A talking blond ribcage calling itself "Calista Flockhart" has chosen this peculiar moment to emerge from whatever shadowy hell pit ex-TV stars are condemned to haunt, and inform us that she has, for as long as I personally can remember, been doing a long and tedious fat-free cha-cha with the ravenous beast called "anorexia," which puts to rest centuries of speculation of some sort. (Some people guessed correctly that she was barfing up breakfast; others surmised that she'd somehow been sucked, lips first, through a horrible straw or tube of some sort. Word.) In almost-related headlines: "Michael Jackson Is a Freak" and "A Pile of Shit Reveals, 'I Smell Like Crap!'"

Elsewhere: Steven Spielberg, mostly responsible for Schindler's List and other romantic comedies, is evidently attempting an experiment in radical downward mobility by diving into the wretched snake pit called reality TV. He has developed some befuddling Apprentice-meets-American Idol type of concept in which several handpicked contestants will compete in complicated tasks intended to save the little girl in the red coat from the Nazis. Or something.

Look out—NAZIS!

Then: Katie Holmes recently alarmed absolutely nobody by acting "dazed, passive, and vacant" during an interview that I didn't watch. There are no hard-and-fast theories as to the cause and/or reasons behind Miss Holmes acting like a lobotomy patient in a K-hole, except that she might actually be a lobotomy patient in a K-hole. But then, she gets to put her mouth on Tom Cruise's penis AND give birth to the new race of Alien Antichrist-Overlords, so she can lick wallpaper and suck a shoe and I'd still eat radioactive shit in hell to be her for 20 seconds.

In other news: Busta Rhymes. Word.

"Dear Adrian, Are you doing okay? You sound a little 'askew'... We're all worried about you. Just so you know, everything that happened in Vegas is still in Vegas. It's just building up into one huge pile of 'things that happened in Vegas.'"—Michael

"Dear Michael, I have no fucking clue what you're talking about. Honestly. I've never been to Vegas. And I'm fucking your dad in the ass right now."—Adrian

Consummate explosion Courtney Love has sold poor little Frances Bean off to WORK in some swanky New York fashion studio like fricking Oliver Twist or something. I'm not saying that Courtney had to farm out her own daughter in order to earn beer and coke money because she probably already hoovered up the earnings from the Nirvana catalog, but I'm not really not not saying it either. Not if I know my Courtney. Which I don't. Word.

Send! Adrian@thestranger.com