Vital Information

Did you know that Kirsten Dunst, the twenty-two-year-old star of Spiderman, likes to have sex just about anywhere but in a bed? Apparently, Ms Dunst likes to get frisky in elevators, airplanes, hallways, railcars, flowerpots, packing boxes, and the odd inner tube when it's handy. She likes her sex dangerous, spontaneous, and when possible, in ways that defy the laws of physics.

And did you hear that when Russell Crowe arrived in Toronto a couple of weeks ago, he went on a two-hour stroll through the city, which encompassed eight blocks, one lunch, a stop to purchase bicycles, and the consumption of no fewer that 86 cigarettes?

Mr. Crowe also likes to eat at Sassafras, hangs out with at least eight men at all times, has a sore shoulder, and seems to have lost so much weight that some people are starting to call him "Opie" Crowe.

Needless to say, I've stopped eating at Sassafras.

Yes, if it were not for a legion of investigative journalists hiding in bushes, snooping around at parties, or at least making sure their tape recorders are on, we would not know how celebrities tick, how they think, what they believe, or just how often they use deodorant. And I for one am grateful, because knowing that all I have to do to get it on with Kirsten Dunst is hide in a breadbox and wait my turn is the kind of vital information I need.

I can't imagine how I'd ever cope without it.

I find it reassuring to know that I wasn't the only one to go into a fit of depression and lose fifteen pounds when Ethan Hawke broke up with Uma Thurman. Apparently Ethan isn't doing too well either, with some friends saying the thirty-three-year-old is going to be suicidal by the time he's forty, if things don't pick up for the poor man.

Thankfully, both Ethan and I have Australian "actress" and "singer" Kylie Minogue to give us a little bit of hope, because should either of us finally commit seppuku over Uma's new "opportunity for growth," as she puts it, Kylie has informed us that this is just one of many lives we have before us, and while we await our new assignment, we'll also have ample opportunity as ghosts to talk to the living (she apparently has regular chats with another famous suicide, former boyfriend and INXS front man Michael Hutchence).

So, buck up, Ethan. One way or another, be it in purgatory or the next life, we'll make Uma pay.

In the meantime, I can take solace in the news that Nicole Kidman is on the lookout for a man who is not only "not famous" but can provide "calm companionship." Well, Nicole, this is your lucky day, because when it comes to not being famous, you couldn't do better than me. I'm so anonymous that my parents keep asking me who I am every time I show up at their door (which makes it a real bugger trying to hit them up for a loan), and given that I spend most of my time under heavy sedation, the only thing more calming than me is a pet rock.

And unlike Tom what's-his-name, I don't mind a woman who's taller than me.

The problem with this new state of affairs is that, well, I'm married, which could put a serious crimp in my getting together with Nicole and helping her pick out a few hundred new pairs of high-heeled shoes.

Thinking that I'd need to tear up my prenup and start looking for Elizabeth Taylor's divorce lawyer (or get a larger bread box), I was grateful to read about some helpful ideas courtesy of Harrison Ford. You see, Harrison is in a bit of a pickle with his rumoured wife-to-be Calista Flockhart. It seems that when her dog, Webster, died last month, Mr. Ford was too busy saving stranded hikers in his helicopter to provide the round-the-clock sympathy and support required when someone looses a mongrel terrier. So she's not talking to him, he's more in the dumps than Ethan, and no one's quite sure what to do with the wedding cake.

Now, all I need is a sick dog.