Friday, April 29, 2005

Me And Mrs...Mrs. Jones

Normally, I get quite upset when anyone makes fun of a celeb's "plus size" status. It's usually not funny, is cruel, and just serves to make all us non-celeb porkers feel that much more crappy about ourselves.


I seem to be able to make an exception for Ms. Star Jones, who is so repellent that even the lowest blows aimed at her general porcinity simply fill me with glee. I find it particularly interesting that no one seems to give her any credit for having lost approximately half of her former body weight--so loathed is she that they still make fun of her girth. So it was with this little item in today's Page Six:
STAR Jones infuriated a fellow moviegoer at the Tribeca Film Festival screening of "The Muppets' Wizard of Oz" when the big-boned Bridezilla and hubby Al Reynolds sat in his family's assigned seats.

The miffed moviegoer bellowed to festival volunteers, "Those are my seats, and I need them!" as Star, Al and five friends ignored the commotion.

"We can't move Star Jones," one volunteer was heard whispering to her colleague.

Eventually, the uprooted cinephile was seated in what was supposed to have been Star's seat — and the seat was said to be very thankful.

Ba dum dum! Page Six will be appearing in the Kvetch Room here at The Borscht Lodge tonight only. And tomorrow! Try the veal!

I can't believe they didn't add "without a crane" to the "we can't move Star Jones" line. You're losing your vicious, cruel touch, Page Six!

Felt Up has obtained exclusive pictures of the controversial seats in question. Here are the grateful seats Ms. Jones and Allegedly Big Gay Al were assigned:

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And here is the unlucky victim they commandeered:

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It's all becoming so much clearer, now....

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Black Magic Woman

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There's this brilliant, witty book I wrote called Everything I Need To Know About Life I Learned From "This is Spinal Tap," and I think Mr. Bruce Kuhlman, who is featured in the following CNN story, should maybe have read this tome before he took his high-paying, fast-paced job in the glamorous world of the Santana organization:
A former employee of the New Santana Band has accused musician Carlos Santana and his wife of firing him for not being "closer to God," according to a wrongful termination lawsuit filed in California.

Bruce Kuhlman, 59, said Santana's wife, Deborah, went on a campaign to terminate him after her spiritual guru, "Dr. Dan," determined through "calibration" tests that Kuhlman was too old to become enlightened, the lawsuit, filed on April 13, said.

Kuhlman, who began working with Carlos Santana as a personal assistant in 1988, was running the band's licensing operation, River of Colors, when he was fired in 2004.

Kuhlman seeks more than $100,000 and punitive damages against the couple and their businesses, and his lawsuit asks a judge to stop them from using Dr. Dan's Neuro-Emotional Technique to "test" or "calibrate" employees.
A lawyer for Santana, a Mexican-born guitarist known for hits such as "Smooth," said on Wednesday he would have no comment on the pending litigation.

The lawsuit said Dr. Dan informed Kuhlman during a series of meetings that his "enlightenment/consciousness level" was low because of his age, and "that the more enlightened a person was, the closer to God he was and the better employee he was."

He also accused Deborah Santana of constantly slurring male employees.

Kuhlman said Deborah Santana hired three new employees -- all of them female -- after asking Dr. Dan to "calibrate" them over the telephone.

"Dr. Dan would use his wife as a proxy and push down on her arm while Deborah told her the person's name and certain things from the resume and interview," the lawsuit said.

"Based on this evaluation by Dr. Dan and his measure of the applicant's 'consciousness level,' Deborah would decide whether to hire them," the suit said.

Kuhlman was fired after he missed an appointment with Dr. Dan in April 2004, and believes he was cut out of about $250,000 in performance bonuses from the licensing operation he directed.

Santana, a rock music legend, has toured and recorded since the late 1960s when he shot to fame during the Woodstock festival. The Grammy-winning guitarist is best known for recording classic tracks such as "Oye Como Va" and the recent pop smash "Maria Maria" with guest artists.

I did a little research and came up with a handy graphic that shows Dr. Dan's theories in a simplified format:

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As you can see, the universe is simply a great circle of beingness; first you have your fungi, then your musicians, then your Santana, then after you put on your signs of the zodiac costume you will finally get through Mrs. Santana, and then on you go to God, AKA "Dr. Dan." It's an ancient concept that the Druids came up with whilst they were building teeny, tiny Stonehenge's for dwarves to trod upon.

Everything would have been fine if they'd just recorded it in Dobly, you know.

The Day The Poultry-Themed Rockabilly Music Died

From the "Goddamn It, Why Didn't I Go See This Guy The Last Time He Played The Continental Club File," comes the sad news that beloved eccentric poultry-obsessed rockabilly legend Hasil Adkins has gone onto that great chicken ranch in the sky. From the AP:
Rock-a-billy artist Hasil Adkins, a one-man band whose screaming vocals and freestyle approach to rhythm landed a cult following, has died at 67.

Adkins' body was found Tuesday at his Madison home, where he lived alone. The cause of death has not been determined but it does not appear to be suspicious. The body has been sent to the state medical examiner's office, Boone County Sheriff's Deputy J.M. Thompson said Wednesday.

"Someone had gone to check on him and had found him," Thompson said.

Guitar. Harmonica. Drums. Foot-rhythm instruments. Adkins played them all - often while singing. A yodel, screaming and a high-pitched female's lark were some of his many voices.

The son of a coal miner, Adkins learned to played guitar before he was 10. He claimed the only time he practiced his songs was on stage.

Known to his fans as The Haze, Adkins struggled for decades to get noticed. In a 2002 interview, he said he mailed out thousands of tapes and records over a 30-year period while fishing for a record deal.

Even Richard Nixon got one, courtesy of U.S. Sen. Robert C. Byrd, D-W.Va. The president's reply to Adkins came on White House stationery in 1970: "I am very pleased by your thoughtfulness in bringing these particular selections to my attention."

...Adkins, who claimed to have written more than 7,000 songs, first emerged hooting and wailing in the 1950s, only to disappear again. European fans kept the rock-a-billy rage alive, and when The Cramps did an early 1980s remake of Adkins' "She Said," his records suddenly became hot again.

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What Adkins sang about was just as unique as his delivery, which was fueled by a 2-gallon-a-day coffee habit.

New York-based Norton Records combined new and previous recordings to release "Poultry in Motion," a collection of 15 Adkins songs about chicken from 1955 to 1999.

His "Chicken Walk" and "The Hunch" became two short-lived dance fads.

There also were tunes like "Chocolate Milk Honeymoon" and "Boo Boo The Cat."

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Two gallons of coffee a day, frequent trips to the emergency room, an anthology of chicken-themed roots rock songs, the ability to yodel and sing in a high-pitched woman's shriek---if only these new-fangled hipster kids could spend a decade or two on the Adkins diet, there might be hope for music.

The Haze--RIP.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Paula is Never Abdull; Just Say Nolte

My newfound love affair with Paula Abdul, whose drunken, insane, pillhead antics seem to know no bounds, only grows deeper day by day. Now everyone's favorite crazy-hopped-up-on-goofballs former cheerleader is being accused of paying off a former "American Idol" contestant to be her secret love slave. Yes, I said LOVE SLAVE!

WENN reports:
American Idol judge Paula Abdul has vigorously denied accusations she paid one of the hit TV show's contestants to have a secret affair with her.

Corey Clark, 24, is writing a book in which he claims the 42-year-old singer paid his expenses and promised to pay $2 million towards his pop career if he kept their romance secret.

Clark - who was thrown off the show after TV bosses discovered he'd assaulted his teenage sister and resisted arrest - also claims Abdul threatened to ruin his music career plans if he told anyone about their relationship.

He tells US newspaper The Globe, "She warned me, 'Don't screw me over or you'll be sorry.'"

But Abdul's spokesman insists, "Paula Abdul disputes the allegations contained in Corey Clark's book proposal."

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Paula's sweet love will wear a man out!
He earned that two million the hard way!

OK. So maybe he wasn't paid to actually have sex with her, just to keep it on the down low, but still, what a fantabulous story! Just the thought of a sex-crazed dipsomaniac druggie maniac Paula Abdul threatening her sister-beating, arrest-resisting wannabe "American Idol" illicit lovah with what I can only assume is a hit-and-run ("I'll make it look like an accident--straight up!" she hissed, in my daydreams) is just too wonderful for words. It makes me feel good to be alive. After all that ugliness with the evil midget clown bigotry going on in Coney Island (see previous post) this story really brightened my day and put a spring in my step and renewed some of my faith in mankind.

You know what else gives me a reason to live? This little gem, also from WENN:
Actor Nick Nolte's teenage son Brawley Nolte has been arrested and charged with marijuana possession with intent to supply.

The 18-year-old and a friend were pulled over by police on Sunday after the authorities spotted a faulty headlight on their car.

Police allegedly confiscated 70 grams of marijuana after its strong aroma prompted the authorities to search the car.

Nolte and his accomplice were both spared a night behind bars - they were released on bail that night.

First of all, NICK NOLTE NAMED HIS SON BRAWLEY. Why not christen him "Disorderly" or "Troublemakey" or ""Arrestee," Nick? Also, they had so much pot that the cops could smell it in their car? Awesome. I'm sure Brawley was in there telling his friend as they got pulled over, "Hey, don't sweat it, bra. When they realize who I am there will be no problemo! Just relax. I am Brawley McWeedmonger Nolte, dude! I'm somebody around here!"

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Monday, April 25, 2005

I Have A Dream

These are troubled times we live in, people. Genocide, war, poverty, disease, personal foot masseuses, Federline babies, Lindsay Lohan's lip injections, Gwen Stefani--we have become almost immune to the endless parade of horror. But what about the smaller, everyday tragedies that befall our fellow man? How can we go on in the face of unspeakable cruelty? How?

Take this example of man's inumanity to man. First, some background info from the Syracuse New Times:
The freaks at Coney Island's famed amusement park have less to do with physical's the abilities of its cast members, not their disabilities, that take center stage. The sideshow, produced by Dick D. Zigun, the so-called "mayor of Coney Island," is billed as a 10-in-1 attraction, in which the stars juggle their own respective skills into one fascinating theatrical endeavor.

Koko the Killer Clown, for instance, performs comic monologues and balloon tricks, and is dressed in evil attire.

What could be more innocent and delightful than an evil clown who does stand up comedy and balloon tricks? What could be more natural?

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Then today's Page Six ran this report, and a single tear fell from eye. "Oh, the humanity," I thought, bitterly:
DICK Zigun, the unofficial "mayor" of Coney Island, has a new role: mediating the alleged midget mockery going on in one Brooklyn neighborhood.

Zigun, the owner of Side Shows by the Seashore, is now serving as the spokesman for pint-sized circus performer Koko the Killer Clown and his midget mother and sister, who say they have been the subject of harassment by a neighbor.

The family claims neighbor Joseph Izzo yelled racist insults at them, painted a "yellow brick road" outside their house and sang, "Hi, ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go," as the family left home.

Izzo is now facing charges of harassment, stalk ing and menacing. "The family has asked me to be their spokesman," says Zigun, who employed Koko for five years at Sideshows by the Seashore.

This really does bother me! Why must people be so mean?

How far have we sunk as a society--nay, as human beings--when we can't let Koko the Killer Clown and his midget family live in harmony and peace?

Like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., I, too, have a dream. I dream of a day when all of God's children, big men and little men, Clowns and Gentiles, Kokos and Izzos, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

Sunday, April 24, 2005

Carey On!

Just got back from my trip to Philly, and waiting for me when I got home to my beloved A-Town was loyal Friend of Felt Up Terri R., some nice weather, and a big, steaming pile of trashy celeb mags! Huzzah!

I'm just a wee bit too pooped from my travels to do an in-depth analysis of each and every urgent, newsworthy report from my beloved Star and Us Weekly, but here are some of the essentials that you will need to know in order to be au courant this week:

1) Mariah Carey travels with her own personal "lighting director" (sounds sensible to me---I never go anywhere without my "Faye" operator) and insists that all underlings greet her each morning with the salutation "You look beautiful, Miss Carey." Also, she has a personal foot masseuse.

Um, actually, there is no 2), because that's all anyone will ever need to know about anything, ever.

Well, that and a gentle reminder that Ms. Carey used to insist that she have a selection of "fresh" puppies and kittens to play with in her hotel rooms while on tour, but I can't say with absolute certainty that she still does that. I hope with all my heart and soul that she does, but who knows? Maybe she prefers to frolic with bunny rabbits, pot-bellied pigs, and small children (or "child props") these days. Bless Mariah's heart! She truly loves all creatures great and small...Until they become tedious and must be replaced.

Saturday, April 23, 2005

Moss Def

It's Friday, which means only one thing: It's "Another Sordid Chapter in L'Affaire Doherty/Moss" Day!

Page Six reports:
KATE Moss' rocker fiancé Pete Doherty spent his nights as a drug-dealing gay hustler before he got famous.

In "Kids in the Riot: High and Low With the Libertines" by his pal Pete Welsh, Doherty reveals that before the band scored its record contract, "I was spanking off old queens for, like, 20 quid."

He recalls turning a trick one night: "As he slept, I locked him in his room, tied a pair of trousers over his head and nicked all these American dollar bills out of his drawer."

Once the Libertines got hot, Doherty had sex with as many groupies as possible. "I remember [bleep]ing this girl in the toilets, on the floor," he recalls.

Another time, a girl "basically raped me to the music."

And once, when he picked up a hooker in Switzerland, "I ended up being sick on her in the hotel room, so she ran off."

We're not sure how all this will go down with Moss, who Doherty claims will marry him by the fall. He recently moved into her Oxfordshire mansion.

Oh, poor naive Page Six. As if Kate Moss is not used to being puked upon by pale, pasty British rockers! It's practically a part of her beauty regimen, which she is about to publish in a new book called A Rolling Stone Does, In Fact, Gather Moss. Here's an excerpt that was leaked to the press, from the chapter titled "Moss, Not Floss: A Typical Day of Beauty":

4pm: Wake up. Wipe vomit off face, stomach, naughty bits.

4:05pm: Smoke first packet of fags of the hour.

5pm: Take much-deserved nap.

6pm: Wake up again. Ring Sophie Dahl and call her a slag. (This puts a bit of colour in the cheeks.)

7pm: Watch maid feed baby something called "food." Sight will make one quite nauseated. Take edge off with some white powder Petey left behind near the dustbin.

8pm: Ring Stella McCartney, call her slag, demand free clothes for night out with Petey-Poo.

9pm: High colonic time!

10pm: Ring Peteykins, arrange to meet in squalid loo at hip London club.

11pm: Rape Petesy to the music in loo.

11:01pm: Finish sex in loo, hit the dance floor. Smoke 40th packet of fags of day.

12am-3pm: No idea. Vague memories of calling Sadie Frost a slag, snogging with my Petey Pie, someone being sick down my front. Couldn't have been me, though; one can't vomit when one hasn't eated solid food for twelve years! At least I don't think so. Too bad you can't print for vomit...oh, well.

4pm: Start again!

Oh, to be not-so-young and in love with a former hustler, future Shane MacGowan, current frail Babyshambles singer!

Also in Page Six was this little nugget:
APPAREL, publishing and video-game mogul Marc Ecko can officially claim the title of "Most Diehard 'Star Wars' Fan."

In addition to a collection that already includes a life-size Stormtrooper, the hip-hop fashion mogul went wild on eBay last weekend, shelling out over $25,000 for such items as original design sketches from "The Empire Strikes Back."

Ecko, who seems to have a soft spot for leathery, prehistoric-looking creatures, had a baby rhino named in his honor last week by the San Diego Zoo.

He has a "soft spot for leathery, prehistoric-looking creatures"? It's all becoming so clear--his dating Joan Rivers, I mean. Before, it really didn't make much sense! I love solving a mystery. Case closed!

Oh, but wait. Someone should warn this Ecko guy about his special lady's propensity for...

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...growing horns and devouring small children!

AAAAAAAAAAAH! Run for your life, Marc Ecko! You're better off sticking your "light saber" into your Stormtrooper, plush Yoda, or life-size Leia slave-girl sillicone Real Doll. It's much, much safer--and more life-like, to boot!

Friday, April 22, 2005

Paula Abdon't!

I am currently in lovely Philadelphia, PA--"The City of Brotherly Love," birthplace of the Constitution and our American Way of Life--propped up on some fluffy pillows, pants unbuttoned, trying with great difficulty to digest a Philly cheesesteak that weighed approximately three ounces more than the Liberty Bell. It ain't pretty, let me tell you.

But in between stuffing my piehole with giant quanities of bread, beef, and cheese, I did manage a Celebrity Sighting, which was gratifying, since I spent one whole day this week in New York without seeing a single Olsen or Gallo or Sevigny. But I saw a man here in Philly yesterday who looked remarkably like singer Todd Rundgren, AKA "The Man Liv Tyler Called Dad For Years Until She Realized She Looks Exactly Like Her Actual Father, Steven Tyler, Albeit Much Prettier And Less Death Headish."

Anyway, I thought the guy I saw walking down the street looked just like ole Todd, and then today I read in the paper that he is peforming here tonight! Huzzah! Sure, he's no Mary-Kate, but still! A celeb is a celeb!

Also saw this nice little puff piece on CNN that claims against all evidence to the contrary that Paula Abdul is not a drug-ravaged crazy lady pillhead:
Don't mistake Paula Abdul's niceties or silliness on "American Idol" for drug addiction. Despite a neuropathic disorder and 12 operations, Abdul says she's "not addicted to pills of any kind."

"If people only knew what I've gone through with pain and pills," Abdul, 42, tells the May 2 issue of People magazine. "I'm dancing for joy at the fact that not even a year ago I was in so much pain I could barely get up."

Last November, the "Idol" judge was diagnosed with Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy, a chronic neurological disorder that causes severe pain.

"I get a shot (of an anti-inflammatory drug) once a week," she said. "I give it to myself."

Abdul remarked that her 25 years of pain have been long and arduous, beginning with a cheerleading accident at 17 that injured a disc in her neck. The pain was punctuated with "a couple of car accidents" in the 1980s, her battle with bulimia, an emergency plane landing in 1992, paralysis in 1998 and years of failed treatments including prescription drugs, acupuncture and live leech therapy.

"By 1999, everywhere I went, I'd look for something sharp to lean up against and jam a corner into my neck -- something to fight the pain," Abdul said.

The choreographer and pop star is talking about her chronic pain after reading messages posted on the Fox talent show's Web site that attributed her odd antics to drug addiction.

"From where I was to where I am is a miracle," she said. "It's beyond a miracle."

Last month, Abdul was fined and sentenced to two years' probation after pleading no contest to a misdemeanor count of hit-and-run driving. The charge stemmed from an accident last December in which her car clipped another vehicle on a San Fernando Valley freeway.

Oh, Paula. You are starting to scare me. There was a photo of you in a recent Us Weekly in which you looked exactly like a freakishly thin version of Yolanda Saldivar, the woman who shot Selena. And who wants to look like Yolanda, huh? Nobody, that's who. And not only do you look like Ms. Saldivar, you are starting to act like her too, with that horrifying leering smile and those Norma Desmond eyes. Are you going to pull a gun out and kill Clay Aiken in a motel room in Corpus Christi? Is that where you are heading?

You are not doing yourself any favors in this interview, either, honey. You sound exactly like the pain-pill-poppin' headcase that you are! And Paula, we have eyes. We are not blind. We see you leaping from your chair on "American Idol," crazy-eyed and bleary, waving your arms like a spaz, with that manic "I'm Dancing As Fast As I Can" look on your face. Dear god, woman. Cheerleading injuries, multiple car accidents, a hit-and-run, bulimia, plane crashes, paralysis, and LEECH THERAPY? Maybe you should live in a plastic bubble from now on and try and keep the world at bay. How could you not get stuck down in the Valley of the Dolls, poppin' pills like they were candy? Sweet, delicious candy. Why not just own your obvious adddiction to goofballs? Go with it! That could be your gimmick, like Anna-Nicole! OMG. Note to self: A remake of "Valley of the Dolls" starring Paula Abdul, Anna-Nicole Smith, and Whitney Houston! I am a genius! Liza could be Helen Lawson, the aging star who can't let go of her fame!

One more thing, and it is urgent. Page Six is reporting that Johnny Knoxville is still a cheating scumbag. Repeat! Breaking news! Johnny Knoxville is a salad-tossing serial starlet banger:
JOHNNY Knoxville just can't seem to shake his fast-mushrooming reputation as a bold-faced babe magnet.

The married former "Jackass" ringleader is still battling those rampant rumors that he's having a torrid fling with "Dukes of Hazzard" co-star Jessica Simpson.

The buzz has been swirling for months that Simpson and Knoxville were having an on-set affair, but both stars have denied any talk of a tryst. N

But at least one eyewitness at "Scrubs" star Zach Braff's birthday party at 40 Deuce in Los Angeles last Saturday night told PAGE SIX she saw Knoxville and Simpson stroking one another's hands when the lights went down. "It was awesome," tittered our gossipy gawker...

Meanwhile, Knoxville has also been linked to teen party machine Lindsay Lohan, with whom he was spotted club-hopping in New Orleans a while back. When we asked chief Lohan-dler Leslie Sloane if her client had ever knocked boots with Knoxville, she played it safe: "I don't know that to be true," Sloane said.

Knoxville, who has a wife, Melanie, and a young daughter, Madison, has been caught more than once before enjoying the company of beautiful women.

Last year, Knoxville was spotted smooching with model Bridget Hall while the pair played pool at the Hog Pit in the Meatpacking District. Less than a week later, he raised eyebrows when he openly canoodled with Kate Moss at a Franz Ferdinand show at Webster Hall.

And those are just the more famous women to whom Knoxville has been linked. We know, for instance, that the amorous actor bedded a certain marketing minx who works at a New York fashion showroom a few years ago.

So what exactly is the state of Knoxville's marriage? "I'm not going to comment on his personal life any further," his rep told us. We can't say we blame her.

Dude should just change his name to "Johnny Cocksville" and be done with it. Just think of the degrees of sexual separation that no longer exist because of this guy: Lindsay and Jessica have basically had sex with each other. And Bridget Hall. And nameless, faceless non-celebs. And Nick Lachey has done it with Fez. And Paris Hilton. Not to mention Kate Moss and Johnny Depp and Winona Ryder and Pete Doherty. The mind reels! I don't even want to go into the whole Christian Slater/Bruce Willis Axis of Penis...

Monday, April 18, 2005

Gonna Fly Now

A PROGRAM NOTE: Your humble Felt Up blogette will be overcoming her intense fear of flying (via an unprecedented amount of self-medication) to visit family in Philadelphia this week. She will be far too busy stuffing her face with Philly cheesesteak, Philadelphia cream cheese, and any other cheese-related food product they have to offer, then running up the "Rocky" steps (very slowly) and barfing, to keep up with her blog with any regularity. And that ain't the only thing that's not going to be regular! Ba dum dum! Thank you!

But she will try and put her grease-covered fingers to the laptop keys every once in a while...

I'd Rather Have Buffalo Bill's Babies Than Spend One Second in Paradise With Ann Coulter

I don't read any magazines that aren't named Star or Us Weekly, so I had to hear about the new Time cover with heinous right-wing harridan Ann Coulter on the mean streets of the internets. It's pretty horrifying that the woman who thinks women shouldn't be allowed to vote (ha ha ha, that's so funny I forgot to laugh! if only they weren't allowed to speak, either!) gets so much press, but the cover is rather nicely done:

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Thanks to Mark Twang via Gawker for a job well done.

Tête a Tête de Lard

Mon dieu!

Just when I thought it was safe to completely put Gerard Depardieu out of my mind, he keeps pulling me back in!

WENN reports that Monsieur Depardieu, who has won many honors and awards over the years, including the coveted Legion De Kathleen Turner Médaille d'Honneur, made a drunken spectacle of himself on national--albeit French--tv:
Veteran actor Gerard Depardieu shocked TV viewers in his native France earlier last week when he insulted a fellow guest on a chat show.

Depardieu appeared to be drunk during his appearance on arts program "Ca Balance A Paris," where he was promoting his new cookery book Ma Cuisine.

The "Cyrano De Bergerac" star repeatedly called fellow interviewee and journalist Martin Monestier "un abruti", roughly translated as "a prat", after becoming angry with Monestier's criticism of his book.

When Monestier challenged Depardieu to call him something else, the actor swiftly labeled him "un tête de lard" - "a d**khead".

Depardieu then ignored host Michel Field's attempts to restore order and said, "I don't like critics. I like critics when they are right. When they are positive... Or even negative."

The 56-year-old then pretended to notice another guest, Mazarine Pingeot, the daughter of former French president Francois Mitterand, and exclaimed, "Hello beautiful. I didn't see you there," before kissing her on the cheek.

Depardieu recently claimed to have cut back on his excessive drinking after undergoing an emergency quintuple bypass operation.

Last month, he said, "I have learnt a lot about my body since my heart attack. I don't drink as much now as before. I do sometimes drink more than I should..."

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Wow. First of all, I think a few language lessons are in order. UK-based WENN kindly translates un abruti into "prat," a limey word that doesn't have a whole lot of meaning to us crass, non-Anglophile Americans. The dictionary definition of "prat" is:
the fleshy part of the human
body that you sit on

[syn: buttocks,
nates, arse, butt, backside, bum, buns, can,
fundament, hindquarters, hind end, keister, posterior,
rear, rear end, rump, stern, seat, tail, tail
end, tooshie, tush, bottom, behind, derriere,
fanny, ass]

Ah. OK. We're getting warm. But here is how the Brits define and use it, colloquially:
Someone who behaves stupidly or lacks ability:

"He looked a right prat in that pink suit."

"You've made me spill my drink, you prat!"

"Occasionally I'll have a few too many drinks at a party and make a prat of myself."

(Those are the actual sentences the UK Freesearch Dictionary provided. I didn't make those up. I would've looked a right prat if I had! Notice that two of them involve drinking. They are a pale, pasty nation after my own pickled heart! But I digress.)

Enough with all this learnin'! I'm exhausted! But now let's get this straight: A drunken Gerard Depardieu calls a critic of his book "a prat" and a "dickhead"? Here in the USA we say, "Pot, meet kettle." Or should I say, "Pot, bouilloire de rassemblement"?

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Say what you will about the French, but it's pretty awesome that un tête de lard is how you call someone"a dickhead" over there...

On a personal note that ties in nicely with the theme of this post: Bon voyage, Chepito! Have fun in France! Stay away from les têtes de lard! And the French whores!

Friday, April 15, 2005


I am literally on my way out the door to the accountant's office, and have no time whatsoever to dilly-dally about with stuff and nonsense. No time whatsoever! However:
Andy Dick was such a jerk during a guest appearance on VH1's "The Surreal Life" that "producers and security had to wrestle him to the ground in order to throw him off the set," said an insider.
"Andy was completely out of control."

The show's fifth season, which just wrapped, starred Jose Canseco, Sandi "Pepa" Denton, Bronson Pinchot, London model Caprice Bourret, and two other women who didn't get along at all — Janice Dickinson and Omarosa Manigault-Stallworth.

Dickinson referred to the former "Apprentice" as "Omagrossa."

During a photo shoot with the whole cast, Omarosa became hysterical at the sight of Janice holding a prop knife, our spy said. Omarosa told Dickinson to "back the [bleep] up with that knife," causing Dickinson to taunt: "Who wants a haircut?" Omarosa then exploded in a tirade of expletives, scaring the rest of the cast so much that they all left the shoot.

That was from Page Six, naturally.

What I would have given to be a fly on the wall on that set! A price above rubies, perhaps. Oh, Janice! My love for you grows day by day. "Who wants a haircut" should be carved into your grave stone.

Everybody sing: "We love you Janice, oh, yes, we do! When you're not near to us, we're blue. Oh, Janice, we love you!"

Now, I'm off to pay The Man.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

America's Misunderstood Sweetheart

I am in the middle of my annual Income Tax Frenzy, brought to you courtesy of our sponsors: Procrastinate ("Why Do It Now When You Can Wait Until the Last Minute and Drive Yourself Mad?") and Lazy Ass (their theme song is sung a la Barbra Streisand: "Blogette Asses Are The Laziest Asses in the World!"). All of this is to explain why the posts today and tomorrow may be on the brief side...

However, I'm not too wrapped up in my financial woes to ignore this, from the NY Daily News:
Is fashion designer Jay McCarroll, winner of Bravo's "Project Runway," coming apart at the seams?

McCarroll, who beat out 11 other designers on Heidi Klum's popular cable television show to win a $100,000 prize, suffered a meltdown at Tuesday night's launch party for cartoonist Robert Crumb's "R. Crumb Handbook" at the Stella McCartney boutique in the Meatpacking District.

My brave associate Hud Morgan bore the brunt of McCarroll's outburst - but not before the "Project Runway" star exploded at a party guest who mistook him for one of Donald Trump's protégés: "I'm not on the f--ing 'Apprentice!'"

Whirling on Morgan, McCarroll then launched into an unsolicited rant about rival designer Kai Kuehne, formerly of the trendy fashion label As Four.

"For God's sakes, the guy had Docksides on tonight! Who the f-- wears Docksides besides people in nursing homes?" McCarroll hissed into Morgan's tape recorder. "He always looks like some kind of maharishi who just came off a carpet. There should be stricter border rules in America! Where do these people come from?"

Yesterday, Kuehne told Morgan: "Oh no! I don't know what to say about that. I don't think anybody has the right to try to forbid anyone anything - this is the land of the free. How did he win? Is the show really that bad?"

But the 29-year-old McCarroll, who was sporting a 10-gallon hat, pink sunglasses and giant poncho that hid the wine glass he was holding at crotch level, revealed an even uglier side when Morgan inquired about his headgear.

McCarroll: "I'm from the country. I live in the f--ing woods. Where are you from?"

Morgan, whose hometown is Dublin, N.H.: "A town of 1,500, actually."

McCarroll: "And where do you live now? Where do you live now, a--? ..."

Morgan: "Is this how reality stars get their 16th minute of fame? By insulting everyone?"

McCarroll: "Well at least I have a sustainable career ahead of me. You're working for the Daily News. Why do you want to see people fail? What is it about you that wants to see people fail? Why are you mocking me?"

Morgan: "Um, I think you're pretty much mocking yourself."

McCarroll: "You're such a [anti-gay epithet] that you can't even see straight."

Morgan: "So now we're reduced to gay-baiting?"

McCarroll: "What sort of a name is Hudson? Your parents must have been [repeats anti-gay epithet] to name you that."

Before McCarroll could say anything more, a panicked publicist finally swooped in - too late! - and hauled him away.

Yesterday a chastened McCarroll phoned Morgan to apologize. "I had about 900 drinks and I'm really, really sorry for screaming at you like an a--," he said. "I remember calling your parents [a rather colorful anti-gay epithet], but at the end of the day, you're doing your job, and I shouldn't be making personal attacks on you, and I'm sorry."

Well, first of all, how on God's green Earth did someone mistake Jay McCarroll AKA America's Sweetheart, "who was sporting a 10-gallon hat, pink sunglasses and giant poncho that hid the wine glass he was holding at crotch level," for an "Apprentice" contestant? That's just insane! If someone did that to me I would go on a diva rampage!

Then again this whole report seems written by people who a) never watched "Project Runway"--which all good and decent folk did, religiously, and b) don't hang out with fashionistas very often. This is our Jay to a "T"! This is how he is--wild and crass and rude and funny; we'd be bitterly disappointed if he'd been modest and quiet and unassuming. Bitterly!

So, lighten up, Daily News. Do you think this kind of scene doesn't go down on an hourly basis at places like Stella McCartney's showroom? Do you honestly not know that bitch-slaps and meltdowns are fashion-business-as-usual? Jeez, you're acting like a bunch of damn rubes! Hicks from sticks!

Come to Texas, Jay. We understand you. We love loud, crude, flamboyant men here! Well, some parts of the state love them more than others. But come anyway! Just stay out of Williamson County and you'll have a blast. And for the love of all things holy, make sure to bring Austin Scarlett! You can start filming your updated "Gay Odd Couple" show right away! We have cameras here and everything. Even lights and cables and whatnot. I think.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Turner and Hooch

Oh, to be alive in this beautiful world of ours and wake up on a glorious day in the springtime to this Page Six headline:


Yes, the "Kathleen" is, indeed, The Second Scariest Actress After Lauren Bacall, Ms. Kathleen Turner, and she was outta control in public! Yippee! I feel like a girl of 54 again!
Kathleen Turner, who is knocking them dead on Broadway as dipsomaniacal Martha in "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?," gave an eerily similar high-spirited performance on Monday as co-host of the American Theater Wing tribute to Viacom co-CEO/CBS chairman Les Moonves.

"When Turner arrived at Cipriani 42nd Street and did a photo op with Jessica Lange and Billy Crystal, she was already exuberant," laughed one guest.

Organizers took Turner outside for some air and tall glasses of water before she took the stage. Then, co-host Richard Thomas had to steady her as she growled and hissed her way through the program.

"She almost licked his face," said one witness. A tablemate exclaimed to legendary designer Donald Brooks: "My God, she's seducing him."

At one point, when her script referred to Moonves' dedication to the arts, Turner ad-libbed, "Maybe he's just in it for the money." The flippant gibe drew a dead silence.

But one of Turner's producers, Liz McCann, told Post Broadway columnist Michael Riedel that the star had been exploited. "I am tired of winding up our actors and leaning on them to do these things," she said. "It's gotten out of control."

American Theater Wing officials, she told Riedel, "begged Kathleen to be there. They were wrong, and we were wrong to let her do it. She needed her rest. She is performing a demanding play. This was her night off, and we should have let her have it."

I find this whole report fascinating, not just because Kathleen Turner is America's Favorite Blowsy Boozy Ole Broad, but because the Post was so very, very careful not to say that she was drunk. They say she was "wobbly," "high-spirited," and "exuberant"; also that she seemed "eerily similar" to her portrayal of the "dipsomaniac" Martha, and needed some air and glasses of water--but never come right out and say she was "out of her mind drunk."

So what's the deal, Page Six? Why the pussy-footin' around? Usually you don't mince words! What does Kathleen Turner have on you guys? She almost licked Richard Thomas' face--what more proof do you want? Does she have incriminating photos of Richard "Dick" Johnson's johnson or what? It's kind of an outrage. What is going on? It can't be something as simple as fear of a libel suit, can it? Can it? That's so wimpy!

Otherwise, a delightful story. Oh, Kathleen. You light up my life--much the same way you get lit every night.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Rejoice! For The Federline Line Continues

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Oh my god, ya'll! Britney Spears has finally announced that she is knocked up, and not, as has been so snarkily speculated, just plain fat. She made the blessed, holy, miraculous announcement on her official website:
The time has finally come to share our wonderful news that we are expecting our first child together. There are reports that I was in the hospital this weekend. Kevin and I just want everyone to know that all is well. Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

Apparently, Mrs. Federline was rushed to the hospital over the weekend, possibly due to pregnancy complications. They couldn't have been too bad, though, or she would hardly have made the announcement, right? Hopefully all will be just swell for our Brit, although why in holy hell she would want to give the world yet another spawn of K-Fed is beyond me. Dude spends all his time in Vegas with his hand up a hooker's dress while his poor wife/cash machine cries publicly in a muu-muu!

Oh, well....Let the Red-Bull-and-Cheeto-related baby name jokes commence!

They Shoot Horses Before Karl Lagerfeld Eats Them, Don't They?

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Just a bunch of tidbits today, sort of like an hors d'oevre plate of crudites. And I do mean "crude"!

First up, Page Six says:
That Maria Shriver said on "Oprah" if the kids leave their clothes or shoes on the floor, hubby Gov. Schwarzenegger, throws them in the fire.

Well, naturally, he does. It just goes to show that you can take the boy out of the Nazi, but you can't take the Nazi out of the boy. Can't you just imagine family life at the California Statehaus/Fuhrer Bunker? All the talk about the "Higher Authority," the endless viewings of "Pumping Iron" and "Triumph of the Will," the constant exercise and healthy snacks? Those poor kinder! It would be bad enough to have a living skull as your mom, but to have The Terminator as dear old dad, tossing your belongings into the Lord. Or should I say Mein Gott!

Page Six also has the shocking news that k.d. lang is fat. Fat, I say, FAT!

"It's been a long time since k.d. lang was k.d. lean, but many people seemed stunned by exactly how big the star has gotten." So reports Shinan Govani from the Juno (Canadian music) Awards in Winnipeg, where the corpulent crooner stole the show but stayed away from the red carpet and the parties.

The National Post columnist, who calls lang "Canada's most famous lesbian," quoted a music insider as saying, "She's always been shy. But she seems even shyer now, now that she's fat."

Poor k.d.! She can't just have a nice voice and an annoyingly lower-case name, she's got to be svelte, too? Nobody cares if k.d. gets ginormous. Her fan base will always love her no matter what! Besides, what can she do? She's got a constant craving!

However, if she decides that she can't stand it anymore, she could always go on the most fashionable diet on Earth: The Karl Lagerfeld Diet. But being a well-known vegetarian/animal rights activist, she might have a teeny tiny problem with some aspects of the regimen. According to, yes, Page Six again:

Though the word was that Karl Lagerfeld lost 90 pounds on a diet of horse meat, tomatoes and Diet Coke, the book detailing his methods lists myriad unappetizing concoctions such as tuna and blackberry mousse and calf's liver with wild strawberries.

What would you expect from a man driven by fashion?

"It was for totally superficial reasons that I got started on this diet," the Chanel designer says in "The Karl Lagerfeld Diet," due in May.

"I think that fashion is the healthiest motivation for losing weight."

At least he doesn't try to fool his fellow dieters about how good the food is: "You have to be a real bore like me for the diet to work."

Herr Lagerfeld, I think you are being too modest. You could never, ever be described as a "bore." A boor, yes. A bore, no. A nutjob, freak, anti-woman fat-phobe? Yes, yes, and yes. But you are correct: Fashion is the healthiest motivation for losing weight! Trying to attain an unrealistic ideal put forth by bitchy gay men and Anna Wintour is much healthier than say, wanting to reduce one's chance of getting diabetes or heart disease. For those of you who cannot wait until May to read the Lagerfeld Diet, I've put together a handy visual guide to get you started:

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Bon appetit!

And finally, in a non-Nazi or food-related item, we have this report from The NY Daily News about Foxy "The Very Poor Man's Lil' Kim" Brown and her legal woes:
Looking fabulous as ever, Foxy Brown flashed a little hip-hop diva attitude yesterday - dissing prosecutors over claims she beat up two manicurists over a $20 toe job.

"A $20 pedicure? Are you serious?" the sexy rap star joked to reporters outside court. Brown splayed her long white nails to show off the satiny beige Dolce & Gabbana blouse and pointy Dior heels almost hidden beneath her pants.

"I mean, look at me!" she added.

In court, Brown, whose real name is Inga Marchand, pleaded not guilty to using her cell phone and fist to pummel nail stylists Myoung Yi and Sun Ji Song on Aug. 29.

Prosecutors said Foxy pulled a diva hissy fit, but Brown's attorney said the the salon workers are looking to shake down the Brooklyn-born superstar.

"They realized they had a potential payday in Foxy," said lawyer Joseph Tacopina.

Hmmm. Methinks Ms. Marchand doth protest too much. She's pulling the ole "I'm Too Rich To Care About A Measly $20" Defense, which was invented and perfected by Whitney "Divas Only Do The Good Cocaine, Not Crack" Houston. However, Whitney actually is a diva, while cell-phone-beatings-of-underlings is only cool when Naomi Campbell does it, and Foxy, you are no Naomi. And your archnemesis, the original rappin' midget skank and Felt Up fave rave Lil' Kim, has even got you beat on the legal front--she's been convicted of perjury and could go to the federal pen; all you've got is a measly assault-n-battery charge. Feh. You should be ashamed of yourself and your transparently wannabe ways! Don't come back until you've killed someone over a bikini wax.

Saturday, April 09, 2005

The Filth and the Fury

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Ahh, spring. It brings to mind flowers, sunshine, romps in the park, and, of course, romance. Sweet, delightful, enchanting l-o-v-e. Such as this fairytale-like report from Page Six about everyone's favorite young English lovahs:

Kate Moss' crackhead rocker fiance, Pete Doherty, is a one-minute wonder in bed with a less-than-impressive endowment, his ex-girlfriend says.

Doherty's French ex, Carole Desbois, 27, tells London's News of the World that Doherty, 26, whom she dated in the summer of 2001, "never kept going sexually for more than a few minutes at a time. The drugs definitely affected his sex drive. He often went limp during sex because of the drugs."

She also sniffs, "He's pretty inexperienced" in the sack.

Before she consented to sex, Desbois said she had to scrub down the filthy rocker, who stank to high heaven.

"It was like standing next to a pile of manure," Desbois says. "The grimy odor would have put me off having sex. I did everything for him that night from washing his hair to clipping his fingernails because they had so much dirt underneath."

And this was before Doherty started shooting up. "He was only smoking cannabis, taking speed [or] acid," she notes. "He hadn't moved on to hard drugs. He didn't have the money."

Wow. I don't really want to think too much about his lack of prowess in the sack, because frankly, thinking about that pale, skinny, pasty little man in the sack at all makes me throw up in my mouth. The truly frightening thing is when you stop to consider the European attitude toward cleanliness, hygiene, and body odor--which falls about even with, or perhaps even below, my own rather lax standards--and then realize that Mr. Doherty actually managed to gross out a French hipster who probably has hairy armpits, never heard of deodorant, smokes like a chimney and bathes once a month. Kudos, Pete! Well-played. Now, good day. I said good day, sir!

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At first glance this next item, also from Page Six, didn't really rock my world, as I could care less about the goings-on in the topsy-turvy world of hipper-than-thou New York neo-new-wave buzz bands; but upon closer inspection, I realized that this story has some personal relevance:
The slap-fight between The Bravery and The Killers is getting bitchier. Rock's hottest rivalry started when Killers lead singer Brandon Flowers publicly slammed Williamsburg buzz band The Bravery for riding his group's new-wave revivalist coattails. Flowers ridiculed Bravery frontman Sam Endicott for having once been in a ska band called Skabba the Hut.

You see, my wee brother and I like to play a game called "Who Can Come Up With the Stupidest Ska Band Name?" from time to time. My personal best was "The Ska of Iran" (espciallay useful for a hard-hitting political ska band).

But I think "Skabba the Hut" may have just rendered our game obsolete. Where can we go from there? What joy can we possibly take from trying--fruitlessly--to find a more riciculously bad ska band name than that? Yet another innocent pastime robbed of its charm and fun by New York musicians.

To read an in-depth account of every "true" music-lover's intense loathing for The Bravery, go to this article in the NY Post. It's pretty funny stuff. Make sure you look for the money quote:
"Skabba the Hut remains the most disturbing thing about them," says MTV News correspondent Gideon Yago.

Also, it turns out that some dude from The Killers was in a ska band with the comparatively tasteful name of Attaboy Skip. The photographic evidence can be found here. I find it rather amusing that the absolute worst thing that can come out about these guys is that they were in ska bands years ago. Quelle horreur! Hasn't everyone been in a ska band at least for a little while? Denying your two-tone past skan't be good for you! Embrace it! Shout to the world: Ich Bien Ein Skaliner!

Infuriatingly, the Skabba the Hut webpage seems to have been removed from the internets--and it's tag line was "Bust a Nut With Skabba the Hut!" However I was able to find mention of their big hit "Skabba Nagilla" on the Bankshot! Records page.

Oh, and one more thing. The Bravery dude's stage name was "Chewskacca."

Friday, April 08, 2005

Some Folks Will Never Be Fonda Jane

In honor of Jane Fonda's new autobiography My Life So Far, your humble Felt Upette would like to mention a bumper sticker she spotted today in Austin:

When The Jews Forgive Hitler!

Nice. It's so over-the-top that it kind of makes me giggle, but then feel really guilty.

Poor ole Jane. She has certainly packed a lot into her life so far! She really is pretty fascinating, except for when she's teaching Robert De Niro how to read in "Stanley and Iris."

Let's take a little photographic walk down Memory Jane, shall we?

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Jane Bardot!

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The Pre-Feminist Years

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Fight the Fascist Imperialist Pigs!

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The Picture That Started A Bumber Sticker Industry

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Fight the Fat Pigs!

And my number one, all-time favorite image of Jane:

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As we all know Michael likes to say, "Got milk?" Eeeww! (Note MJ is dressed like a cowboy.)

Whew! I'm exhausted just looking at her life. She is like a walking metaphor for all things Baby Boomer! I didn't even go into the Ted Turner years. They were kind of dullsville, anyway. Now she's in a movie with J. Lo! A whole new generation can learn to loathe her!

Just A Good Ole Boy, Never Meanin' No Harm

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Delightful gossip site Page Six Six Six has some new, intriguing corroboration about L'Affaire de Knoxville et Simpson.

Loyal Felt Up readers may recall that jackass Johnny Knoxville was rumored to have introduced Jessica Simpson to the naughty delights of "rimming" during their alleged torrid affair while they were filming "The Dukes of Hazzard" in Louisiana, although it was unclear whose salad, exactly, was gettin' tossed. (The public demands answers!) Which, as Friend of Felt Up Terri R. has pointed out, would be an extra hard slap in the face to Nick Lachey, seeing as how Jessica made such a big deal on national television about merely giving her husband a lil' "lip service."

She is a prude and a whore! Not an easy combo to achieve, but she managed to do it!

Tatum O' No!

Second only to my love of the phrase "celebrity meltdown" is my adoration of "celebrity rampage." Although "liquor-fueled lesbian rampage" may trump them all!

The lead item in today's Page Six is this report about Tatum O'Neal's "sapphic spree":
Oscar-winning actress Tatum O'Neal went on a liquor-fueled lesbian rampage Wednesday night at Meatpacking District hot spot Pop Burger.

At about midnight, O'Neal, 41, daughter of Ryan O'Neal and ex-wife of John McEnroe, walked into the hipster restaurant/lounge, which had been visited by the likes of Billy Baldwin, Natasha Henstridge and Alessandra Ambrosio earlier in the evening. O'Neal ambled up to the bar and started ordering cosmopolitans — apparently not her first libations of the evening.

She wasn't there very long when she spilled a drink all over a fellow customer, and instead of acknowledging the gaffe, strolled outside to smoke a cigarette.

While managers placated the soggy patron with free cocktails, O'Neal started chatting up a pretty, blond 30-ish woman she met outside. O'Neal invited her new friend inside for a drink — and then the fun began.

"They started fooling around and were full-on making out," a spywitness told PAGE SIX's Jared Paul Stern. "Then she started feeling the girl's boobs and rubbing her crotch. It got so graphic that the manager had to keep sending a waiter to the table to tell them to stop because they were causing a scene."

The entire crowd gawked at the steamy sapphic embrace, and finally O'Neal and her lusty lady paid the check and got up and left the lounge together holding hands.

Um, is Pop Burger really a "hipster" New York "hot spot" when "the likes of" Billy Baldwin, Natasha Henstridge, Allesandra Ambrosio, and Tatum O'Neal are their biggest celebrity clients? What about Rock Hot Dog, down the street, where Bonnie Franklin, Robert Goulet, Carrot Top, Pat Sajak, and Sally Struthers like to hang?

Although I may have been too quick to judge Ms. Franklin, now that I see the level of her genius:

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Huzzah! This is my perfect workout tape! I, too, hate to exercise and love, love, love to tap! Where on God's green Earth do I get my greedy mitts on this thing? Hot damn!

But I digress. Back to Tatum's drunken lesbi-antics. To me it seems more like a desperate cry for attention than anything else--and it worked! Page Six lead story! But it makes me sad. Poor Tatum. Why, just yesterday your humble Felt Up blogette's main squeeze made a love gift of "The Bad News Bears" DVD, which was greatly appreciated. God, how I love that movie! Tatum is a delight! So tough, yet fragile. She also starred in another Felt Up fave rave, "Paper Moon," with her horrible egomaniacal creepy alcoholic child-hitting dad. She got an Oscar for that performance, and looked so adorable in her tiny '70s-style tuxedo. Oh, Tatum! Who cares if you like to munch the carpet? Big, hairy deal (so to speak). That's neither here nor there (and after John McEnroe, who can blame you?)!

I just want you to be happy! Maybe you should start going to Rock Hot Dog. They are more understanding there, I hear, despite being such a hip hot spot.

Thursday, April 07, 2005

The Thong Remains The Same

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Once again, your humble Felt Up blogette has been dragged, kicking and screaming, into the seamy underside of the world of politics. Dirty, disgusting politics! Show biz seems almost godly and wholesome in comparison.

It seems that First Daughter Jenna "Keep Your Politics Out Of My" Bush is quickly becoming the Tara Reid of the Republican Party. (Although, actually, for all I know Tara Reid may already be the Tara Reid of the Republican Party--I'm not sure what her politics are, except that they embrace laissez-faire economics, spreading democracy through the Middle East, and full-frontal public nudity.)

Page Six reports on the latest Jennantics:
Videotape of Jenna Bush in very high spirits at a bachelorette party is being sold and could end up on national TV by the end of the week.

Luckily for Jenna, the cameraman missed "the high point . . . Jenna on all fours doing 'the butt dance' — and doing it very well — as guys were ogling her thong," said our source.

Club patrons do the suggestive dance when the deejay plays the 1988 hit "Da Butt," by E.U.

The president's blond daughter arrived at NerveAna, a '90s-themed lounge on Varick Street, at 10:30 p.m. last Friday with several other pretty young things in a battered old blue minivan.

Sources said it was Jenna's third visit to the club, which features replicas of Monica Lewinsky's blue dress and O.J. Simpson's white Bronco.

Jenna, who plans to teach school in D.C. next fall, wore jeans, moccasin boots and a midriff-baring, satiny blue top. She lit up a cigarette "and she was very polite when she was told she'd have to go outside to smoke," said our source.

Before leaving at 3:30 a.m., Jenna and her pals gamely joined a conga line and danced around the club
Does anyone else think it's ironic that Jenna Bush, like the rest of us, has to re-live the 1990s to have a good time?

But say what you will about her family (and I say a lot), I have a miniscule, almost undetectable soft spot for Jenna; girlfriend likes to party like it's 1999 (the good ole days)! Her sister went to a better school and is totally "the good girl," while Jenna sticks her tongue out at the press, drinks like WC Fields' alcoholic Irish granddaughter, makes out with her boyfriend in public, has an untold number of unresolved "daddy" issues, and does Da Butt in her thong. Huzzah!

I still hate her on general principle, though.

Now, onto more serious matters. Felt Up Special Agent Michele S. sent in this dossier about everyone's favorite craaaazy Jamaican-androgynous-singer-discovered-by-a-French-Svengali from the 1980s, Ms. Grace Jones, via Digital Spy:
The Press Association reports that passengers said the disgruntled actress grabbed the arm of a train manager as she hurled abuse at her in both French and English, indignant over a ticket upgrade dispute.

Jones was removed from the vehicle by three officers of the British Transport Police after a 15-minute standstill.

Paul Charles, communications director for Eurostar, said: "Grace Jones was challenged by the train manager and was told that, as she did not have a premium class ticket, she would have to pay for an upgrade.

"She said she had no money and refused to move from the carriage. Passengers told us that she was arguing and verbally abusing the train manager. She then attacked the manager, grabbing her arm.

"We are not pressing charges but we will not tolerate any verbal or physical abuse from anyone against passengers or staff on Eurostar."

The plot thickened today when WENN reported today that Grace denies beating the crap out of the manager:

Actress Grace Jones has denied attacking a train manager during a row over ticket fares on a trip from Paris to London...

Jones insists there was "definitely no physical confrontation" and asked to be let off the train - claiming she was issued with an incomplete ticket without a price on it.

Oh, Grace. Don't go changin'! We love you just the way you aaaarrrre! You know you beat up that poor lady. She was impudent! She challenged you! Why would anyone in their right mind challenge Grace Jones? You are the Naomi Campbell of the cross-genre avant-garde dance music world!

One of my favorite Grace Jones-related memories is from the Grammy Awards in the early 1980s. Grace was presenting an award with the late, dearly missed "Superfreak" himself, Rick James. Grace was wearing an outragously over-the-top craaaaazy hat, as is her wont, and when they approached the podium, Rick said into the microphone, "Hey, Stevie, you should see this hat!" He was speaking, of course, to Stevie Wonder. The shocked audience eruputed into boos, but I thought it was hysterical. Stevie laughed! Although he was the only one.

OK, not really a Grace Jones story so much as a Rick James anectdote, but whatever. I still love Grace's dirty ode to the black man's penis "Pull Up To The Bumper, Baby (In Your Long Black Limousine)," which, by the way, is an excellent song to Da Butt to, Jenna Bush. I've done it myself, many, many times; although, granted, in my bedroom, with the door locked, fully clothed. (They didn't have thongs then, thank holy Christ.) Alone. When I was 14.

I am 102 years old!

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

Muu-Muus Are A Girl's Best Friend

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I know the Felt Up Nation will be shocked--shocked!--by news of yet more trouble in Spederline Paradise--again! Right on the heels of the yokel's trip to Vegas, which he spent with his hand up the skirt of a skanky escort, while possibly preggers Brit and her dog Bit-Bit holed up with her brother (who reportedly loathes K-Fed--I can't imagine why!) comes this news that the lovebirds are being torn apart by a cruel, uncaring world!

Page Six is reporting with great glee that:
Britney Spears and husband Kevin Federline just might separate before their UPN reality show premiere next month, if their current behavior is any indication.

Just after Federline spent the weekend before last in Vegas, where a "hostess" was keeping him company, the couple holed up in the Fairmont Miramar Hotel in Santa Monica — but in separate rooms.

A spywitness staying there said, "They moved into the hotel because their house in Malibu is being renovated. But Britney stayed in the main building and Kevin stayed in the bungalows.

"They were not together at all the entire week. They called their family in for an emergency meeting. They are having serious issues, and the families were called to try and help them work it out."

Sadly, the two spent almost no time together talking things through, even though Spears is widely believed to be pregnant with Federline's child — although it has not been confirmed.

"Every time they came and went to and from the hotel, it was in separate cars," we're told. "Kevin played a lot of golf at a nearby golf course and Britney was just roaming the hotel everyday in either a muu-muu or an oversized sweatshirt, sobbing. Her mother was with her, but not Kevin.

"Britney left the hotel [Monday], but Kevin is still here."

Felt Up is proud to announce that it has obtained an exclusive photo of poor Britney with her new, darker-haired look, just before she broke down in tears:
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Oh, Brit. Stay strong! And don't let anyone make you feel bad for being all emotional and whatnot. Sobbing in public is totally understandable! Your Felt Uppette does it on a daily--nay, even an hourly--basis! And lord knows she loves a muu-muu!

Stay tuned for more information as it becomes available....

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Who's Your Daddy?

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In the grand tradition of such Great Romances as Doherty/Moss, Moore/ Kutcher, and Flav/Nielsen comes the news that "America's Sweet'ho" Lindsay Lohan is having a torrid fling with none other than Christian Slater. Yes, I said torrid! And I mean it! Not because it's necessarily true, but because I love that word!

Apparently her hotly-denied-by-both-parties gropefest with Bruce Willis, which grossed-out a nation, only whetted her appetite for finely aged manmeat.

From the NY Daily News:
Lindsay Lohan has had plenty of problems with her occasionally out-of-control dad, Michael - so you'd think she'd keep her distance from ill-behaved older men.

But word is that the 18-year-old starlet is dating 35-year-old actor Christian Slater.

A Lowdown spy reports that the bad boy has been spending quality time on the set of Lohan's new movie, shooting in New York as "The Untitled Lindsay Lohan Lucky Project," and has been spotted disappearing into Lohan's private trailer.

Says the spy: "They're definitely hooking up."

Yesterday, Lohan's rep told Lowdown, "As far as I know, he did not visit her in the trailer. He said hello to her, but I was told he was visiting the head of photography."

Slater, who's appearing on Broadway in "The Glass Menagerie," has been an eligible bachelor since February, when he filed for divorce from TV producer Ryan Haddon, his wife of five years and the mother of his two young children.

And Lohan hasn't found true love since splitting from "That '70s Show" actor Wilmer Valderrama in November.

Maybe the teen queen is only looking for a little fatherly advice.

But if so, there are probably better teachers than the former Brat Packer, who's had his scrapes with the law. A decade ago, Slater spent time in drug rehab and jail for two DUIs, kicking a police officer in the head and carrying an unlicensed handgun at Kennedy Airport.

In 1997, he was convicted of misdemeanor battery and served 90 days in jail for assaulting an ex-girlfriend, biting the man who came to her defense and trying to grab the gun of a cop who arrived on the scene.

Then there was that 2003 episode in Vancouver, Canada, with Ben Affleck, and a gaggle of strippers. A few months later, Slater received nine stitches after Haddon beaned him with a glass.

On the other hand, if Lohan is looking for an anti-role model, maybe Slater is just the ticket.

Hmmmmmmm. DUI's, getting stabbed by an ex-wife, kicking a police officer in the head, rehab, jail, strippers, biting a good samaritan, grabbing a cop's gun: It all makes sense! Poor lil' Lindsay is just sticking to what she knows! This type of behavior goes down on a daily basis chez Lohan, so of course she's drawn to Christian like a red-headed moth to a very yucky flame!

Now, if only Wilmer and Christian would have some kind of "duel at dawn"-type showdown over Lindsay's long-lost honor....oh, be still my beating heart! Christian is an ancient old man, but Wilmer doesn't exactly strike me as having a particularly high IQ, so they might be evenly matched. Not that Christian is a genius or anything, but Jesus Jones! He must be smarter than Fez!

Or how about a "Bad Acting" contest before the squinty, surgered craaaaazy Faye Dunaway on a very special episode of "The Starlet"? Christian could do his patented "Annoying Bad Jack Nicholson" shtick, while Wilmer could do...whatever it is he does and gets so well-paid for...until one or both of them is beaten to death by a Faye-light-wielding Faye Dunaway!

And scene!

Speaking of frightening, surgered, crazy old ladies, the Daily News also has a little tidbit about Lauren Bacall, the woman who haunts my dreams much like Freddie Krueger.

She went on a rant recently, as is her wont, about the sorry state of today's leading ladies:
That was Lauren Bacall, slagging off an entire generation of actresses - and Hugh Grant - in a no-holds-barred interview with Britain's Radio Times magazine.

"Today, women with minuscule talent are willing to sacrifice everything for their careers," the 80-year-old Bacall claims. "I put my career in second place throughout both my marriages [to Humphrey Bogart and Jason Robards], and it suffered."

She added that today's actresses "only think of stardom. If you photograph well, that's enough. I have a terrible time distinguishing one from another. Girls wear their hair the same, and are much too anorexic-looking. ... We live in an age of mediocrity."

Grant, meanwhile, is "charming, marvelous. Not a great actor, but he doesn't have to be."

I have to pause a moment here, because a terrible chill has just gone down my spine. What could it be? Oh, no. I know what it is: Lauren Bacall just walked across my grave! AAAAAAAAAAAH! Run for your lives! The hideous, ghoulish visage of Lauren Bacall is coming for us! She's coming for us all! AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

But I digress.

Now, I do think she's right in saying that most actresses are anorexic and mediocre, but she's got a lot of nerve pretending she was some kind of Great Thespian in her day. Sure, she was unbelievably gorgeous and extremely cool--nobody else could have delivered the line "Just put your lips together in blow" like her--but come on. She was no great actress. She was a great Star. There is a difference.

Also, Lauren? You started off as a model. So let's not cast the first "if you photograph well" stone, shall we? And I don't think it's fair to say that women should give up their careers for marriage. Is that a dig at poor, downtrodden gazillionaire Jennifer Aniston, or what? That's a low blow. Don't kick a horse when she's down, Lauren. Boo, hiss! Although, to be fair, you are 110 years old, and came of age during the time of Queen Victoria, when things were quite different for women. So, you know, I'll let this one slide.

I do love that you insulted the most mediocre and anorexic leading lady of them all, Hugh Grant, although you could've gone farther. Much farther. "Marvelous," my ass. Bleh!

Now please, I beg of you, Miss Bacall: Stay out of my nightmares! AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Monday, April 04, 2005

Scientology Is Made Of People! PEOPLE!

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I just love it when, on a slow non-news day, a tabloid paper simply pulls a story right out of its ass; it's a beautiful thing to behold when old stories are rehashed, some gay gossip is dusted off and tarted up, and the whole shebang is polished up with a few new quotes from a spokesperson--voila! A NY Daily News lead item! Straight out of the Felt Up school of non-journalism!

It is an interesting story, I have to admit, but there's just nothing new for me to sink my teeth into! Blah blah Scientology, blah blah movie stars who want to be "cured" of their gayness. I've heard it all before! This story is as old as the hills! As old as Madonna's hills, even!

I want to read about Tom Cruise enduring years of electric shock therapy to rid him of his gayness (not to mention his memories of his sham marriage to Botox Kidman!) I want John Travolta and Kirstie Alley suffering horribly in a dual anti-homosexual, anti-fat hypnotherapy mindwarp administered by aliens (isn't that how Scientology works?)! How about Lisa Marie Presley being used as human prey a la Ice-T in a Scientology version of "Surviving the Game?" Is that too much to ask? Huh?

Apparently, yes. Here's the tired, ancient "scoop," anyway:
John Travolta and Tom Cruise have forcefully denied allegations that they turned to Scientology to "cure" them of their supposedly gay urges. But critics continue to claim the religion is rife with homophobia.

Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard wrote in his 1950 best seller, "Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health," that gays were "sexual perverts" and "very ill physically."

That apparently went for Hubbard's son, Quentin, who was said to have been confused about his own sexual orientation. "[Ron] thought Quentin was an embarrassment," Laurel Sullivan, Hubbard's former PR officer, told the Los Angeles Times. Quentin killed himself in 1976...

In a federal lawsuit filed in 1998, ex-Scientologist Michael Pattinson claimed the church deceived him by using Travolta as an example of a satisfied member who'd gone straight. Reps for Travolta - who has been married to Scientologist Kelly Preston for 13 years - and the church called the charges "meritless" and "hogwash."

Scientology spokeswoman Gaetane Asselin scoffed at the suggestion that celebrities like twice-married Cruise, Lisa Marie Presley, Kirstie Alley and Isaac Hayes embrace a theology that sees gays as weak or demented.

"Mr. Hubbard abhorred discrimination in all its forms," Asselin told us. "In today's liberal society," she argued, the church encourages any relationship that is "ethical."

But, she added, "Subjects such as homosexuality and same-sex marriages are not widely debated in Scientology."

Maybe everyone knows not to bring it up.

OK, I do love that the spokeswoman charged with the task of denying the homophobic nature of the Church of Scientology is named Gaetane Asselin. I'll give 'em that.

Sunday, April 03, 2005

Give It To Me, Baby (Give It To Me)

Your Felt Uppette doesn't usually dirty her delicate, dainty hands in the world of politics, but this little nugget in Page Six caught her fancy:
A Hattiesburg, Miss., policewoman and her husband found out the hard way how popular Dave Chappelle's Comedy Central show is - especially his catch phrase, "I'm Rick James, bitch!"

Diane James' husband, Rick James, is running for Hattiesburg City Council.
She wrote to Comedy Central: "Due to the popularity of the Dave Chappelle show, people keep stealing our 'Vote Rick James' yard signs ... we would appreciate a small campaign donation for more signs, as we are working-class people and financing this campaign out of our own pockets. Each time a sign is stolen, it costs us $4.75! Every time a 'Rick James' piece runs on your show, we stand to lose dozens of signs overnight, which end up decorating people's front yards and dorm rooms ... the yard signs have been spotted at least 100 miles from our home by truckers ... Also, young children on bikes scream, 'I'm Rick James, bitch!' as we drive by in our car with our 'Rick James' car signs ... People even drive by our home and scream, 'Super Freak.'"

No word on whether Comedy central will pitch in for more signs.

Diane James, I have some words of avice for you: You are looking at this the wrong way! Don't try and distance yourself from the Superfreak (may God rest his soul)--you should embrace "I'm Rick James, bitch" as your new campaign slogan! Thousands of young caucasians will rally to your husband's siren song and he will win in a landslide! Get your husband a braided wig! Print up some t-shirts with "I Love You Mary Jane" and "Superfreak Army" on the back--and sell 'em, along with the damn signs!

Take it from me. My ex-next-door-neighbor, Bart Simpson, ran for Congress from San Antonio, and...well, I'm not sure if he won, in fact I'm fairly certain he lost, but he got a lot of attention! You can't buy that kind of publicity! My god, woman, you've already made it to Page Six! Be grateful!

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I'm Rick James, bitch, and I approved this ad!