Madonna told a friend that A-Rod “has the heart of a poet trapped inside an insanely gorgeous body,” A-Rod has been writing Madonna “sweet, personal and rambling expressions of his feelings,” and the vomit bag is located in a compartment under your seat. Raffaello Follieri is running a fever, can’t eat the food, and is enduring rats, poop in the showers, and a windowless room with 120 other guys in a Brooklyn federal lockup. Julia Stiles’s mother just opened a home-furnishings shop in Tribeca. Cendant Corp. founder Henry Silverman has left his wife of almost 30 years for a 28-year-old woman he met on line at Starbucks, and his ex wants a Venti-size chunk of cash.
Latest James Bond Daniel Craig told Cindy Adams he doesn’t get as banged up while shooting as Jackie Chan does. Cindy also warns Norma Kamali that people are trying to infiltrate her company and steal her ideas. She also reports that Forest Whitaker will direct and title-star in the biopic of Louis Armstrong. And can barely get a peep out of Robert De Niro despite harassing him heartily. Meanwhile, Liz Smith goes on and on about last night’s all-star Actors Fund benefit reading of All About Eve, which, frankly, does sound like it was amazing, and we wish we’d been invited.
A Paula Abdul fan named Paula whom Paula Abdul panned when she tried out for American Idol two years ago killed herself in her car in front of Paula Abdul’s house. Christina Applegate must be delighted and charmed to know that Howard Stern sidekick Artie Lange once jerked off just listening to her voice in the other room. Jewel likes the frontier spunkiness of fellow Alaskan Sarah Palin.
Speaking of Palin, supposedly Desperate Housewives wants her to be on the season finale. Baz Luhrmann says it’s bull that studio execs made him shoot a new ending, and work in more love scenes between Nicole Kidman and Hugh Jackman, for his big upcoming epic Australia. Mariah Carey likes to strip down with her girlfriends at Christmastime, roll in the snow, then jump in the hot tub. Yuletide! Hunky young American priests will soon have their own FDNY-type beefcake calendar but will keep their shirts on for it, dammit. Oops — sorry, fathers.