dish, dirt & juicy bits  August 31, 2000

George Clooney, hangin' free on a shoppin' spree at Fred Segal in Santa Monica. The hunk of burning (and pricey) love was not with a woman but rather his shopping buddies, most of whom swig masses of cheap liquid with him at home on a regular basis. Real retro-frat material, this dude is, I'll tell ya. The group chatted around the store until George jumped on his low rider and drove off into the sunset, as would happen in a bad John Waters flick. Just ask...

Edward Furlong, of Terminator and Pecker fame, if you don't get my drag talk. E.F. had a mess of hair, black V-neck tee and baggy jeans as he was cruisin' the Strip. The ratty-looking young man hung with his boys and watched the crowd like the sweaty puppy he resembled. Also in search of a dip at the kennel was...

Anjelica Houston, who actually brought her beast into the swank Origins spa on Sunset for some relaxation therapy. No, your celeb-ridden noggin' (which is, no doubt, on an Ivy-drip at this point) registered that last sentence correctly: The establishment offers such creature comforts. After a long massage herself, Houston and companion departed with their tails wagging. Bragging, on the other paw, would be a better verbal choice for the dude who first hit it (semi) big on the small screen...

Jason Gedrick. "You do know who I am?" he asked a (boyfriend-equipped) woman at the W hotel bar in Westwood. "You probably remember me from my character on Ally McBeal," he offered lamely. What a disappointment, is all I have to say, as J.G. was simply the hottest thing on last season's show. (Remember his wash 'n' rinse romp with Pogostick in the car wash? Mon dieu!) Speaking of beauties who know their way around wet T-shirts, let's check in on the statuesque...

Christy Turlington, shall we? C.T.--dressed to overkill in tight black pants, a red-wine-colored tailored blouse, darling black heels and, of course, a matching black bag--strolled through the Toronto Eaton Centre with some gal pals. The supermodel-businesswoman now has cute little bangs and can still stop foot (and sundry other body-part) traffic. But for how much longer? Still causing my soul to slow, stirred beat by beat, is...

Joni Mitchell, dropping some bills at Brentwood Village, celebrity emporium on the west side of Hell-Ay. The Ah-Nulds may come and go in this star enclave, but it is only a musical genius like Mitchell who makes me want to halt, watch and listen. Because the performing (and writing) legend indeed sings as she shops. Joint called Versailles. Sorry, Liz and Whitney may do it for the diva-fix, but Joni does it for everything else that does and does not matter, particularly when it comes to "acid, booze and ass," as Ms. Mitch likes to put it. Talk about a crooning chronicler who was ahead of her time. I'm simply blue with envy.