Saturday, 17 November 2012

SHOWERING THE HOMELESS WITH LOVE AND BUMPERS

YOU ALWAYS HURT THE ONES YOU LOVE
Russell Brand's passion for homeless people
 took an ugly turn yesterday when 
he bulldozed into one of them. 
Photo/CreStock


 

Creepy Jesus has a new hobby. Having tired of humping the legs of former Spice girls, yoga instructors and anyone who doesn't look like Katy Perry, the scrufftastic Russell Brand has decided that what he's really into is homeless people

Yes, Creepy Jesus (my  apologies to Actual Jesus) has a real soft spot for the disenfranchised and tries to look like them at all times. Last week, he took a bunch of homeless people out for breakfast at the Newsroom Cafe in West Hollywood. On another occasion, he brought one of his street brethren home for a meal and a soak in his own bathtub.

But, as eventually happens with all things Brand "loves," his passion has taken a dark turn. Early yesterday morning, while driving around in his Range Rover and watching porn on his dashboard monitor, Brand somehow crashed into a homeless man’s grocery cart full of belongings, sending them hither and yon.

To his credit, Brand did immediately rush to the homeless man's aid. (Because you never know: that guy might have some way cool gear you could borrow and it would totally look like vintage Lulu. And also, he probably likes the drink ... and might even have a flask on him.)

Brand: Holy hair of the downward dog!!!! I am SO sorry, my brother; I didn't even see you! I thought you were a pile of laundry! 
Homeless man: Ditto, buddy. Nice leg warmers. 
Brand: Have you had a chance to break your fast? Allow me to take you to the IHOP to repay you for the horror I just put you through.
Homeless man: IHOP? Dude, you're driving a Range Rover! Just give me some cash and buzz off! 

Of course, TMZ has footage of the moments immediately after the crash. Take a peek here, and if you can figure out what the hell Russell is wearing in these pix, you can tell me. Cuz I haven't the foggiest notion, but if there is an official "sherpa/mental-patient" uniform, I bet it looks EXACTLY like this.

KIM KARDASHIAN TWEETS HERSELF INTO A CORNER

AND I AM ALSO PRAYING FOR OBAMA TO WIN.
What? He did? Holy injectable fillers! It worked!
Photo: Featureflash/Dreamstime 



Poor sweet, kindhearted Kim Kardashian's Twitter bid for sainthood isn't going at all as she had planned. In fact it has started an uproar that, for once, has nothing to do with her boobs, her butt, or pictures thereof.  

The budding goodwill ambassador tweeted yesterday that she was praying for peace in Israel. I haven't a clue how she even learned that word or why she was suddenly compelled to dabble in politics, but anyway, outrage ensued

So she quickly tweeted that she was also praying for the Palestinians. And even more outrage ensued, with people basically saying, Look, sister, you're no Angelina Jolie and until you start adopting a rainbow of orphans from every corner of the Third World ... oh, and also stop being an insufferable ninny ... we won't give a hoot about what you think about Israel or Palestian. Or anything at all.

But this young servant of God is not so easily thwarted. She wants world peace for Israel (and also Palestine!) and none of you can stop her, so she deleted both tweets and issued a statement noting: "After hearing from my followers . . . I realize that some people were offended by what I said, and for that I apologize."

Which I interpret to mean that she is never going to open her mouth ever again, at least until Sunday. So in actual fact, this was a minor miracle: a temporary, self-imposed ceasefire on her own tweets. Praise the lord (and also Allah!).

RAGING BULL LOCKS HORNS WITH JAY-Z . . . AND WINS

JIGGA WHAT? 
You could list the people who can get away with calling  
 Jay "disrespectful" on the fingers of one cold, dead hand. 
Photo: Alexandra Glen / Featureflash


If I asked you who is a bigger, badder, ballsier star in NYC than Jay-Z, you'd be hard-pressed to come up with a name.
But not after you hear this story.
Apparently Jay-Z got into an epic scrap with a Hollywood A-lister at a party . . . and didn't exactly win.That A-lister was one grizzled old Robert de Niro, who proved he ain't afraid of no stinkin' rapper, even if he IS the best rapper alive and knows people who shoot people.

And while you sit there and wonder what the hell kind of party would have de Niro AND Jay-Z on the same guest list, allow me to give you the details. Apparently Jay approached de Niro's table and tried to chat him up. (His people clearly failed to give him the memo that the legendary RdN can be a bit of a bitch at times. In fact most times. Maybe even always. For that, they may well be shot fired.) 

De Niro's instinctive response to this friendly gesture was a surly: "You never called me back." He was apparently cheesed about a song Jay-Z had said he'd record for the Tribeca Film Festival. "If somebody calls you six times," de Niro huffed, "you call them back. It doesn't matter who you are, that is just rude."

SIX TIMES, I CALLED HIM!
Little punk made me go all 
Taxi Driver on his ass. 
Photo/CreStock  


 
As stars like Jamie Foxx and Martin Scorsese looked on in tonsil-inhaling horror, de Niro told Jay-Z he was "disrespectful," a dis that prompted a nervous Beyonce to try to intervene. Again, epic fail. 
I'm sure there aren't too many people Jay-Z would let call him "rude" without sending them home with a cap in their teeth, but that night he stumbled into the one man in NYC who has that kind of cachet.
A witness noted: "De Niro can be quite scary when he's angry."  And also, I would add, when he's not angry.
Robert de Niro. 69 years old, and still downright terrifying. 
I LOVE this story with every fibre of my being.

Editor's note: Yes, and the scene of all this drama was Leonardo di Caprio's birthday party. Holy toledo; I would have been wetting my pants.
My note: In the extremely unlikely event that you would be invited to di Caprio's party and the even unlikelier event that Jay-Z would acknowledge you, he would have eaten you raw. 
Editor's note: Good point.

Friday, 16 November 2012

GREAT MOMENTS IN TRAVEL: COCO BEACH, CUBA


You know how, on a Friday night here in Canada, kids like to head to the mall, eat fries and buy crap they don't need? And how if you don't encourage (read: "fund") this pastime, you are a loser parent who doesn't get it and therefore will never be as cool as Jacob/Jayden/Mackenzie/Madison/Shiloh/Zachary's parents? 
Yeah, well, forget that shit. 

The more kids have, the more they want and the less they appreciate it. 
To see this homily illustrated in poverty-muted Technicolor, you need only to travel somewhere dirt poor. Somewhere like, oh, say, Coco Beach, a place where tourists fear to tread because there is NOTHING, NOTHING WHATSOEVER, to do except meander the streets in wistful search of a stray pig, a bored prostitute or a random, spontaneous festival. 
I stumbled across the latter scene, above, during my ill-fated trip to this sad little corner of the world while riding a rented bicycle through the boring streets near the boring hotel . . . honestly, it was like being in a prison with palm trees.  

At first I was alarmed. "Huh? Wh-wh-what? Cannibals? Do I look delicious? Is this going to end with me with an apple in my mouth, spinning, spinning, slowly spinning?" 
Well obviously, the answer is No. I had happened upon a completely harmless Premiero de Mayo festival, the highlight of which is covering yourself with wet sand and holding a Viva La Revolucion sign while an oblivious Fidel dies somewhere far away in his secret hiding spot, smoking a cigar the likes of which these poor bastards can only dream. 
For teens in Cuba, that's a good Friday night. At least until they get shopping malls . . .

Thursday, 15 November 2012

PAINFULLY SHY RIHANNA POSES FOR GQ COVER

GQ, DECEMBER 2012
 Featuring Rihanna. All of her.




If it's Thursday, Rihanna must be posing naked somewhere. 
This also applies to Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday, but why split hairs? Let's all just be thankful there are only seven days in a week, because there is only so much nubile nudity anyone's eyes can process at one time. 

The girl loves nothing more than tweeting, instagramming, facebooking, texting and sexting pix of her bare assets.  
For a while there, most of these images were intended for Chris Brown's personal titillation, and also to tacitly warn his then-girlfriend Karrueche Tran that she would stop at nothing, not even underwear, to steal that boy back. 

And then that tactic worked, but Chris still didn't appear ready to commit completely (or even a little bit) and since the clothes were already off, Rihanna decided to donate all that carefully posed nudity to charity
Such as the latest GQ magazine cover. That is charity in the flesh, right there. (Because if it weren't for that jacket, she could have sold this pic to Playboy for a gajillion more dollars. So obviously, a very charitable humanitarian gesture on her part.)
In the coming months, GQ will continue with its "virtues" theme by covering "modesty" and then "humility" and then finally, "chastity." And I can pretty much guarantee you that none of those covers will feature Rihanna.

Editor's note: Who's the jackass who decided "What this photo needs is a JACKET?" The jacket is extraneous. The jacket ruins the whole damn thing! The jacket . . . 
My note: Oh calm down.  

YET ANOTHER ACTRESS BARES ALL FOR HER ART

ALLURE, DECEMBER 2012  
Featuring Keira Knightley
 (I must have missed the official announcement
but apparently this is international 
bosom-baring month. Enjoy!)
  
Thank you very much, Rihanna. Your insistence on never wearing more than a pout and a tattoo in any photograph is really putting pressure on all the more demure actresses in Hollywood. 

Since you launched your off-with-everything campaign to familiarize the world with every mole and dimple on your body, magazine execs are starting to expect it. They're bored if actresses show up in a thong. "What, are we in a cold snap or something? You gotta dress like Sister Mary Chastity? Take some of that off, fer cryin' out loud!" 

How else to explain the recent rash of celebrities peeling for magazine cover photo shoots? Latest contestant: Keira Knightley on the December cover of Allure. 
Unfortunately for Keira, her cover comes off looking like the nerd's version of Rihanna's GQ cover. They may even have used the same jacket. (What's more, some overzealous photoshop intern appears to have gone berserk with erase button and totally removed the poor girl's right nipple.)

Well this trend is going to have to stop somewhere. And I personally hope it stops at Inside the Pentagon magazine. Cuz nobody wants to see Hillary Clinton naked. Not even Bill...



Wednesday, 14 November 2012

I LOVE YOUR DRESS! PLEASE NEVER WEAR IT AGAIN

I DON'T KNOW WHO KSTEW'S FASHION PEOPLE ARE, BUT ...
They should all be fired. Here she is, left, in yet another ugly frock that can't decide whether 
it wants to be a tablecloth or a shroud. Oh, and that's her married ex-lover, Rupert Sanders, 
far right, grinning like a hyena. Or rather, like a cheetah . . .
 Steve Vas/Featureflash

Kristen Stewart has been making a dogged effort to convince people she isn't some tarty little skank who can't be trusted with her own virtue, let alone Robert Pattinson's heart. And I want to believe her. But there's the little problem of what I am seeing with my own eyes. 

After the shocking exposure of her affair with married director Rupert Sanders, who is old enough to be her father and ugly enough to be her pet goat, a humiliated Kristen went into hairshirt mode. She moped, she wore baggy tees and jeans, she wouldn't look at the camera for any photo, ever. 
And then RPat finally agreed to take her back so they could promote their movie, and suddenly, BAM, KStew goes all Rihanna on us.

I refer to the racy outfit she wore Monday to the world premiere of Breaking Dawn, Part 2. You can clap your eyes on it right here. I'm sure the poor strumpet thought it was sexy because it showed a lot of skin, but it was about as sexy as porridge. It was what you might call a "statement" dress, and here were some of its statements: 
  • Beige is the colour God invented to punish vain women
  • Granny panties are not an accessory worthy of being flashed
  • A woman's nether regions are not sexy if the woman flashing them looks about 12 and walks like a boy. In that case, you're far better off to just put on a chic but modest black gown and let people imagine. 
  • But most of all, what that dress says to me is this: "I want you guys to believe I won't cheat again, but hey world, hey everybody, even you, Rupert Sanders: LOOK AT MY PINK BACKSIDE!" 
Editor's note: Yes, nothing says "repentant" like a see-through dress that shows your butt cheeks. The girl might as well have shown up in a pair of ass chaps.  

AND THE OSCAR FOR BEST DEPRIVATION GOES TO . . .

Vogue, December 2012

Near Deathaway graces the cover of December's Vogue magazine looking like she's been subsisting on nothing but dust and oatmeal paste for the past six months. Which, as it turns out, is  EXACTLY what she has been doing.

The actress tells Vogue she starved herself relentlessly for her role in Les Miserables and also endured the horror of a really ugly haircut. The kind of hack job you'd kick your hairdresser for, yet which was probably performed by some moody, fit-throwing Hollywood stylist who then billed the movie studio fifteen grand. 

Preparing to play the part of dying 19th-century prostitute Fantine, the already super-thin Anne shed an additional 25 lbs thanks to a diet consisting almost entirely of kale and oatmeal paste. 

 
“I had to be obsessive about it," Anne tells Vogue. "The idea was to look near death." Well I'd say you nailed it, sister. And call me crazy, but isn't this what MAKEUP is for? (Take a peek at Anne's anguished look right here. You just KNOW she's looking at a big cheeseburger she can't have.)
 
Anne is just the latest overzealous actor to latch onto the hottest new trend in Hollywood ... wilfull starvation ... thereby adding creepy glam to an affliction most supermodels have to go to rehab for. In case you  haven't seen Matthew McConaughey lately, here's what he has done to his body to "prepare" for a role in The Dallas Buyers Club. (Warning: This will scare the living sh*t out of you and also send you headlong into the nearest Krispy Kreme outlet, screaming, "I'LL HAVE ONE OF EVERYTHING!") Click on Eeek! 

Editor's note: Great plagues of locusts! I like it a lot better when he "prepares" for movies like Magic Mike.

Tuesday, 13 November 2012

SIENNA'S TASTEFUL, NAKED MOTHERHOOD PORTRAIT

AND IF YOU THINK I LOOK GOOD HERE ... 
Wait till you see me without any clothes on! 
Photo/CreStock
Back when Demi Moore still had flesh on her bones, she did something that made headlines because it was so daring and unusual: she posed, naked and full-blown preggers, on the cover of Vanity Fair magazine. Soon after,  another actress made a copycat grab for headlines by doing the same thing. And then another. And another, and another, until finally it was like: Don't you broads get it? If everybody does it, it's not daring and unusual anymore, is it? It's just gross. 

And if Sienna Miller thinks I am unfairly targetting her with this diatribe, she would be correct. For once.
The British actress has posed, naked and fully pregnant, for a portrait by artist Jonathan Yeo. And what makes this "different" from all the other naked-and-pregnant portraits is that she is not demurely covering her breasts, or her crotch, or her pubes or ... well there's nothing left to cover after that, is there?

The portrait has fueled debate about what is and isn't art. And also about why God bothered to invent clothes when famous people obviously just can't wait to take them off and run around starkers at every possible opportunity.

Click on the link to see the portrait of Sienna Miller, pregnant and naked as the day she was born.  
 
Editor's note: *clicks on link* Good lord. *clicks on link again* She certainly is pregnant. And very, very naked. *clicks on link again* Hey, I think I see the baby's head!  

CHILD COMFORTS HER AFFLICTED NUTBALL MOTHER

ME WITH MY LOVING DAUGHTER
She's 27. Which of course, if you 
do the math, means I gave birth to her 
before I was even born.

Every woman has her own story of the moment she realized she was no longer a young hottie. Mine came when a good-looking stranger I would have flirted with at an earlier stage of life held a door open for me. 
"Thank you," I said, smiling.
"You're welcome, ma'am," he replied politely.

Ma'am? Ma'am?!? He might as well have punched me between the eyes and said, "No problem, you 207-year-old hag!"

That's when I realized that this young man, and more importantly, everyone in the whole world, now saw me as a middle-aged woman. 
I was so rattled I went home and told my daughter about it. She didn't really get it. (Ohhhh, but she will, some day.)
"He was just being polite," she said.
"No, he was being deferential," I said. "I'm not ready to be respected by people just because I'm their elder."  

"Aww, don't worry, Mom," my daughter said, hugging me. "We'll never respect you."
And the strange thing is, that actually made me feel better. 

Sunday, 11 November 2012

MAY I OFFER YOU A TINY SLIVER OF LOW-FAT CAKE?

WHEN THEY WERE ALL ONE BIG, 
WEIRDLY HAPPY FAMILY
In hindsight, it should have been obvious this was 
never going to work. The clues were everywhere:
 Ashton's embarrassing bumpkin guffaws, the wretched
clothing choices, and Bruce Willis's ever-present 
disembodied head. Even his kid is spooked by it ...
Photo/CreStock
Demi Moore turns the big 5-0 today. And because hitting that half-century mark is about as terrific as walking face first into a barbed-wire fence, I'd like to cheer her up by wishing her a happy birthday. 

Demi's had a rough year, what with the humiliation of Ashton Kutcher's infidelity, the break-up and her subsequent nose-dive into a can of Reddi Whip. Then she got hit with a case of viral anorexia and even whipped cream was off her "permissible foods" list.
 
The good news is that she has been receiving rejuvenating treatments at the photoshop, and they're really paying off. Yes, this may be what Demi actually looks like these days, but guess what? The world doesn't have to know about that. Because she can simply have any and every photo of herself tweaked to look like this. And I have to be honest, I don't think I'd recognize either of those Demis if I tripped over them in the nitrous oxide aisle. 

Well this has all kind of slipped away on me here, but I think what I'm trying to say is, er, happy 50th, Demi!

Editor's note: This may be the clumsiest birthday greeting I have ever heard. You might as well have told her to bend over and prepare to receive the birthday fist.
My note: Well that would just be mean.

I'D ANSWER THE DOOR, BUT IT'D SCARE YOU TO DEATH

YOU KNOW IT'S THE WEEKEND IF . . . 
I'm dressed like this. 
Actually, I put on more clothes 
 than usual just for you. And the mukluks? 
Yeah, I thought those were a nice touch.
You know what I like best about working full-time? The sheer, dirty pleasure of not having to get dressed on your days off. I like this so much I'm afraid I maybe like it TOO much. On weekends, I schlep around the house in increasingly casual looks, wearing T-shirts and baggy pants left behind by an ex (oh don't ask me which one, I don't itemize these things. They're pants, they're big, they must have been his...) 

Over time, I've gone from wearing comfy sweats to an oversized T-shirt and pants to, well, just an oversized T-shirt.
Because when you live alone, there are no limits. You can walk around absolutely butt naked if you want to (although I don't recommend it; when you're my age and you walk past a full-length mirror in the nude, you can give yourself quite a scare).

More often than not, I lounge around all day like this, shuffling from the kitchen to the couch to the wet-bar and then back to the kitchen again. All day. For hours! 
And then one day, while I was making out with a can of Pringles and watching Crazy Stupid Love, the doorbell rang. Well holy hell. I just FROZE! I was like, WHAT THE...? I can't answer that! I don't have any pants on!

So I actually had to cower behind the curtains and watch from the upstairs window as a man stuck a note on the door informing me that I had a package and would have to pick it up at the nearest post office outlet. Because I was too naked to accept it at my own front door.
I realize that the simple solution would be to just put on some damn clothes. But the huge all-day comfort of not wearing pants compared to the rare occasion of a knock on the door, well it just isn't enough of a lure. I suppose I'm making excuses, perhaps even displaying addictive tendencies. I may very well need clothes-wearing rehab. (And then I could bring home a pair of those baggy hospital pants with the drawstring waist.) 

But for now, sorry. There's a football game, a platter of loaded nachos and one big snuggly T-shirt waiting for me. So if you're planning to knock on my door anytime soon and you have a bad heart, a weak stomach or just prefer your friends to be clothed, I'd advise you to call first.