columns: According to My Sources


Backroom Whispers

By a Gossiping Bitch on October 18th, 2004

Back once again with the ill behavior, can you feel it? Nothin’ can save ya. So we been letting our nuts hang for a minute. What? We back now, though, and you know we got that good-good.

Janet Jackson’s banner year continues ever on. We don’t need to remind you that Nipplegate was a major news story for over a month (guess there wasn’t nothin’ poppin’ off elsewhere, huh?), or that her Damita Jo album managed to make history by bricking twice (the recently-repackaged, “now with extra tracks” version also failed to set Sam Goody ablaze), but you may not know about what happened to her at the MOBO Awards at London’s plush Royal Albert Hall a few weeks back. For those who ain’t knowin’, the MOBO (Music Of Black Origin) Awards is “the UK’s premier Urban Music Awards show” — think the “Source Awards” on public access. This year’s list of no-shows included Kanye, Jay-Z, Usher, Outkast, Alicia Keys and Pharrell, the latter being kinda tough on the organizers as he’d been booked to host the damn thing (Mos Def ended up depping for him). One of the acts that did show, however, was r&b veteran Anita Baker, who was due to pick up a Lifetime Achievement award, to be presented to her by Janet Jackson. Some UK tabloids were kinda heated over Anita’s refusal to accept her award from Janet, calling her a “has-been” and a “one hit wonder” (Who? Janet? Anita? Tough call, ain’t it?). All we can say to that is, if your brother is facing serious sexual assault charges relating to children, then wearing a t-shirt sporting his photo and the word “innocent” at rehearsals might just upset a few people, doncha think?

Just to prove that the GB’s roll national as well as international, our spies had a little fun at the VMA’s, too. They tried to holla at the Olsen Twins down at the Shore Club, and got the finger for their efforts (guess we’re not in their Favorites no more), but the kicker was when a GB field operative was “recognized” by Bruce Willis. We’re not sure if Bruce had been making generous use of one of Miami’s more notorious imports, but we honestly can’t think of any other reason why he thought our boy was called “Vince”, or why he invited him to share his table for lunch and referred to him as “Vince” throughout the meal. A few bottles of expensive wine later, it finally dawned on Bruce that he wasn’t cuttin’ it up with Vince after all. “You’re not Vince! I thought you were Vince!”. Our boy was gently but firmly ushered away.

As if news of his tappin’ Brigitte Nielsen’s ass wasn’t crazy enough, Flavor Flav is now offering $100 a night to anyone who’ll chauffeur him to clubs, parties and shit. The catch is that you must own an Escalade. Dollar cabs not good enough anymore, Flav?

Speaking of rappers too faded to realize their best years are behind them, Coolio is using some of his unsmoked cash to open a coffee-shop/art gallery/nightclub in Amsterdam’s infamous red-light district which, he says, will “kind of, y’know, like, have a vibe, and y’know, comic books and, like, art and, like, food and stuff and, y’know, like, a DJ, or, you know, like, music and, you know, like…” We’d love to have sat in on the meeting where his accountant gave that idea the green light. This new pleasure palace will open in a neighborhood that is currently home to an outbreak of LGV — a chlamydia variant found almost exclusively among male fisting fans…

It’s been so long since Sisqo got any work that his showreel’s been updated to include his only paid gig in the ’04: his apology for ‘Thong Song’ on VH1’s 50 Worst Tunes Ever. We hear he has other things on his mind anyway. Having put his recent legal troubles behind him for the moment (thanks to the $300,000 payoff to the (male) ex whose house he gunned up), he’s left Baltimore for LA, where he’s trying to launch his movie career. Again. This has led to the Hollywood tabloids making regular calls to the thousands of transvestite escort services in town, in the hope they can find someone who’ll talk about having paid Sisqo a housecall. He allegedly believes the government are persecuting him. We think he needs to put the bong down. He’s also keen that his current beard Samantha Mumba, European pop/r&b singer and star of The Time Machine, succeeds in her desire to find a movie role she can strip in, if only to disprove the enduring rumor that most of his girlfriends could only really have gotten a role in The Crying Game.

We can’t believe Bravo’s forthcoming Being Bobby Brown reality show could possibly be as incredible as the actual real life of one of our favorite e-punchbags. But it’s heartening to know someone’s giving it their best shot. Being Bobby Brown may or may not show the pressures of trying not to hit the crackpipe (or wifey), and refraining from locking the world’s ugliest celebrity offspring in the basement during three-day benders. There are ten episodes, due to air next spring – by the strangest of coincidences, around the same time his next album is due for release and the conditions of his parole are reviewed. Despite what you might have read elsewhere, the deal’s been done for over a year, and Bravo are just issuing regular “on/off” press-releases in the hope of keeping it hot. The theme tune’s been rewritten something like a half-dozen times already, Bobby’s most recent brief to the writers being to make it “real Mick Jagger-ish”. Don’t expect to see too much of Whitney when it airs, either.

Green Day got their asses kicked by a bunch of fat chicks while they were touring Europe recently. The hotel they used for one of their English festival dates was also hosting the wrap party for a Brit show called Fat Friends, which is apparently like Sex in The City but with more carbs. One of the cats from Green Day decided to tag the face of a crew member from the show who’d passed out shit-faced drunk in the bar. When asked to stop by a member of the cast, the Green Day cat responded with “fuck off”, and thus can now tell you exactly what it’s like to get bitchslapped by a 350-pound English girl. Further punches were thrown and, after a stand-off between punk-rockers (hiding behind their security) and actors, Green Day’s party was removed from the bar “for their own safety”.

Mark Millar is fuckin’ with fools again. He recently posted on his website how Bryan Singer had cast Jim Caviezel as lead in the upcoming Superman movie, and had his agent put the news in a press release that the New York Post duly ran on Page Six. Harry Knowles says it isn’t Caviezel who’s got the gig. Millar puts up a grand that it is. Their spat makes the papers again. Paul Levitz, head of DC Comics, is now royally pissed that a writer whom he hates and has had blacklisted from DC has gotten so much publicity from one of their characters. Millar wins.

Is the major Hollywood actor who likes call girls to take a shit on glass tables while he lies underneath in only high-heels, simultaneously crying and masturbating, the same major Hollywood actor who was photographed at a party some years ago, enthusiastically fucking a pit-bull?

While we’re on the subject of movies, we caught a glimpse of the synopsis for a remake of Death on the Nile recently. The proposed cast is Kevin Federline as Simon, Shar Jackson as Jackie, and Britney Spears as Lynette Doyle. The main difference in the new version is Britney’s character doesn’t get merked. He just divorces her a year or so down the line and runs back to his baby-mama with a gang of cash.

From the Make ‘Em Say Unnnngh Department: Nicky Hilton, not to be outdone by the exploits of her dumber, uglier sister, has been heard at pish-posh nightclubs drunkenly shouting her desire to be “pegged.” Pegging, for the uninitiated, is getting door number two penetrated by a strap-on. Which, if you read between the lines, means that Slick Nick doesn’t just want some dude to fuck her in the ass, she wants a girl to strap one on and fuck her in the ass. Oh, those wacky socialites.

Back at the rap de rap show, look for some stupefying (by which I mean it
will make you stupider) beef between Lil Jon and Federation (you know–them “Hyphy” cats). Because everything has to be the new something, it’s looking like hyphy is the new crunk. Shockingly enough, everybody’s favorite rappin’ retard Jon-Jon ain’t graciously stepping aside, claiming hyphy is just a ripoff of crunk, only requiring less talent. Sort of like crunk’s relationship with hip-hop.

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