Oh, those babely Beckhams, you gotta love 'em (or not, if you're a fan of women putting sustenance in their bods, but whatev). David Beckham is like a total DILF, even though England dropped his taut bum from their soccer team. And how 'bout that painfully svelte wife-unit of his, Victoria, who was a freakin' former Spice chica? Hello, that's reason enough for me to adore them--you?
Evidently, Kate Holmes can't get enough of Poshster, either, judging by their Chanel-clad gallivanting through Fashion Week in Paris.
Anyhow, if you're on Team Becks, like moi, you're gonna love this latest scoop, told to yours truly by a little British birdie. A regular ol' non-celeb couple was celebrating their 20th anni' together. They'd booked their original honeymoon suite at a trendy, gorgeous boîte in England for the occasion. Too dear, too darling.
Until those Beckhams came along, wantin' the same exact suite the very same weekend. Quelle horreur! Management of said spot was beside themselves trying to convince the honeymooners to switch their va-cay dates to accomodate Becks 'n' Posh. Various incentives were offered, but no dice--the duo stuck to their pre-reserved guns.
And then the Beckhams pulled out the rich-as-sin artillery and offered to drop some beaucoup bucks. About 95,000 British sterling, if you want to get technically checking account about it. (That's a cool $140K, for all you non-crumpet eaters.) Becks & Co., I'm told, reportedly offered to pay off the rest of the honeymoonin' duo's big-butt bills if they could have the swanky-ass suite.
Can you friggin' believe it? All that for one measly hotel romp? Of course they accepted. Wonder what the hell the Beckhams did in that very pricey temporary pad?
Hope it was worth it, and I hear it ain't the first time you're rumored to have pulled the celeb cash card. But this time, my U.K. snoops insist it went down. Now for things of utter certainty, read on.
Yeah, that’s right. I’m delaying--with whatever juice I can tease ya with--before I get to the utter downfall (temporary, though, I'm sure it will be) of Ms. R. In a minute.
So, there I am at the fancy-ass Pantages Theater on Hollywood Blvd., waiting to get in the crammed joint--as we were all foolish enough to think just possibly this could be a quasi-hot ticket, to use a phrase I admittedly overuse.
“I loved your item about my quasi-posh wedding,” squealed Krista Smith, west coast editor of Vanity Fair. K.S., natch, was referring to my item a few weeks back ‘bout George Clooney re-rehooking up with Renée Zellweger at Krista’s nuptial do (at the Sunset Tower on the Strip).
“Oh, jeez, I dunno,” K. half-sassed, “all I know is he crashed my wedding.”
“No!” I screamed, very, very gay.
“Uh, yes,” the jaded magazine editor answered back. “He wasn’t invited.”“Well, you were a doll not to have him thrown out.”
“I couldn’t,” K.S. replied. “Everyone in my family was going crazy.”
Now, considering November cover boy G.C. was pulling such above antics right before the notoriously last-minute cover-switching V.F. powers that be closed their issue, I wonder if Georgey had any ulterior motives? You know--and less romantic intentions toward ex Renée?
I’m sure not, but look, I’ve asked far worse things, trust.
Like, what the whatever is up with former Brat Pack queen Molly Ringwald? Caught her show, as I said, last week. Do you think it was an early sign of what was to come (or not) that the biggest stars in the audience were Rex Lee and Jo Anne Worley?
Perhaps. Now, I live for sexy Rexy, but if I were takin’ the chance M.R. was by taking on the dancing-singing-acting-hoofing-out-the-wazoo role Shirley MacLaine made famous, I think I’d want some of H-town’s more established in attendance.
Good thing they weren’t there.
Where I must give New Yawk-based Molly-love high marks are for (1) earnest acting appeal onstage and (2) not starving herself into Hell-Ay stick-thinness. That said, the woman cannot dance. At all. It was embarrassing, almost as if I suddenly announced I was marrying Lee (who has a b-f, by the by, but one he lost that night for whatever reason I do not know, surely couldn’t have been from giddy excitement).
More curious than why the hell M.R. put herself into this situation--as even she’s said she can’t shake it up worth a damn--is why the eff she cast only women who must add up to a combined weight of, oh, say, 112 pounds, all half-dozen babes put together.
Indeed, was not a pleasant sight. Must be why not one friggin’ Brat Packer made an appearance, either at the show or the after-party (that I could tell). Hell, not even Emilio.
And the night before, Wednesday night, was the launch party for Our Stories Films, the first production company ever in which an African American will have the ability to greenlight a movie. Pretty big deal in Tinseltown, and evidently Eddie Murphy agreed. He showed up for the bash at Social, minus rumored fiancée Scary Spice (aka Mel B.). And of course, Mr. Murphy didn’t talk to any press. “He hasn’t done any interviews since the tranny incident!” lamented one reporter.
But all that’s gonna change soon, as his big comeback flick, Dreamgirls, is comin’ out soon. Yo, bitch! Ya better get used to doin’ press pronto then. Hear me, Mr. M.?
Also at the same soiree was Brandy, with little bro and rapper Ray J, who was also playin’ personal assistant to Brandy. “Does anyone have any gum?” he implored us all, as Brandy posed for pics. Too cute.
Less adorable is T-town’s predictable habit of hauling as much African-American fare into Big Momma-esque comedies, right? I asked round how to get out of this executive-row nasty habit.
"It's time to expand. Get all the talent, get all the dramas, comedies, whatever. If it's urban, if it's a urban community to come together and let's do it," answered Ray J. Sounds good to moi.
What you say, H-town?