"Oh yeah, and the crack pipes are over by the steak knives."
Courtney Love said some wicked little thing almost exactly like that to a social worker who rudely popped in for a possibly court-ordered tour of the Love estate. According to Courtney the inspection of her domicile was done for absolutely "no reason"--however, theories that the social worker was lured there by the wee and terrible screams of the fitful oxycodone capsules trapped within abound. Possibly. And I know what you're thinking. What the fuck is Courtney Love doing with steak knives?
A darkly mesmerizing someone who bore an uncanny resemblance to The Johnny Depp was spotted at the waterfront Ivar's last week in the com-pany of people who bore uncanny resemblances to various friends and/or family members of Johnny Depp. My guess? It was Johnny Depp. And what is Johnny doing here? Dumping the bodies. According to ancient Duwamish legend, anyway. Look it up.
Speaking of things Love-ish: "Mother, I am outraged," Frances Bean reportedly huffed upon receiving notice that her mother's conspicuous adventures have resulted in the rejection of her desperate application to some snooty all-girl school for wayward rocker-children called the Archer Academy. She then shredded the rejection letter to itsy bits in a cute little fury and tossed the pieces into the dog's dish--a dog's dish which remains, I'm sure, as deeply impressed by little dissed Miss Bean's command of the language as I. Am. Whatever.
Oh, and some rag called People that I don't read reported that Courtney only had a month to live. Courtney maintains that the story is a wretched lie.
Courtney Love--Washington's other mad cow.
Speaking of something entirely else: Trendy Ellen (the DeGeneres one) is preparing to gay marry her girlfriend, a photographer called Alexandra Hedison (not Anne Heche, who went sane and married a talking fish with a penis).
And since I've been told, "Don't put me in your column Adrian; I'm not a fucking celebrity," we'll ignore this report of Dan Savage and his neo-gay nuclear family browsing the aisles of the U-Village Crate and Barrel ("They looked so happy!") and skip right to the shocking report of Andy Dick getting viciously attacked outside some nightclub. As the alleged Andy-smacker was policed away, Andy, in a fit of blood, confusion, and dramatic pique, demanded of his attacker the eternal question, "Why?"
Personally, I've found it best not to ask.
