Trash

Tiger Beat

December 07, 2009

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Tiger Beat

The tabs come out on Thursday. I’m at the supermarket first thing to grab People, Us, Star, The Globe, and The Enquirer. In Touch and OK are just redundant. Despite what you tab snobs may think, The Enquirer usually gets it right on crime and scandal; they proved that when they ran the photo years ago of OJ in those “ugly ass” Bruno Magli shoes he’d denied owning in court. This week The Enquirer had the full, you heard it here first, scoop on Tiger, though US Weekly wasn’t bad on Tiger’s way down and dirty side, like that he’s a serious partier who apparently drinks his vodka straight out of the bottle.

People usually tries to take a higher road, but they had Tiger and Elin on the cover nonetheless. My question is, when these famous guys cheat, why do they always reach down and choose a hostess, a stripper, an assistant or a nanny? How come no cheesy assignations with architects, doctors, or lawyers? Star covered Tiger just like the rest of the rags, but I got my basic info on him from The Enquirer and Us.

Star’s specialty is catching an actor or actress on a beach or exiting a limo with flab or cellulite in full view. They even managed to find cellulite on Victoria Beckham’s toothpick legs. According to Star, Julia Roberts seems to have let herself go lately. It does look that way but it could always be Photoshop. The disaster that is 250-pound Kirstie Alley is discussed every week, a cautionary tale for all readers who snack in secret.

A huge topic in the tabs is stars and their babies and toddlers, especially Suri Cruise when she’s wearing her child-size high heels. Another favorite is Nicole Richie with her tots Harlow and Sparrow. Then there’s Ashlee Simpson’s kid Bronx Mogli. Did she mean Mowgli from The Jungle Book, which she may have experienced in cartoon form? What is it with Bronx, or Brooklyn, which is the name of Victoria Beckham’s son? I always wonder if ordinary teens notice the baby fever at the checkout line and think Gee, if Britney can do it so can I. They forget that they don’t have the flotilla of help the celebs have but always claim they don’t. Teenage pregnancy is on the rise and I blame the tabs.

What follows babies is a close scrutiny of the celebrity moms called “body after baby.” God help you if you’re a former hottie who hasn’t shed the extra pounds within six weeks of giving birth like Heidi Klum did. She actually walked the runway in the Victoria’s Secret show.

I’ve lived in Los Angeles for years, so I’m used to seeing celebs in the checkout line, in Starbucks picking up a half-caff soy latte, or at yoga class walking on their hands like I once saw Tom Waits doing. It’s not unusual to find a horde of paparazzi outside a favorite celeb emporium like Kitson waiting for Paris Hilton to come out, though she’s old hat now. Or to see someone from Gossip Girl like Leighton Meister or Ed Westwick having lunch in the Chateau Marmont garden. Nobody bothers them. I think Keanu Reeves even lives at the hotel.

I pass the house where Michael Jackson died every time I head over to Bel Air; it’s one of my short cuts. It’s a builder’s spec French-style pile that rents for $100 grand a month. The poor owner is going to have a hard time renting it now. Every day fans come and build a new shrine to Michael outside the gates and every day someone clears it away.

Without trying I know where many star’s homes are; after you’re here for a while these locations becomes like a neural pathway in your brain. That’s Cher’s Moroccan palace on Pacific Coast Highway. She’s selling it. And that’s Bob Dylan’s house near Cher’s, the one with the guardhouse that has a smelly porta-potty the neighbors complain about.

If you live here, go to all the movies, watch a lot of TV and read all the tabs, these people become fixtures in your life. When I travel to other cities, even New York, I never see stars. But every Thursday I keep up with them.

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