The Defamer correspondent on Heiress Doggystyling Amateur Pornographers in A-list Actor Posses reports on the company that Tobey Maguire's keeping during his international Spider-Man 2 press tour. Maybe Tobey appreciates Rick Salomon's sophisticated sense of irony in celebrating his settlement with sex tape co-star Paris in Paris:
A Seattle superfan/probable nymphomaniac stalker posts her subtle, romantic entreaties to a newly-single Jake Gyllenhaal in the Los Angeles Craiglist "Missed Connections." We at Defamer are committed to bringing together easy eager fans and Hollywood's hottest stars. We hope they can make a "connection," in whatever form that takes.
Blogger Vividblurry does a more realistic version of US Weekly's misguided, futile attempt at humanizing the famous, "Stars-They're Just Like US!" feature. He's right, though—Britney and Kevin really are just like us, if we're bastard-fathering, deadbeat dancers or homewrecking, Cheeto-chomping, megamillionaire pop-star white trash.
Blogger So Says I sends us this dispatch from Andy Dick's belated, aggressively C-list premiere party for his new show, The Assistant. The report once again confirms the history-tested Hollywood maxim: No one more famous than the host will dare show up to a party. Especially one where there's the looming, gender-blind fear that Andy Dick's tongue might find its way into your mouth.
A reader spots The OC supercouple Rachel "Summer" Bilson and Adam "Seth Cohen" Brody at a screening for indie film Garden State. Given the couple's distressing public ubiquity, he suggests a new approach to Adam&Rachel sightings:
When spam promising graphic sex between celebrities lands in our inbox, we momentarily get excited. Then we take a deep breath and call our lawyer. But then we examine the goods, especially when they begin thusly: "SHOCKING ! SHOCKING ! SHOCKING ! LISA MARIE, JEFF GOLDBLUM AND PINK THIS NEW OUTREAGEOS [sic] SEX VIDEO IS HERE !"
We asked for your guesses as to the identity of this "mystery" boy band's Craigslist plea for a booking agent. The clues were basically "early 90s" and "Grammy-winning," but you took those meager breadcrumbs and baked them into a marvelous cake of conjecture. Most of you guessed the group on the verge of a massive comeback is All-4-One, whose Grammy-winning single "I Swear" has reliably served as the background music of countless fumbling, post-prom sexual encounters for the last decade. One of your reminisced about the "I Swear" video, in which "the band members kick around a cardboard box on the roof of a tenement." We're going to guess that if one of them kicks around the box these days he's banished to the worst spot in front of the flaming garbage can.
An appalled reader alerts us to still more evidence of the troubling Ugg-ing of the world. (Searching for "Ugg" on the Neiman Marcus website returns a disturbing array of products). Somewhere, there are designers locked in a moldy basement plotting a takeover: Fuck it, put fur on everything! We'd love to blame the Aussies for this one, but it really stinks of a particularly American kind of evil.
The Defamer correspondent on Australian White Trash Exports Passed Off as High Fashion pleads with us to stop the furry, climate-inappropriate madness that is LA's obsession with Ugg boots (at left, Kate Hudson's legs). Maybe next week we'll see the city's mactress, fashion-victim army pounding cans of Foster's and carrying boomerangs? The trash angle does however completely explain Britney Spears's Ugg fandom.
Maybe this pre-superstar version of Nicole Kidman did have a stylist, but s/he was clearly out of his/her element and obviously more comfortable dressing Aussie lasses for the prom. The fashions of yore were oh so hilarious! Actually, for all we know this picture was taken yesterday, that dress cost $60,000, and adult prom-wear is making a fabulous comeback.
Exactly one week ago, when we remarked that the indie-rock havens of the East Side was under imminent attack by something called "Hollywood," we were rebuked and assured of Adam Goldberg and Christina Ricci's hipster bona fides. Well, how can we put this delicately? Suck it. Unless you've got a guitar in your hand, accepting a VIP pass and lurking around backstage (at the Wiltern!) sure smells like the flushing away of your indie cred (not that we've ever had any, we know we're big fucking poseurs).
Despite a complete lack of interest in spas, sample sales, or doggie couture, we've kept our Daily Candy subscription active just for a day like today, when DC "spotlighted" (i.e. accepted advertising money from) Alexandra Valenti, a "successful screenwriter"/handbag designer. (It's good to have something like fashion design to fall back on.) Not included in the e-mail: Alexandra is the daughter of recently-retired MPAA head/sworn pirate-hunter Jack Valenti. She's named a bag after mother Mary Margaret and sister Courtenay, but wouldn't it be nice if she did one for daddy as a retirement gift?
For just $259-$349 a night (depending on the season), YOU can rent a replica of Britney Spears's Louisiana bedroom at Boston's Onyx Hotel. That's just pennies a minute to indulge all of your filthy, Britney-centered fantasies: Sleep in a bed somewhat like Britney's, reenact the sexual acrobatics of her Vegas honeymoon (with the helpful transcript provided by her husband of 55 hours, Jason Alexander), and collapse, sated, in a sticky pile of empty Red Bull cans, ginseng bottles, and orange Cheeto dust. Only actually being devirginized by Justin Timberlake could be better!
Boots N' Ronstadt Tuesday continues, as a reader points us to this post on The National Review's The Corner blog. [Ed. note—Don't worry, children, we don't know what TNR is either.] A witness to Linda Ronstadt's bedlam-provoking, F 9/11-supporting, termination-inducing song dedication says the event was light on both bedlam and provocation, unless you were a fan of her rock catalog:
On Saturday night, singer Linda Ronstadt was fired after she ignited a near-riot ("guests...spilled drinks, tore down posters and demanded their money back") at the Aladdin casino in Las Vegas for dedicating the song "Desperado" to Fahrenheit 9/11 director Michael Moore. We can almost see the scene...Republican conventioneers, livid that their little respite from losing their capital gains tax savings to the roulette wheel has been interrupted, push their hookers to the floor and threaten to burn the place down.
