The newly single and supposedly sober Whitney Houston has been holed up at the Hyatt in Huntington Beach since her split from bad-boy hub-unit Bobby Brown hit the tabs. In case you were wondering. You weren't? I sure was. Gotta give it to gal-friend Whit for the guh-reatest downfall in T-town history, at least since, oh, I dunno, say, since Candy Spelling decided to procreate.
Jeez, is that too harsh? Never mind, I was kidding! Even better: I didn't even write that last sentence, as I don't even exist anymore. See, rumors are swirling--on that darling Defamer, on E!'s very own message boards, at my damn dentist's office--that my swell associate, Cristina Gibson, is not only solely writing my missive, she's authoring my MySpace profile, cooking dinner for my boyfriend, scheduling my next highlights appointment at Privé (just so I can go back and get it buzzed off again and maybe see bitchy Teri Hatcher during the razor-sharp experience) and wiping my ass, too!
That Cristina! You know how those Jersey girls are; they can do it all.
Even though the above sour grape juice is inaccurate crapola (we both put this column together, I assure you, and Ms. G. wouldn't dare go near any of those other supple environs mentioned, trust), isn't it fitting? All this BS out there on a gossip columnist who's certainly had things wrong on occasion (I said Brad 'n' Jen would never marry, for ince), so I don't really care.
Just find it deliciously ironic.
Less so what's goin' on with that other Joisey babe, Ms. W. My, how the diva has lost her luster. First wrong turn? In my questionable opinion? Not embracing those gal-on-gal rumors that were so swirling all those years ago (and which are new again, natch). At least Oprah friggn' laughs about it, like she's just la-dee-dah-ing along with Stedman while addressing those naughty little gossips who claim she leans toward the Sapphic side.
In other words, the big O. demurs the gay stuff while arguably running for president, along with her 10 billion companies, always with the loyal affection of Gayle, über-strong BFF.
Whitney, on the other diamond-laden pinkie, battles the 'mo stuff while reportedly in and out of drug-induced deliriousness, all of which she denies, natch.
Point being, Whitney shoulda had fun with the same-sex stuff years ago, just like George Clooney's doing today, for example (well, at least, with me in these pages, he does). Instead, Ms. H. took herself so damn diva-serious, expecting us to support some major superstar like herself actually getting all hot 'n' horny with a schmuck like Bobby Brown.
Now, that's whack!
All this nelly nonsense has to do with one simple little factoid: Whitney, the gal whose voice, I believe, is one of the world's best, bar none (save Paris), ain't lookin' so hot, despite her big recent gala comeback with muse Clive Davis at the Bev Hilton (ya know, when a beaming, proud auntie Dionne came along for the glitzy awards-show ride).
I know, I know, Whit-babe's reportedly been cleaning up her act with help from back-from-beyond-the-valley-of-the-dolls Courtney Love (right gal for the job!) and Davis.
However, a recent Huntington Beach Starbucks run Whitney embarked on suggests she's got a long way to go before she's back in fightin' form.
Whit, according to foam-witnesses, struggled to order and was "shaking profusely and ranting loudly," insist my trusted spy-sippers.
Jonesin' for a cup o' joe or something more?
For the cash-register record, the pop queen finally settled on a nonfat iced latte, as well as a sandwich for that bony ass of hers, thank heavens, and then she sat waiting in the living-room-like setting while singing loudly to the background music.
What's next? The Best of Whitney to Musak?
Gross. Now, maybe W.H. is just tryin' to prove she's still got them killer pipes, but I say singin' along so obviously to the plebeian crap is simply tacky, tacky, not recherché, n'est-ce pas?
Whit-hon finally got her drink--and some very strange stares--and soon jetted with an older dude driving her black Caddie, which had been idling outside the whole time.
Hey, at least said guy wasn't Bobby! I'll give her credit for that.
But look, couldn't Ms. H. have gotten somebody to get her java for her, so as to avoid all that uncomfortable whatever?
I mean, Cristina always gets me my nonfat vanilla jobs.
Has Boston Legal's Julie Bowen become the latest Hollywood babe to jump on board the expecting-actress express? Jule-babe is preggers, according to my on-set source, and the show's creator, David E. Kelley, apparently has no idea. Uh-oh...Is it time for some speedy script rewrites?
For the reproductive record, I contacted Jules' manager for comment on the stork sitch. No response as of press time, so stay tuned.