First, Fergie of the Black-Eyed Pees lets loose while singing onstage. It's important to free yourself within your music, you know, and really...let go.
Then, Jenny McCarthy has a little too much fun during a radio prank. Here's a pre-pee picture, so you can identify her face.
At least Jenny has the excuse of having recently had a baby. Maybe there's a medical reason she lets go when she laughs a little too hard. What's Fergie's explanation? Prudently, she has said nothing publicly.
With Hurricane Rita bearing down on key NASA installations, NASA is closing down Johnson Space Center and handing over control of the ISS to the Russian Space Agency.
“The emergency plan for the ISS mission control is well understood,” NASA spokesperson James Hartsfield told SPACE.com before the closure. 
through the evening. 
Guy Ritchie and his wife Madonna have been booed at the UK premiere of his new film Revolver after making little contact with the crowd.
I would be so personally gratified if, every once in awhile, when Madge or Guy got wind of negative things said by critics, they actually did pay attention, because often those critics are right. To put it more bluntly, she is a crap actress, and he is a hacky director. You'd think 20 years of effort and 20 years of negative reaction would help her gather a few clues and realize that she can't act for crap and should spend more time making nice pop songs. That she is good at. Of course, she also thinks Kaballah is the path to enlightenment (and not a ridiculous money-grubbing scam), that she is now in a position to "teach people how to live," that she is the author of classic children's literature, and that she's the Duchess of Frigging Cornwall, too.
Please. Rumors about Kate Moss' drug use have been flying around places like England's Popbitch for years and years. It's an assumption, really, isn't it? She's a supermodel. She weighs eight pounds. Of course she does cocaine. She and Naomi Campbell probably have parties where they sit around on big shimmering piles of it, make out with random passersby, and then throw phones at their assistants. It's the natural order of things.
The images are vivid, capturing the essence of exploration. Archaeologists digging up the remains of long lost civilizations. 
A field reporter for a new Dutch television talk show plans to use heroin and other illegal drugs on the air during the weekly program on issues that concern young people, producers said Wednesday. 
I'm under the influence of heavy cough syrup as I recover from bronchitis, and that plus the relative social isolation and boredom I'm experiencing, and the incredibly powerful thunderstorm we had last night led me to conjure up some weirdo dreams last night. Of course I'm aware of all the hurricanes and crazy stuff happening in the world right now, and that's on my mind quite a bit, but explain this combination of dream elements to me:
I'm in California with Arianna Huffington, who employs me as a writer and research assistant. (What? When's the last time I gave conscious thought to Arianna Huffington?) Water is rising in the office building where I'm working, and Arianna has papers and books all over a desk (which is exactly like my actual desk at work). Quickly I gather her things, put them into a plastic storage tub, and seal it. There is enough air in the tub to make it float, and as the water continues to rise, I sit on top of it and sail it down a hallway to an outside courtyard where college students and professors are also running around, wading through knee-deep water, saving documents and gathering bottled water. I find
Arianna outside and tell her proudly that I managed to save all of her important papers, but when I open the tub to show her, it's full of wet pizza. Even worse, the name I scrawled on the container for identification purposes is "Debbie Huffington." It's the wrong container. I am perplexed by this and start to explain, when a wobbly jet starts hovering uncertainly in the sky above our heads. The engine is fine but there's something wrong with the landing gear.
The pilot finally brought the plane down, back wheels first. As he slowly lowered the nose gear, the stuck wheels erupted in smoke and flames, which quickly burned out.
Supermodel Tyra Banks underwent a sonogram on her own television show to quell rumors that she had breast implants. 
(Any mismatched photograph is entirely intentional. However, the content of the story still stands on its own.)
I'm still sick. Home again today, but for a quick jaunt down the red line to Lincoln Park, where a nice doctor informed me that I have viral bronchitis. Splendiferous.
wrap dress that would have looked appropriate on Marilyn Monroe in about 1949. She wore simple white shoes and carried a plain white handbag, and took great care freshening up her bright red lipstick in the old-fashioned compact she held surprisingly steadily in her hand, while the other hand gripped the handrail inside the train.
A tall, lanky kid with a curly mop of hair and a puckish look on his face was wordlessly creating and handing out newspaper hats to anyone who would accept one. I looked around the train and realized he'd managed to persuade an impressive cross-section of people to wear silly hats made of newspapers. Two children (but not their mother), a young black kid with a Scarface dogtag hanging around his neck, a scrubby looking redheaded kid clutching a bag full of art supplies, and even a woman in a business suit, who was smiling like she'd just been given permission to do something pointless and silly for the first time in years.
she'd been offered but did not pursue, and then the conversation took a turn into the realm of grad school and student loans.
Hey, guys, look! It's the future, in which I've mercifully outgrown my awkward chubster phase, and am tall and considered by some to be at least foxy, and I'm engaged to the hottest babe on the planet. No, seriously. Guys! Guys! Hm. Hey, can I have the rest of your pie?
dating for a year, Us Weekly magazine reported Tuesday. O'Connell's publicist, Joy Fehily, confirmed those details to The Associated Press.
I'm home sick from work today, having gathered sufficient virus and germ samples to overwhelm my stressed and under-rested immune system.
I'm not close enough to overhear the content of their conversation, but am amazed to watch the situation evolve to the point where the two are exchanging biographical information (the boy is a psychology student at Northwestern, the man served in the army during Vietnam and hates the "gummint"), and handslaps and knuckle raps.
Then, I make the mistake sweet blonde college boy had only moments before. I glance up, to see who crazy ranting man is talking to. Of course, he is talking to no one. The two young hispanic women sitting half-facing him are pointedly ignoring him. The man is elderly, with thick white hair and a remarkably florid complexion. He sees me looking at him and, though I am half a car away from him, begins to direct his free-association diatribe in my direction. I put on my sunglasses and start flipping through the pages of Scientific American, hoping he'll tire of my non-reaction and change his verbal trajectory. But no. He continues staring in my direction, presumably imagining me to be a participant in his conversation, and he goes on about Stalin and starving children and the suffering of the worker.
by angry Russian man, and unused to the view from the rear-facing angle, because the next thing I know the doors are closing and the announcement is saying I've just missed my stop. Of all days, this one, when I'm sick and exhausted, I make a blunder and cost myself an extra 15 minutes getting back home.
On a related note, former "Full House" star and alleged stand-up comic Dave Coulier has a Live Journal, which means blogging in all its forms is OVER. Although, to be fair, Coulier has a Live Journal which he graced with about six entries several years ago, and promptly abandoned. Except for the fact that he left the guest book open, and it's been populated with increasingly critical and abusive entries ever since. (It's called the "guestbook lock," Dave, and you should really look into it.)
When you gotta go, you gotta go. Is it convenient that she was already at the cemetery, or is that ironic?
TV-schmaltz legacy Tori Spelling and her unfortunate husband have split after one year of marriage. That's a shame, because in Hollywood, if you're committed enough to make your two year anniversary, you get a Nobel Prize.
It was a lavish ceremony overseen by her father, TV mogul Aaron Spelling, who hosted the wedding at his sprawling estate in the ritzy enclave of Holmby Hills, and attended by some 400 guests, including enough old-timers to make up a Love Boat special: Paul Anka, Jackie Collins, Bob Newhart, Don Rickles, Stefanie Powers, Ed McMahon, Suzanne Pleshette with husband Tom Poston and Motown mastermind Berry Gordy.
Actor Marlon Brando has been immortalized in film for playing a Mafia boss, a luckless boxer and a rebellious biker, but 14 months after his death he is now also an author of a swashbuckling pirate novel.
In the spectrum between normal and insane, schizotypes generally fall somewhere in the middle. While they do not suffer many of the symptoms affecting schizophrenics, including paranoia, hallucinations and incoherent thoughts, schizotypes often exhibit their own eccentricities.
"Naw dude, Independent films are those black and white hippy movies. They're always about gay cowboys eating pudding."
