I wanna know WHAT bitter little devil rose up from the steaming, stinking pits of hell and forced me to write such wretched, wretched things in last week's column! I thrashed Rose McGowan, scoffed at Claire Danes, and referred to dreamy Ben Lee as a "man-bitch," for the love of God! Heck, I was even crabby at Dave Matthews, a man for whom I'd gladly shove big, rusted railroad spikes into my eyes. Shame on me! So, in a dramatic gesture of overcompensation, I vow to meticulously avoid saying ANYTHING even REMOTELY nasty in this week's column. Ready? Let's GO!I've been DROWNING in a sea of motherly concern for sweet little Matthew Perry. Now, I'm not one to gossip (goodness knows), but it's common knowledge that Matt has been in and out of the Hazelden Foundation rehab center TWICE this year, surely suffering from depression and low self-esteem caused by a zillion seasons of thinly veiled gay innuendoes and dramatic weight fluctuations. Well, worry no more! Adorable "Frank" spotted Matt wandering around, of all places, Broadway Ave E (a.k.a. "Heroin Alley," "Tweaker Lane," and/or "I'd Snort Battery Acid Laced with Rat Poison if It Was Set in Front of Me" Boulevard). Clearly Matt was there to reach out to Broadway's ocean of crack-addled street flotsam and inspire them to follow his brave example. God bless you Matt!

She's brilliant, beautiful, and has a name fit for a particularly yummy flavor of Jolly Rancher. So why is Fiona Apple so cranky? Maybe she takes herself too seriously. "Martin" eavesdropped on the "deep and meaningful conversation" she was having about "art and society" outside of Cafe Septieme on Broadway, and says that little Miss Grouchy Britches uses conspicuously "big words." Shame she didn't run into Matthew Perry while on Broadway--not only would he have cheered her up with his lovable antics, but he also might have floated her some leftover Percocet to ease her mental suffering. (Just KIDDING! Sheesh.) Lighten up, Fiona!

That bee-stung pout, those kung fu kicks, that chicken-fried mop of crimped and bleached hair: David Lee Roth is a buttrock legend by anyone's yardstick. So who can blame Diamond Dave for getting his leotard in a twist when Roxy's kosher deli on First Ave refused to toss out 3,000-odd years of sacred Hebrew tradition to make him a HAMBURGER? Besides, after just a BIT of a snit, he calmed down and settled for the diner's standard kosher fare (a nice tongue on rye bread maybe?). Shalom, Dave!

celebisawu@thestranger.com