It is never about the fat and screwed-up children two stars could potentially produce. A beehive of spontaneous information spreads the news to the hungry world. The ripples are felt by all. Even if you never watch TV or listen to the radio or read the New York Post, you will know who in celebrityland is fucking who. The information is more all-pervasive than a wondrously prolific mutation of the flu.
Silvery doughnuts pass blithely behind their dewy, exhausted eyelids.
Which brings me to the topic of Russell Crowe. Crowe is a beer-swilling Aussie cocksmith, a Real Man, a thinking woman's bastard, manly as beef is meat. Crowe should be using his powers for good, not evil, and picking on some woman who invokes awe and fear. Naomi Wolfe, for example. Some gorgeous Oxford biochemist.