Excited at being chosen to be a speaker at the AARP@50+ event, last week Connie Chung snuck away from Maury long enough to leave a message on my phone. We have this code so that Maury, who is insanely jealous, doesn’t know where she’s heading out. He thinks she’s going to play bingo at Our Lady of the Immaculate Retirement Village, but in reality as she talks she hits numbers on the phone and spells out in tone (just like when you tried to play Funky Town when you were a kid) where to meet up. Beeping 3-3-7-2 to me … D … E … S … C … she wants to go see The Descent. Where, Connie? 6-2-6-6-7 spells … M … A … N … N .. . Oh, Mann’s Chinese Theatre … Obvious choice. Connie likes to support her “ethnicentricity” as she calls it. I don’t think that really counts as an Asian cultural experience, but whatever. *-*-7-0-0-*-* … “See you there at 7:00, Connie!”, I said to no one in particular, since it was her voicemail I was listening to (we rarely talk voice-to-voice because of Maury’s rage-aholism). We are complex little creatures, I tell you.

I just wish Connie hadn’t shown up to the theatre drunk … again. Taking a taxi is not a good enough reason in my opion to appear in public drunk at any time. But that’s Connie. “I’m not driving! You know I can’t drive anyway!” I had to hold my tongue. Connie’s always danced to the beat of her own jello shots. And then the chit-chat started.

She first started talking during the previews, which I kind of found a little annoying, but what the heck. She had some good dirt about Mel’s drunk driving arrest. Apparently being the “Queen of News” (a self-titled moniker in that sad Kathy Griffin sort of way) still has its benefits – Connie had a screening of the DUI arrest at her house Wednesday night as a fundraiser for her charity, Chung-ky Gals, a support group for overweight Asian women. She also told me Annie Coulter was going under the knife finally “to have her hog sliced off … you know … her hog!” Connie said, nudging me and pointing to her crotch. Annie is a close friend of mine and it pains me to see people gossip about her (especially when it’s not true – Annie’s … hog … was cut off 7 months ago). Then there was a terrible National Guard commercial mixed in with the previews – it was sooooo poor in taste I thought I was eating at Olive Garden. And then the lights went down.

“Oh, you should have seen what Maury pulled out of his ear this morning – I swear it had roots!” Connie stage-whispered (which is a fancy way for saying you talk softly realllllly loudly). “Oh, well, tell me after the movie – I can’t wait to hear, but I’ll have to!” I responded. Shifting in her seat, Connie said, “I’m thirsty. I should have peed before I came in here. Luckily I bought big empty cup with me.” And then Connie burped. No, strike that. Connie belched. “That lager was deeeeeeLISHous! But it tastes like … pickle sauce … What’s that called? Oh yeah, RELISH!” The guy in front of her turned around and said, “I’m sorry, but if you want to talk, can you please talk outside?”

“Don’t be an eff-ing asshole, man! Come on, Brad, let’s move away from these negative people!” she replied, and then Connie gathered up her plastic bags full of crap (god is she moving out or what? I’ll have to ask later … ), making sure she made plenty of noise, and moved over to the next aisle. I was just too preoccupied with Connie’s drunkenness and her rude behavior to enjoy the movie, so I excused myself to the restroom.

“Do you want to just use my cup to pee in? You’re going to miss the end of the movie when they are all rescued by the husband who didn’t really die!” Someone shouted, “GODDAMMIT! YOU RUINED IT!” at her and I knew it was time to get the hell outta there. (Editor’s note: I am not pee-shy, but this is the one time when it wasn’t safe to pee in the theatre, that was for sure. Not that I have done that. At Mann’s. It was a different theatre. And a foreign movie. I didn’t want to miss anything! I’ve said too much. But all that running Lola ran in the film … it made me have to pee and I didn’t want to sit through it a second time. Oh the irony!) .

I made it to the door just as the police were coming in. They said, “Where is she sitting?” and I’m sorry, readers, but I pointed and said, “That’s her, sir. That’s the one who ruined the film. Ms. Connie Chung. And I think she’s drunk.”

And Connie hasn’t called me since.

I did pick up the phone when it rang last night during dinner, but it was just random tones spelling out gibberish. “Kitten. Fly. Wall through. Kachoo.” “Connie, are you okay?” I asked. And then I heard it. Not Maury’s voice, not Connie’s voice, but a woman’s voice, soft and gentle, the voice of a mother, any mother, every mother.

“Oh, you found the phone again you little devil. Who did you call this time? Sorry, whoever you are!” the woman said into the phone, and then there was just a click and finally that old lady voice recording telling me that if I’d like to make a call, would I please hang up and try my call again, or dial the operator.

I sat there, a little sad. I missed the ending to a really good movie. And I had betrayed Connie, one of her last few friends, and I betrayed her.

Christie and I have this on-again-off-again friendship and I really think she’s a sweet gal, but she keeps marrying down. I told her on her first marriage just as she was ready to walk that aisle, “Christie, this is your one shot at true happiness. Don’t blow it.” Did she listen? No. She just laughed and said, “Too late!” Crass. Husband number two, I’m talking to her from Spain as she’s ready to walk down the aisle … again. “Listen, the starter marriage got you a house and a car. Don’t spread yourself too thin on #2.” She giggled when I said that and added, “TOO LATE!” God she can be so crass. Husband number three. God almost takes them both in a helicopter crash in Colorado in 1994 and I tell her, “Defy god! Go back and get married where the copter crashed and make this one stick!” Again she giggled, “WHY DO YOU THINK I’M MARRYING HIM?” Ugh. She always shouts into her cell phone. And again, crass. She didn’t even bother calling me this last time when she married Peter Cook. And you know what? I would have still given her words of encouragement. I would have said, “Listen, third strike and you’re out – but not in pee-wee league. You keep swinging until you get to first base!” I imagine her chortling and adding, “Oh, he’s already made it to home plate … along with his team!” God she can be so crass, even when I imagine her talking.

Christie stumbles out of her Cabrio and runs to the door, screaming all the way. Kind of like that Marianne Faithful song, The Ballad of Lucy Jordan. As I walk up to the door behind a now-sobbing Christie, Ithink to myself, “God, if there’s one person you shouldn’t get marriage advice from, it’s Courtney, who completely redefined the term shotgun wedding but whatever, Christie, whatever.” Always the gracious hostess, Courtney invited Christie to join us at IHOP and she sat there in our booth, makeup smeared and crying about something that Peter, the now-ex-husband, said to her. Apparently she’s a little long in the tooth , if you know what I mean. Her pantry is now a two-car garage. Her crawlspace is now a rumpus room. Her vagina is as sloppy as a Rush Limbaugh at a drug store filling a photocopied receipt and using fake id to purchase narcotics with cash while coming down from his last Oxy pill. That’s not a euphemism, and I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. He said if she were a dynosaur, she’d be a Sloppylottapuss.

I couldn’t order anything. I just had a coffee. And then a thought came to me.

“Christie, it’s not like you haven’t had a little work done here and there to freshen up the years,” I said, taking her roadmappy hand. “Why don’t you hire a ‘decorator’ to trim the curtains in your basement?” She gave me the Evil Eye, but deep down (and probably dangling outside a little bit) she knew it was the perfect solution. “And if that doesn’t work, Christie, maybe they can cast you in the next Harry Potter movie with your big pink wizard’s sleeve.” Courtney kicked me under the table. “OW!” I exclaimed, exaggerating the pain.

“Fine. I’ll do it. Just as long as no one finds out,” Christie relented. “Oh, no one will, Christie,” I assured her, as I wrote down the number of an amazing gynorejuvenator that I know, “no one will.”

God I hate going out with these two sometimes.

I promised myself that I’d try to repair the friendship after the whole IHOP incident last year where I embarrassed Jim when I asked him what he’s working on. NEVER EVER ASK AN ACTOR WHAT THEY’RE WORKING ON. It’s like asking a waitress if her tits are real – which is exactly what he did at IHOP to prove the point: DON’T QUESTION THE CRAFT!!! I could have died. Jim has boundary issues, but he tipped her really well.

Jenny immediately got out of the car and set the alarm. Jim and I were stuck in the car for 45 minutes before Jim finally opened the door and set off the alarm and Jenny came running back. Luckily people thought they were playing. Hahah. So witty, so fun, such a great match! They weren’t playing, they weren’t playing at all. If people even KNEW the dark secrets roiling inside their souls they wouldn’t even make eye contact.

At the party Jim corners me and asks me how things are. He’s got that super-imposing face and body language that I find a little disturbing. It’s like at any moment the alien that lives in his head is going to pop out and eat my soul. Or something like that. And sometimes his breath smells like garbanzo. I tell him about a few of the projects that I’ve been asked to help with, and he seems genuinely interested, but immediately when I stop talking, he changes the subject to Jenny and him. He asks what I really think of Jenny and if they have a future together. “Well, she’s no Carmen Elektra, but she’ll do for now.” That’s kind of his little joke – Jim likes to pretend he’s really dating Carmen. I don’t get it, but whatever – that’s Jim.

In the short time since we arrived, Jenny seemed to have disappeared – she does that often – and Jim started to get frantic. He started yelling for her in the middle of this big party, a totally chill scene ruined by Jim‘s shrieks. Someone near the buffet pointed to the broom closet. And like a scene out of some movie, Jim flings open the door to find Jenny and the young latino valet speaking in tongues. And by that I mean they are frenching. But you probably already got that.

Jim grabs the young kid (turns out it was Rob Schneider … eeew!) and flings him out of the closet like a mother pulling a burning car of her infant, and picks up Jenny and carries her over his head yelling the whole time in this high-pitched screach and took her over to the buffet, cleared the whole thing with one arm, then climbed on top of her and started making out while holding her arms down.

God I hate hanging out with these two sometimes.

Everyone stood there for a good 15 seconds in absolute silence – not a breath was taken. “Shit, this is gunna be in the tabloids tomorrow …!” was all I could think. And then it hit me. I started clapping, slowly at first, but then building up momentum and as I clapped harder and faster, more and more people joined in and pretty soon the whole crowd was cheering and laughing. “Wow, did you see that? They’re soooo good together!” I said as I nudged the gossip reporter next to me from In Touch. “Yeah,” she said, unsure of what was happening, “I saw that.”

As we got back to the car two hours later, I climbed in the back seat and Jim got into the driver’s seat. Jim looked over at Jenny, who was still kind of half-buzzed after all those sweaty nipples and asked, “Who wants to go to IHOP?” as he honked Jenny‘s breasts and winked at me.

Did I already tell you? God I hate hanging out with these two sometimes.

Police said it was premature to point to a cause and were still interviewing witnesses and many of those struck by Dickinson, either by the car as she left the scene or by slurred insults to those “fucking bitches [belch] think they’re models [hic] they’re just fat bitches [burp] like Omarosa -f!*k her, man, f&@k her!”

Investigators will look at any video that may have been captured by surveillance cameras. They will also be reviewing video recorded by Janice’s production team for her hit show “The Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency,” though they don’t expect to find anything of value.

Now, I’ve read enough to know that the Evil Eye isn’t like the boogeyman, or Condileeezaaa Rice. It’s more like a wandering, wicked thought that gets caught in our lives, distracts us from truth and love … which technically Condi does, so cancel what I said earlier about her! And I certainly know enough to know it’s not going to swoop down out of the sky and get me, or like one of (I’m sorry, I have to say it!) the cheesy “acrobats” in Madonna’s latest “concert” on those so-obvious wire harnesses. And can I further just say that there’s nothing worse than someone (Madonna) who screws up their whole life (Sean, Warren, Dennis, Sandra), finds religion (Kaballahahaha), and then expects everyone (me) to justify their existence (my honesty can be direct sometimes) through their own microscope’s eye piece (crystals, yarn, pilates). I just personally don’t think a red piece of yarn worn around your wrist can ward of negative energy, regardless of what some secret, old, dusty religious book says or who its followers are (especially important to note is that most of them live in LA!). And I honestly wouldn’t be bothered by this event, except that it’s like the seventh time she has done this to me. And of course I can expect a call on Rosh Hashanah with an apology from the Material Girl (god she hates that label!) and a request for forgiveness from me. And I will forgive her. Not just because she’s Madonna. But because she’s Madonna and because I forgive people. It’s kind of what I do.

So back to the phone call. First of all, I didn’t break up Madonna‘s and Britney‘s friendship – the Kabbalah did. More accurately, the Kabbalah as according to Madonna, who Britney now refers to as Madabbalah – don’t tell Madonna! Britney was vulnerable and needed guidance in her new marriage to Kevin. And who better to give marriage advice than the woman who self published lurid pictures of herself and baudy poetry to her vagina in a book called Sex. Sure, the red Kabbalah red wrist string is like a pay-one-price-ride-all-day pass that gets you into the best parties without having to pay cover or wait in line, but it’s about so much more than that – it’s also about the hosted bar by the pool. But, Britney was born Baptist and you know what they say about those Baptist girls: “A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips!” Truer words were never spoken. “Except in the Kabbalah,” I imagine Madonna interrupting me to say. And I’d respond, “Yes, Madonna, except in the Kabbalah.” And then I’d probably roll my eyes and she’d see the tail end of it and she’d hit me and say, “You’re an asshole!” But then she’d laugh. And she’d say something mean about Britney’s failing marriage. I know she would because she did it all the time. She actually told me, “Watch the awards show tonight. I’m going to surprise Brit and make out with her. That’s going to piss Kevin off! I can’t wait” And I said, “Madonna, sometimes you really are an Evil Eye, you know that?” And she said, “That’s why I bought Brit the wrist band and not Kevin.” Sometimes Madonna is too smart for her own good.

About Brit’s bad nuptials. Britney said she’s been seeing this “Crystal Lite Coach,” and I was really excited to hear more about it (just think what you could learn!!!) until I found out that it’s actually a “Christian Life Coach” who was helping Britney save her tattered marriage. “I really wanna wurk this owt with Kehvun!” she announced. I couldn’t help but look at that tattered red piece of yarn on my wrist from Madonna. “Yeah, Brit,” I said, “There are some things worth saving, but sometimes you just have to let things go.” And I’d be lying to you if I said that at that very minute that piece of sad, soggy, mystical yarn didn’t come undone on its own and fall onto the coffee table on top of the new Entertainment Weekly … and made a big circle right around the headline, “People and Things We Love Right Now” … and neither Madonna nor Brit was on that list! “Beeep … Listen Brit, I gotta go … it’s You Know Who on the other line …” I said, immitating the callerID beep Brit falls for again and again. She kind of sighed in a drawal and said sadly, “Well, y’all have a good day.” Yeah, Brit, you too. You too.

She’s apparently fallen hard for Spade, and I wouldn’t have believed it until I heard it straight from Zsa (who does all the makeup for the stars) – but Spade’s totally got this thing for tough latinas and so she begged Zsa to user her schooled-in-the-streets-tough smarts to make her into a chola, which for those of you outside of Cali is basically like a latina who is tough. Take Penelope Cruz and mate her with Angelina Jolie and sprinkle in a tiny perjury (less than a year, more than nine months) of L’il Kim. ¡Bam! Chola.

Still, I was kind of surprised by her new ‘look’. Why put on so much black eyeliner if you’re just going to smear white eyeshadow over it? And that olde english tattoo and the big arm tattoo … are those henna? NOPE. It’s permanent! And those earrings – solid steel and very … large.

We had a scare later in the evening when everyone jumped into the pool. Heather forgot to take off her earrings and it turns out that they were really, really heavy and she couldn’t swim back up to the top. Luckily Missy Elliot was there to give her the Breath of Life to bring her back around! I didn’t realize there was so much tongue involved. Apparently Missy likes the latinas, too?

While she was passed out, I did a little exploring and it turns out that all that blonde hair is really hers(!!) – I owe you $20, Zsa!! And I also found out that the really cute “Ricky” tattoo she had on her left hip is now completely covered by a ROSE! And on her ankle where she had a red heart wrapped in a vine … are you sitting down? … there’s now a little word in script above it! Any guesses, little tweeters? That’s right! “FINCH!” The name of Spade’s character on Just Shoot Me. Awww. A fling is a wonderful thing, especially when it involves tattoos and nuevoenculturation.

I took some other photos while she was passed out, but those are just insurance in case she fess up to The Thing She Did. This is what happens when you steal my new issue of Entertainment Weekly when I go to refill your Crystal Lite, Heather. I saw it stuffed down your leggings when you walked out! Don’t shake your head – we both know you did it.

Growing up in LA and NYC is tough – but it’s even harder with rich rich rich parents who know everyone who is someone. My dad is an accountant and apparently really good at his job. My mom … well, no one advises on fashion like her. So here I am. I’m a spoiled brat with too much money, too much time and not enough attention, and sometimes I need to strike out at my friends, at The Industry, at LA, at myself. Well, not a lot at myself. Mostly my friends. Mostly.

There are three of us who hang – and please DON’T ever call us Charlie’s Angels cuz Tori Spelling gets really upset what with the recent passing of her dad and everything – and we all specialize in a certain area: Bunny does hair, ZsaZsa does clothes, and I (Brad) do Personality.

What you read here and the pictures I share are the unabashed-gods-honest- cross-your-heart-and-hope- to-not-get-caught-fucking-while-on- the-phone-truth. Please only share this info with your closest – and I mean closest like Romy and Michele close, not like Mary-Kate and Ashley fake close.

That’s all.