A.T. will be back and better-than-big-hair ever next week, starting Tuesday! Have a few surprises for you, all you goss badasses. So be there or be left out in the uncoiffed cold, just like Christopher Ciccone.
Toothy Tile's got some big-box (office) competition with a similarly closeted mega movie star who's awfully kinky by the pool—check it out in Blind Vice Friday! Plus, is Kate Hudson a divorcée in distress? Oh, mama, say it ain't so!
Looks like ABC News has cottoned on to what we already knew and reported eons ago: Lindsay Lohan’s ambiguous arm candy ain’t getting DJ gigs on her spinning goods alone. “When you book Samantha Ronson for a party, you’re not booking her because she’s a great DJ...They know if they book Samantha, Lindsay’s going to come,” reported the late-to-the-soiree writer this past Wednesday. We were already privy to that info firsthand when we showed our swanky asses up to the Pink Is the New Blog relaunch party back in June, where SamRo spun...mildly, we might add, both in action and intensity. Sammy spent most of her set smoking behind the booth, choosing obvious pop songs to play on the speakers instead of experimenting with anything new. If Linds can experiment with new things, why can’t you, Sammy-gal? We’re still sticking to your sibling Mark for our music needs.
And as long as we’ve gotten off to a hideously snitty start, let’s keep it up, mes chères! Two T-town babes are being very bitched about behind their supersvelte backs. One we’ll name; one we won’t (well, at least, not right this sec). Kate Hudson, freshly Armstrong-ed out of her latest “relationship,” is making many of her buds gab. “Can we say desperate?” one of her Hollywood chums asked yours truly when I asked what the ef K.H., a normally bitchin’ babe who uses men like Madonna uses doctor visits, was doing being some kind of romantic tool for the politically aspiring cancer survivor. “I think she’s worried about getting older.”
Excuse the crow’s-feet out of me, but since when did pretending to be somebody’s booby plaything make a mother and respected actor appear to be anything but sadly over...I mean older? Now, I’d recommend, as a nice head start in reinventing yourself—romantically and celebrity speaking (which the divorced and Owen Wilson-ized Hudson seems to want—how ‘bout a date with a dude who’s (a) into you and (b) into you?
Also, there’s a very high-profile dame in town who might want to start getting better friends. Her serpent-tongued amigas are selling out their girlfriend—who’s divorcing from her creepazoid , very rich hubby—right and left, talking crap about her everywhere. Hosts are complaining about having to “choose” which half of the splitting couple they’ll invite to parties. What a dilemma! Seating plans trump mental anguish any day in H'wood, right? No one cares about said potential divorcée, in the least, only about her soon-to-be-ex-schmuck’s money. Women, per usual, are expendable in this town. Never the green.
Justin Long, hanging at the H’wood British pub the Cat N' Fiddle on a Tuesday eve, with some male amigos. Donning a slacker getup of jeans and a tee, J.L. spent the night drinking beer after beer, drowning out his Drew dreams. The dude def didn’t seem to be enjoying himself without his Barrymore babe. (Guess we know who did the dumping in this sad split-up sitch.) So much for an alleged Kirsten Dunst hookup curing what ails this heartbroken hon. Drinking with mucho more merriment was...
Kevin Spacey, in San Diego at the Eden, the Ivy Hotel’s posh rooftop hot spot. Kev was in town during the Comic-Con craze—let’s hope this has nothing to do with a Superman sequel in our near future. K.S. ordered bottle service for himself and his pals, slinging back spirits well into the night. Space-babe’s night finally ended when a local cop offered to drive him back to his hotel since he couldn’t find a sober ride himself among his merry men. Wonder if Spacey got drunk just for the privilege? Wouldn't put it past him. If only Kevy was as smart with his film choices. Gettin’ along, little doggy, was funnyman...
John C Reilly, singing country and bluegrass songs at the new Largo on La Cienega, Hell-Ay. J.C.R. was in the audience for a performance from the supersecluded Fiona Apple (who our source swears was wearing braces and looking more waifish than usual). Johnny C. took the stage for a country western cameo, fully decked out in a black button-up cowboy shirt, boots and blue jeans. We already knew this comedy guy was also a country crooner, channeling Johnny Cash in Walk Hard. But who knew he was a Fiona Apple fan? More discreet in a less dank place was...
Kim Basinger, shopping at Urban Outfitters in Studio City, two places in which we never thought we’d catch the regal Ms. K cavorting. Maybe she’s picking up a pantsuit for daughter Ireland? The slender star sported a supersmooth, shiny face, which could be from gosh, sweat, or from the Hell-Ay sun, your pick. (Ours is obvious.) Kimmy def didn’t wanna be recognized in the hip fashion spot, hiding herself under a hat and dark sunglasses. Open up, B-babe! We know ya still got the looks—you’re surely lookin’ better at 54 than Madonna is at 50, sacrilegious as it is to sass.
Becky’s back, boys 'n' babes, after a two-week break from the gossip game. She headed on over to Israel for a birthright trip—the fully paid pilgrimage, ya might call it, for Jewish youths to explore their heritage and homeland. The Middle East ain’t exactly Cabo St. Lucas or St. Tropez, so there were no piña coladas consumed, but there was also no Paris Hilton, and that’s a vacation enough for someone who has to stare at her smirk day in and day out.
Par-poo was far, far away bedding Benji or whatever it is she does nowadays, but—get this—our darlin’ Becks could never fully escape celebs, espesh when she visited Tzfat, the birthplace of Jewish mysticism, Kabbalah—known to H’wood regulars who don the red bracelets as the religious version of Lance Armstrong’s yellow wristbands. Local artist David Friedman of Israel’s Kosmic Kabbalah told it pretty straight, ironically enough, to the American tourists who didn’t know any better than to blindly look toward movie stars for information: “I bet when you think of Kabbalah, you think Britney Spears, Madonna," he snickered with diss-respect. These celebrities have made it a trendy thing, when it’s so much more,” Friedman hissed. You mean there’s more to being spiritual than being stylish like Demi and Ashton? Talk about exploring an entirely new world.
Kate Hudson sure knows this fact! Now, love is a tricky mother, par-tick here in Hell-Ay. Even though some of our fave couples throughout the years seemed to bite the bitter dust—Jen and Brad, Britney and Justin, Heidi Fleiss and Charlie Sheen—we always hold out hope for an H'wood-style happy ending. That’s why we here at the A.T. have decided to play matchmaker—only when absolutely necessary—when we feel it a must to throw out who’s best poised for that Brangelina-style domination. First up...
Amy Winehouse and Andy Dick, Pet Name: Wine ‘n’ Dick.
Don’t you think these two warm messes are a match made in rehab heaven? Amy, who was just rushed to the hospital and then went right out partying, is simply a crack-up. That’s why a comedian like A.D. could suit the sordid singer’s needs. Plus, Andy loves to grope people, so Amy’s hair alone could give him oodles of entertainment. Now, you always gotta think of the potential ex-factor, too. A-boy is certainly on a par, looks-wise, with Amy’s on-again, off-again hubby Blake Fielder-Civil, and since Andy swings both ways, it’s no biggie that A.W. is a tad androgynous. We can’t help but place their mug shots side by side and hear wedding bells. Pretend you do, too.
Crotch Uh-Lastic is the latest T-town lad to loosen his gay inhibitions—as long as he's at home by the pool with a damn-near porn script! Check it out in an all-wet, all-new Blind Vice!