I hate September 11. I didn’t sleep well last night, tossing and turning and waking every hour to allow angry thoughts to run circles in my head, a dizzying and infuriating cycle I’ve been caught in every year since. Gawker’s been light-hearted about it all day, and it’s nice to see that and it’s gut-wrenching to see that. I don’t have it in me just yet.

So, frankly, it sucked hardcore to wake up this morning to the news that Anna Nicole Smith’s 20-year-old son Daniel died yesterday in the Bahamas, not 3 days after she gave birth to a healthy baby girl. It felt like I’d been punched in the stomach, a visceral reaction, which isn’t at all commonplace for me in this world of celebrity comings and goings. Maybe it’s because this whole day always feels like one solid suckerpunch. But I always had a fondness for that kid — I remember watching him as a teenager on The Anna Nicole Show, and he came across as strikingly grounded amidst the insanity of his life, aware of the absurdity of it all and able to observe from a distance. To be in it but not of it. I was, just vaguely, interested to see who he’d grow up to be. I’m genuinely sorry that I won’t have that chance, and I’m sorry that Anna won’t, either.

As long as we’re on the topic of people who’ve hooked up with Brad Pitt…

Kirsten Dunst put the coke back in her inhaler for long enough to talk to Britain’s News of the World about how lucky she is that she doesn’t do coke.

Seriously.

Listen to some choice quotes:

• “Jake and I couldn’t last. He’s a stay-at-home boy and I’m an out-on-the-town girl. We tried to spice things up — we had sex in cars, in the bathroom and even by the sea. The only place we didn’t have the guts to try was in a walkway in a hotel because we thought we might get kicked out if we were caught.”

• “Jake was the love of my life. He was, is and always will be. Despite what has happened, though, I still have this whole fairytale vision in my head because I was brought up on movies and storybooks that say I’m going to find my soulmate, get married and have a perfect life. Maybe one day that will be with Jake. Maybe I’m a weird girl and I just needed a good freak to match me.”
  

• Regarding the filming of her lastest movie, Marie Antoinette: “After filming I’d just go home and pass out. I’d have a glass of champagne, which I would never normally do. I mean, who drinks champagne before they go to bed?”
  

• “When I came off set it would be like a weight had lifted off my chest. You know, I’m lucky I’m not at some bar at night doing coke because I was so messed up.”

You know, Shakespeare had a quote about this sort of thing. Something about “doth” and “protesting.” I can’t quite recall the details. But either this Marie Antoinette movie is a real snoozer, or that Kirsten had a little help in getting her tongue untied, if ya know what I mean.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m still mad at Brad Pitt. When he walked out on Jennifer Aniston, I felt like he took all my fairytale-marriage-to-Brad-Pitt dreams along with him. You’d think they would have evaporated when he married Jennifer Aniston, and, consequently, not me, but somehow they persisted still. Like I could have my fairytale marriage to Brad Pitt through Rachel Green. I soaked up every minute of our power-couple union. What kind of person operates in such a distorted, delusional reality? I’ll tell you: it’s the same kind of person who writes a celebrity gossip blog.

So when he left us for that whorecake of a U.N. Goodwill Ambassador (that’s not even a real ambassador, I’ll have you know), I was pissed. It was totally uncool. I felt jilted, betrayed. I was mad at him.

Then he shows up on the cover of Esquire looking ridiculously hot and broody, and what does he say about his relationship with Captain Whorebreath?

“Angie and I will consider tying the knot when everyone else in the country who wants to be married is legally able.”

And when you set aside the fact that Brad Pitt just boldly advocated polygamy and child brides to a well-respected men’s publication, it’s really a very nice sentiment, and I may take his photo off my dartboard, just for this week.

• He’s been hit with a few shells, but apparently at no point with a car insurance policy. Rapper 50 cent is pulled over in his Lambo in NYC for making an unsafe lane change. He’s later handcuffed and taken to a police station on charges of an expired driver license, his vehicle being unregistered in NY, driving an uninsured vehicle and having that brick of heroin in the back seat. And by “having that brick of heroin in the back seat” I of course mean “being black.” Gawker’s got art.
• Jessica Simpson’s management fires her publicist for trying to make it look like leaving Nick Lachey hasn’t become such an embarrassing misstep for the plummeting popstar. But in her defense: John Mayer, dude? Really? And when DJ AM was single?
• How much is In-N-Out burger paying Paris Hilton? Because if I were Carl’s Jr, I’d be fucking pissed.
• Ellen DeGeneres is hosting next year’s Oscars. I’d make one of the 8 gimme jokes here, but Defamer already took all of them.
• Orlando Bloom and Uma Thurman? Wow, I bet that makes Kate Bosworth really hungry.

Ah ha ha ha! So it turns out Bob Guiney, from The Bachelor, somehow managed to parlay his reality TV gig into an ill-advised recording contract. I know this because a sample of the aforementioned opus just came onto my Pandora box, on my Counting Crows channel, no less, which I’m sure would send Adam Duritz into a hissy fit if he were still alive. What’s that? He is? Huh.

Anyway, this post’s raison d’etre: the title of the song is “So Wrong.” Which is just so, so right.

Ugh. I am, like, soooo late on the draw with this one. So a recap.

Lindsay Lohan’s Birkin was stolen at Heathrow airport, which was, like, recently the target of some manner of foiled terrorist plot, so it’s nice to see they’ve really driven security into high gear over there. Lindsay cried because if there’s anything that sucks worse than losing a Hermes bag containing over $1M in jewelry and your asthma inhaler, it’s losing a Hermes bag containing over $1M in jewelry and the rest of your cocaine. You’d cry, too.

Don’t panic yet, folks; the bag was recently found in a parking lot near Heathrow, after whoever stole it realized that it’s a lot harder to sell jewelry and a handbag on the black market when everyone in the nearest 19 countries knows you stole them from Lindsay Lohan this morning. But you know what tastes the same in every language? Yeah. Don’t count on getting that “inhaler” back, Linds.

I was driving around the city this morning, flipping through the radio stations, when a convo on Star 98.7 caught my attention. The woman being interviewed was Izabella St. James, a former live-in girlfriend of Hugh Hefner. Apparently she’s authored a tell-all, Bunny Tales: Behind Closed Doors at the Playboy Mansion. Her interview implied that perhaps — shocker! — life as one of Hef’s girlfriend’s isn’t all fast cars, fancy clothes and mind-blowing sex. She implied that Hef is possessive and controlling — the girls have a 9 pm curfew, and when they’re out in public they are always followed by guards, even to the bathroom, to insure they’re not messing around on the side (she said most of them are anyway) — she implied that Hef’s oldest son is gay and basically confirmed that his current #1 girl Holly is every bit the insane Hef-pleasing zombie she appears to be on Girls Next Door.

I’ll be picking up this book this weekend and will have any and all wonderfully juicy tidbits for you next week.

If anyone can find a link to the transcript of the STAR 98.7 interview (it aired around 8:30 am today), please send it my way.

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