Mmm. Sa-tis-fying

Some things? Better left unsaid. Not that I grapple with notions of karma--or responsibility or repercussions of any sort, for that matter. But I firmly, incorruptibly believe that the story about Michael Jackson supposedly asking a grocery store in Boynton Beach, Florida, if he could have the blown-up baby photos that decorate the baby aisle after he bought somewhere north of $850 worth of balloons, junk food, and disposable cameras from them, well, that story is definitely better left un-fucking-said. It just is.

And you KNOW it sa-tis-fies. (I can't stop saying that!)

I'm just not in the mood for a great drama this week. (Oh, capriciousness! Thou art my perdition!) So whilst I'm riding high on my drama-free high-horse, how can I report that Richard Reid--the big NWCN fairypants about whom I penned a six-thousand-fucking-word mega opus of adulation during one of my outrageously rare lapses in taste and judgment, and who, I'll have it known, acted like a great big JACKASS throughout the project, ignoring the fact that BILLIONS of people would slice their nuts into cocktail twists to have me write FIVE fucking complimentary SYLLABLES about their sorry asses in print, thank-you-very-much and kiss-my-ass, Ms. Richard Reid--got canned due to the complete cutting of entertainment from NWCN's newsy repertoire? And remain, you know, tasteful?

I just don't know.

Some poor dear wrote of seeing Joseph Gordon-Levitt at Pike Place Market recently (that place is like a fucking celebrity MAGNET. Noticed?) and actually apologized that the tip wasn't quote-unquote "very exciting." Darling, I'm not one to wear my heart on anyone's sleeve, but if I saw Joseph Gordon-Levitt, I'd probably pee my pants. Lift up your head, you lucky, lucky beast--pubescent girls everywhere and I wish we could walk in your shoes. Remember that. Go forth. Prosper.

And Joseph Gordon-Levitt is that hot little punk with all the hair on Third Rock from the Sun. Don't be obtuse.

Am I the only person in the world who always thought that Johnny Depp was just a tad, well, fucking creepy? In a vague sort of "I take my art way too seriously and may have at one time or another considered, like, cutting somebody, you know, for the experience" kinda way? I've always wondered. Well now that his Viper Room business partner Anthony Fox has allegedly mysteriously disappeared after charging Johnny with fraud and "shady accounting," will someone take me seriously? Please?

And you KNOW it sa-tis-fies.

adrian@thestranger.com