Courtney. The fuck. Love. I just can't let go--and she hasn't been even a little arrested in almost several weeks; hasn't assaulted afresh the helpless head of even a single microphone-dented fan. How dreary. How dull. And I worry so, I do. Has her wretched psychopharmacological sparkle finally faded, sputtering, soon to die? Has her septum rotted out? Or (worse!) has the tragic magic of rehab(s) (and rehabs and rehabs) finally ground her into tedious complacency? Perhaps--she's the newest member of Narconon and has signed up for anger-management classes, just like in that shitty Adam Sandler and Jack Nicholson movie. Court ordered, naturally. Still.

But then again, why do I obsess? Whatever do I see in Courtney's criminal shenaniganizing that is reflected, somewhere, deep within my own twisted, twirly self? Narcotic compulsions and a singular dampness for scruffy boys in suicide pajamas? Yes. But besides those things. It's a mystery.

"Dear Adrian, I saw Danny What's- His-Gay-Face from The Real World and his boyfriend in a rad 'vintage' Motley Crüe T-shirt. They were dropping off their car in the garage to get detailed. He put on ChapStick just before getting on the elevator. I'm opposed to talking to celebrities. But I'm not opposed to following them, so we did that, into the AT&T/Cingular store, where my boyfriend said he was going to look for a charger. --Amy"

Dear Amy, Danny? Who is this Danny? Real World? What's that? I have no clue what you're talking about. Again, a mystery. --Adrian

In truly pathetic news: Madonna is so terrifyingly desperate to get screencast in anything that she's agreed to play a dead tranny called Candy Darling (early '70s, something, leukemia, something, Andy Warhol, something, something) for, yes, free. Yes, free. This is of course fantastic news for aspiring screenwriters and student filmmakers everywhere, who are encouraged to approach Madonna (or "Esther," her Indian name) freely in public places (or even randomly in her home, in the shower, late at night, maybe!) with solicitations, offers, and scripts. (Watch her sleep…she likes it!) The Kabbalah couldn't be reached for comment. As usual.

Elsewhere: In an attempt to make everyone suddenly care again, sly rumors have been unleashed insinuating that Demi Moore and that Punk'd boy I used to be so overfond of have engaged, but everyone refuses to care anymore anyway.

Lastly: Freckly Prince Harry, who is darling, was recently invited to Paris Hilton's birthday party but soundly refused the invitation, which definitively illustrates the Third Law of Physics, which states that even Nazis are generally less odious and socially repulsive than Paris Hilton. Look it up.