Just back from vacay, I’m too tanned 'n' tacky on all things Hilton, not to mention, Schwarzenegger and Bush—you know, the usual podium potshot folks I live for. Plus, you’ll never guess which big ol' Texas loudmouth is getting hitched!
I feel just like Paris Hilton.
Let me explain.
Just back from Hawaii, where I went with the b-f, J.P. ‘Twas wonderful. First we hit Maui, where Oprah and the Dalai Lama, like, totally rule. It’s all everybody was talking about. And this is what I adore about my 50th-state pals: They, just like us naughty Angelinos, want it both ways—at all times.
See, even though Richard Gere wasn't present (can't think why) for His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama's dedication of some Tibetan temple or another, all the locals were in a frenzy. Worshippers of the homeless leader fainted, cried and trembled in the old guy's presence. Too thrilling!
Quite frankly, I hear the old dude was more excited by the exquisite flowers in his hotel suite, but that's just nasty goss—wouldn't pay too much attention to that one.
Far more reliable are those succulent stories circulating among motivated Maui-ites who live for loose-lipping 'bout their celebrated locals—such as Ms. O.—just as much as praying to the posh preacher types. Love this:
O.-doll, whom we all know I live to adore (want that bitch to be president, already!) has a gaga glorious estate up-country, which, for all you plebian types, means away from the touristy riffraff at the island's more crowded and popular beaches.
The conglomerate cutie visits her secluded acreage a lot. And I don't mean that little Hana ranchero job she's got. This is far snootier stuff. And, guess who, according to connected M.-ites, never comes to town with her?
“She's always with her girlfriends,” whispered a Maui maven who knows her fish fork from her well-toned bum. “Never Stedman. Never.”
Well, dearies, I'm absolutely sure that last italicization (which, I know, I'm far too fond of myself) was nothing more than gossipy exaggeration. But then again, maybe not?
Hear the same dude-free travel itinerary often occurred in Montecito, O.'s former fave grander-than-grand getaway. But, 'course, as I've said, the time-off place for the busy showbiz gal is currently Maui.
Where Oprah utterly lives to find the best lasagna she can—and she's wholly unafraid to let herself be seen chompin' it down in public.
Knew I loved that broad for a reason. Here's to East Wing pasta parties in 2008!
Oh, I forgot, was supposed to tell you all why I felt just like Paris Hilton. I think I have sunstroke, must have gotten carried away with why I dig O. so. I'm sure you, like me, used to cherish our Paris. Do we still?
This latest biz of blaming her poor publicist (a flack who's supposedly still working with P.H., yeah, right) for her legal woes just happens to be the Teflon icing on the elitist Bel-Air cake. And that mama Kathy chewing out the judge for sentencing Paris? Excuse my middle-class ass?
Suddenly, memories of Kathy chastising me, on television, that my outfits were tacky and too tight (true, they always are, slap me silly for it, see if I care) came back to life all over again. I mean, there was the woman, 15-minutes' famous herself for schooling the world on how to live fancy-prancy style, chewing out Paris' legal attack dogs just like she was wearing a hot-pink halter top and chomping gum.
But at least K.'s not afraid of defending her young in public, sorta like O.'s balmy mission to stand up for the right to openly crave carbs, must commend it all, in the end. Sad sitch all the way round, though.
Sorta like Mare-kuh’s first lady, Laura Bush, whom I still hear is holing up at that posh Dee-Cee hotel, the Hay-Adams, while she suffers through—albeit at a distance—her hubby’s latest drinking. Oh, and thanks Popbitch, you crusty doll-cakes! Saw that you and myriad other goss locales picked that one up while I was away on vacay.
Jeez—credit, how friggin’ unusual in this back-stabbing biz, n’est-ce pas? Oh, and on that nicey note, thanks to Cristina Gibson for penning things primo while I was away. Were you all bad or good to her? Very baddie sassy, I assume, just to make her feel at Awful Truth home, eh? Never mind, back to my time off, not to mention the Paris-esque point.
Which brings me to why I feel like Ms. Hilton today—kinda/sorta/maybe just a li'l. All legal and loony, really. See, my partner, whose name is Jon Powell, got all rather Paris Latsis when we were on a deserted Hawaiian beach.
Mind you, J. didn't have a huge-butt rock with him, but, he did do something that's often accompanied with such brilliant specimens: He proposed. And I do mean marriage, not, just the Pam Anderson-style sandy nooky that often accompanies such traditions. And guess what?
I said yes.
So, get ready, Ah-nuld, you homo-bashing big-hair. Since the California legislature approved gay marriage, only to be vetoed by your fruit-served self (I mean, do you all know how many gays have serviced Schwarzenegger's girlie coiffure alone?), I suspect my attention to your sorry and sagging behind will only increase during my engagement.
'Cause a gossip columnist can't live by love alone.