I just knew she was a dyke. Didn't I tell you she was a dyke? And yet, for the sake of clarification--I'm using the plural "she" here, for you see, I'm referring to no less than two entirely different dykes I always knew were dykes, and didn't I tell you I always knew they were dykes? Of course I did. So then, two dykes: dykes squared; dual dykes; a dyke-tastic duo of dykedom. And who told you so? Exactly. Your good friend Adrian.

Oh. Pink is who we're discussing, naturally-- no tremendous surprise there (at least not for those possessing eyes that function)--and also that nice Kristanna Loken gal who, you'll recall, may or may not have had her melons involuntarily squeezed by His Gubernatorialness, Arnold Schwarzenegger, while recently attempting to fulfill her role as a homicidal robot woman from the future. Wag-ging Tongues have wagged that Pink and Kristanna were either providing each other with deep, humid, girl-on-girl kissy-face on the dance floor at a celebrity gala recently or trying to suck each other's shoes through their respective spines via their respective mouths--and a scant few rude inches from Prince Albert of Monaco, no less, which leads one to wonder what Pink's weird royalty-baiting issue is all about. They then retired to a dimly lit booth and continued their oral explorations until party's end, at which time they, as it were, "got" a proverbial "room." Perhaps. I forget, really.

I never really forget anything, you know. Except this:

Ashton and Demi are tossing the terrific thing they've got going right into the toilet by reportedly getting, God help us all, fucking married. In fucking Las Vegas, no less. And I don't give a flaming pickled turd if the ceremony is slated to cost over a million floundering fucking American dollars--Vegas weddings are for hookers, hustlers, mob daughters, and regretful fucking drunks.

And I am lately overwhelmed by the urge to phone Cameron Diaz and discuss her current boyfriend's conspicuous gayness, but you know? She seems to be unlisted.

And speaking of conspicuous gayness, Jason Priestley was spotted looking far butcher than usual at Brasa last week, due mostly to his mangy beard. But what Jason Priestley has to do with conspicuous gayness is anyone's guess, as I sure as hell am not insinuating anything. And for the record, we're talking "beard" as in facial hair, not as in "wife" or "girlfriend" or some nonsense like that. I don't know where she was.

Lastly, Alan Cumming was spotted at the Fremont Market. He was reportedly whispering to some "really hot" and "really younger" guy. They loaded into his automobile and sped away. The big fairies.