Poor, tragic Winona. There she sat, darling as a teacup, an infinitely delicate and ultimately doomed porcelain sparrow, mercilessly trapped in the cruel, sadistic maw of The System. When those fascist jackals condemned her (Guilty!) I thought she'd shatter into a jillion sobbing pieces. Jackals!

Winona's a hero! The Rosa Parks of kleptomania! She stuck it to The Man! She struck a blow at the bloated balls of consumerism! She rose to give a venerable tradition (celebrated by me and every other 13-year-old girl on the fricking planet since the dawn of retail history) a level of glamour and waifish charm that it has long deserved, and I say God bless her. She should get a DINNER, not be damned to collect roadkill or work the Santa Monica Boulevard needle exchange or whatever they cook up.

Has anyone, anywhere stopped to ask, Why, Winona... why? I'm sure they'd find a very frightened little goth girl, crying, crying, crying for the affection and understanding she never got as a middle-teenaged starlet trapped in the spotlight's unforgiving gaze. Perhaps they'd find that this so-called "shoplifting" is just a textbook cry for help and lower prices. But is anyone listening? No.

And somewhere, OJ Simpson plays golf.

I got one for ya. What do Winona Ryder and Jean Enersen have in common?

Not all that much, actually, when you think about it.

Mick Jagger and his cocksure swagger were spotted (long after his lips were, I bet) at the Four Seasons Hotel last week, shadowed by some old groupie named Keith Richards, who just seems to follow Mick wherever he goes for some reason.

And can anyone please explain why the hell Axl Rose was working out at the Convention Center Gold's Gym last week? The Convention Center Gold's? Jesus--that's like seeing Quentin Crisp in a titty bar (and no, I CANNOT believe I just said "titty bar" publicly, and twice now).

Axl reportedly caused quite a giddy stir amongst the mostly gay male thirtysomething crowd at the gym (AKA everyone). His all-red sweat ensemble consisted of a headband, shorts, a sweatshirt, and matching silver-and-red Nikes (I'll be expecting a check for that, Mr. Nike), and he replied with a polite, very un-rock-star-ish "Thank you" when wished well by a well-wisher. Plus, he didn't break a gosh darn thing, hit anyone, or make any AIDS jokes.

adrian@thestranger.com