Provocative.
Celebrity. I'm like a fucking magnet. Of it. For it. To it. Whatever.
But Tom and Nicole are still divorced, so does it really matter? Does anything?
I ask you.
Since I am rumored to have astonishingly little working knowledge of Johnny Depp's finances, I can comment with only miniscule authority (if any at all) as to the exact amount he threw do wn for his new private island, which is located somewhere appropriately piratey and is rumored to have six beaches. However, mere moments after Dennis Quaid ordered a foot-long sub in front of me at some dump called the Pickle Bowl or something, I swear to God that I saw Martin Landau leaving an obscure rest stop along some hot, dry highway, apparently post-tinkle. Unless Martin Landau is dead. In which case I renege almost entirely.
We all renege a little bit sometimes.
Oh--and Johnny Depp's new island can only be reached by a seaplane. Which he hopefully owns, or can borrow maybe. Perhaps from Denis Quaid, although whether or not he owns, or is inclined to lend, any sort of seaplane remains unconfirmed. Sandwiches from the Pickle Barn or whatever, however, do not fly. This is fact.
Courtney Love was five hours late for her newest court date, and I was too apathetic to find out what the verdict was. Rehab? It's a question for philosophers.
Alanis Morissette has revealed that she had anorexia as a teenager, evidently because eating disorders are very today. This was poetically illustrated by that one über-rich little Olsen twin snatch recently as she checked herself into a treatment facility to address the so-called "disorder" (Disorder? Or the only weight-management plan that works? Besides AIDS? Again, I ask you), not for the copious, copious abuse of the cocaine, which some horrible people might be saying is the secret, real issue. Not me. Horrible people. Snort, sniffle, puke, whatever, all three of the bitches look great.