While the French Riviera is “in-Cannes-descent” with gorgeous old-school style glitterati lighting up the red carpet, young Hollywood’s trashy triple crown of bared beaves—Lindsay, Paris and Britney—continue to booze, snort, sex and pray their way into the limelight. Once upon a lady lover Anne Heche’s divorce has gotten ugly now that her soon to be ex hubby stated the obvious—I mean—called her crazy. Plus—American Idol conspiracy theory… and more.
Empress Angelina of the Holy Order of Pornographically Hot Lips, and her almost-equally stunning man Mr. Brad Pitt-Jolie grabbed the Cannes Film Festival by the red carpet this weekend. Empress Angie—decked out in classic black—arrived at the Grand Daddy of all film fests to promote her feel good flick A Mighty Heart, in which she plays Marianne Pearl, widow of the slain journalist Daniel Pearl.
But Brad’s not just Angie’s arm candy for the 14-day hedonistic cinepheliac’s wet dream. Big Papa Pitt joins his Oceans 13 costar and eye candy in his own right, George Clooney on the carpet. Far, far away on the distant planet that is Paris’ playground, the imminently incarcerated heiress has turned to Jesus to save her privileged tail.
Following a failed attempt at a commuted sentence, Princess P, has taken to dressing like a hot school marm and posing for the paparazzi outside her Catholic church on Sundays. To her credit, the bible she’s been carrying hasn’t spontaneously combusted beneath the sex tape queen’s naughty little grip—or was that bible just a book cover for the latest issue of Vogue? Ms.
Paris launched a campaign to sway The Governator Ahhhnold into commuting her 45-day sentence but she gave up due to lack of support. A gubernatorial grope rather than a petition might have suited Paris’ cause better. Alas, the poor, privileged, princesses’ sentence is reduced to a mere 23 days due to prison overcrowding but that’s sans her attached Blackberry and daily dose of Pinkberry frozen yogurt.
Meanwhile, La Lush Lohan’s been indulging in pervy PDA with her boytoy du jour, some nobody / British model Callum Best. Despite the perma-“water bottle” attached to her lips and a recent release of Linds’ post-rehab cocaine-infused celebration, Best says that the little lush is the best lay he’s ever had. Girl can’t help but be good in spite of herself.
Bad reviews for her fun-filled family incest film Georgia Rule aside, Linds is damn good in it. Although Lindsay playing a sex-crazed, party girl is a pretty short walk. And you can always count on Ms.
Britney to round out this trifecta of girls behaving badly. That pissy gossip gadfly Perez Hilton reports that Ms. Brit partied into the wee hours in Miami over the weekend and extended a Sapphic invitation to a buxom brunette she spotted from her lofty VIP spot to join her.
Now that Brit’s officially half-past crazy, the girls won’t even bother to schmooze her even for her celebrity, and the woman declined. On a seemingly unrelated note, Brit showed up to dance class sporting a pair of work out shorts that read “I Love Pink,” across the ass. Draw your own conclusions.
Speaking of pink, Lindsay’s ex Harry Morton’s on the verge of opening a Pink Taco Mexican eatery in Los Angeles—and I’m not talking about a night out with Salma and Penelope—has been lighting up the grill early for the likes of gringa BFF’s Courteney Cox and Jennifer Anniston. Who really cares except that “Pink Taco” makes me giggle like a 12-year-old boy. Lovely Looney toon and talented actress Anne Heche-Degeneres-Lafooon-Tupper’s divorce is getting ugly.
Celestia’s—I mean Anne’s—estranged hubby, cameraman Coley Lafoon, for whom she left Ellen back in 2000—is filing for full custody of their son, citing Anne’s “bizarre and delusional” behavior. To which I have to ask Coley, “What are you, headless?” Upon her breakup with Ellen, Heche pulled a Margot Kidder-esque black-out and turned up at a farmhouse in Fresno, Calif.
, tattered and bruised. Then she made a mild fortune penning a book entitled Call Me Crazy, in which she explains that Jesus bestowed her with the name “Celestia” and with the ability to speak with extra-terrestrials. The kicker was when Heche spoke in “Celestia” to Diane Sawyer.
It was pure gold. Heche might be a nut but she’s no gold-digging SOB like Lafoon who’s asking $45,000 per month in child support from the batshit crazy bread winner Heche. Me thinks he’s having a case of sour grapes since Heche spurned him for her Men in Trees costar James Tupper.
So much Sarah Shahi, so little time. The stunning Ms. Shahi’s redeemed herself for riding Tony Soprano like he was a beached rhino on a recent Sopranos episode.
For her new role as a tough-talking cop on the NBC series Life, Shahi dons a tight button-down top, leather jacket, gun and taser ala Mariska Hargitay’s Olivia Benson. A little cross pollination between Life and Law and Order SVU is in order to bring these two chestnut-haired beauties together—handcuffs in tow. Maybe they could go under cover together in a women’s’ prison episode.
Last week, millions of spiked Kool-aid, against-their-will, American Idol viewers bade farewell to powerhouse Melinda Doolittle. Unwilling to allow her axing to get sloughed off to merely the teeny-bopper set having their voting way with Blake and Jordin, I’m descrying it as an AI conspiracy. Like the 2000 election in which hanging chads saddled the country with the first four years of Bush-shit, “something’s rotten in Denmark.
” The producers stuffed that ballot box to ensure a finale that would appeal to the widest audience… This is grassy knoll stuff here but bear with me. Here’s the rub… Melinda had never landed in the bottom three until her ousting last week but Blake had been there before. It stands to reason that the week after Lakisha got the boot, that her fans would throw their support behind Melinda and possibly Jordin.
So why the hell is that no-lipped, chest-rubbing, snooze-inducing, beat boxing white boy in the finals? Or I could be wrong. Maybe it’s just that Blake reminds me of an ex-girlfriend of mine from the Seattle area.
I thought about instituting a one-woman AI finale boycott but it’ll be worth it to tune in just for loopy Paula Abdul’s schnoz watch. The official word is that the pop princess turned Judy Garland style AI judge broke her nose when she tripped over her Chihuahua Tulip. Paula, just admit you fell when you were drunk.
It’s much more dignifying. Those American Idols will just bite you in the ass when you set them free. Semi-butch hottie Kelly Clarkson’s baring her feminist chops and claiming that record mogul Clive Davis never gave her new—more personal—release a chance because she’s a woman.
Throwing out the gender card. Nicely played Kell. If I didn’t believe in hell before, I do now that Beyonce’s slated to play Maggie the Cat in Broadway’s all African-American version of Tennessee Williams’ opus Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.
Rounding out the cast of the show directed by Fame’s dance instructor Debbie Allen, are Phylicia Rashad, Danny Glover and LL Cool J? Producers made an executive choice to replace four-time Tony winner and Broadway diva Audra McDonald with Destiny’s favorite child. God save the sucker who pays $100-plus for a seat to watch Beyonce skewer lines like “Maggie the cat is alive.
I’m alive.” Ugggg. If Ms.
B. of the well-voiced big booty club has any dignity, she’ll relinquish the role. To feed your inner fag, check out the 1958 film of Cat, starring the luminous Elizabeth Taylor—making a simple slip seem pornographic—and the gorgeous Paul Newman.
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