Although the pusillanimous will no doubt be moved to wicked--yet fundamentally satisfying--glee upon reading (dare I say it?) yet a-fucking-nother report of Courtney Love's singular brand of fresh bullshit (which indeed this is--make no mistake), I can't help but note that even now--40 long years after her hellish nativity--she's failed utterly to make even the most rudimentary innovations to her theme: screech crazily, ingest things, screech, get arrested, screech, mock the so-called justice system, allegedly hurt somebody, screech, go crazy, crazy, rehab, crazy, repeat--her bristling hair all a-shock, her face, unpainted, a masterpiece carved in crackwhore. Yes, the act has its comforting charm. (And if she had a dick I'd marry her. And she does.) But the real question presented to us at this juncture is this: What, at this juncture, is the real question presented to us? Does it matter anymore? And what, if anything, does Courtney Love have to do with it?
Courtney. In our frivolous weariness, we salute you. Continually.
And some great little thing happened to Rick Springfield at the airport. But I lost the fucking e-mail.
"Adrian--Kim Warnick (the Fastbacks/Visqueen) was selling used CDs at a record store, but I don't know if that qualifies as gossip."--Yours, Bret
Dear Yours, Bret--Heavens, no! It doesn't qualify one bit. But now that Kathleen Wilson is planning to abscond from the world of journalism, who remains to write about that grouchy little she-goblin? Who?
And in what clearly should've been our headline story: Orlando Bloom, who's, yes, really pretty, was seen in West Seattle last week. Thrice. Sometimes in a perhaps romantic situation with a mysterious, but "very Irish looking," woman. "I was walking at Constellation Park," writes Orlando-seeing "A. Lees."
"Orlando was with a really gorgeous woman. He was very sweet and signed an autograph on my niece's T-shirt with her lip liner. He said he was in town meeting some director." Orlando was spotted twice more: Again in West Seattle's Beach Drive area, then browsing a used-book store, again in the company of said Mysterious McIrishchick.
Orlando Bloom in West Seattle. Magic. With a K.
Roiling solicitude compels me to report that Jennifer Aniston and Brad What's-his-abs are buying a home on one of our own misty little islands. The Bainbridge one, perhaps. Be warned.
And since it's true that I saw Dennis Quaid and son buying sub sandwiches on what turned out to be the veritable eve of Mr. Quaid's low-key Montana wedding, is that where I was? And was Martin Landau there as a wedding guest, or just to pee? And was I? If at all? Speculation is broad.