadays, last we checked. I hear being a volunteer teacher at the Millennium Dance Complex doesn’t pay so well.

Eight Angry Men:  Idol’s making sure the Top 12 is nice and gender equal, forcing six guys and six girls into the top spots regardless of who's got the most goods. There were at least seven men who deserved (whether through talent or good television) to get into that Top 12, and maybe three gals, at most. Our opinion, kiss our taut butts if you don’t agree. Hey, we’re all for being gender neutral here at AT, which means someone shouldn’t slide into a spot they shouldn’t have just 'cause of their genitalia.

Coulda-Woulda-Shoulda:  You, America, are on out Pissed List this week for voting off the feisty Danny Noriega, easily the most entertaining aspect of the show. He was this season’s Sanjaya, but with better singing chops and a helluva lot more sass. Dan-babe made perfect TV, let’s hope he finds his way back to the reality show universe via Fear Factor or MTV’s True Life: I’m Fierce.