Wow, Redmond, check your ass into rehab and take it seriously this time, dude. You’re breakin’ my heart here, kid.

Your mother, Farrah Fawcett, is unconscious in the hospital, probably dying of cancer in the near future. This is some really rough shit. I get that. You don’t wanna have to feel it. I get that, too.

But you know what you really don’t wanna do, buddy? You really don’t wanna make this harder for your mom and your family by getting busted once again with drugs.

Redmond O’Neal, the son of actors Ryan O’Neal and Farrah Fawcett, was arrested this morning on charges of trying to smuggle drugs into a county jail, adding to his long history of drug arrests.

The arrest came during a routine security check in the parking lot of Pitchess Detention South Facility in Santa Clarita around 9:30 this morning, said Steve Whitmore, spokesman for the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. O’Neal, 24, had apparently come to the facility to visit an inmate. He told sheriff’s deputies before the search began that he had drugs on him, Whitmore added.

He was taken into custody and bail was set at $25,000, according to the sheriff’s website. It was not yet known whether O’Neal posted bail.

How many drugs arrests is this now, kiddo? What the fuck were you thinking, bringing drugs to a prison? Are you out of your goddamn mind? Is it making anything easier?

Cut this out. Break the cycle here. Get your shit together and be present for your mom right now. If she’s gonna die, let her do so knowing her son is sober and healthy and by her side. It doesn’t have to go down like this. It’s your call.

Now that we’ve paid tribute to Kurt Cobain’s memory, let’s drag it through the mud by talking about his battier than Christian Bale’s boxers widow, Courtney Love. Let’s talk about how she paid roughly $16,000 for a dead bird in a matchbox, then threw a one-woman crazy bitch party when someone with more sense than her (the moving men) mistook it for trash and threw it away.

When [moving] men spotted a dead bird in a matchbox at Courtney Love’s house, they assumed it was junk and threw it out.
But the embryonic chick was an £8,000 artwork, and the widow of Nirvana singer Kurt Cobain is said to be ‘blazing mad’ at its loss.
Insiders say she has thrown a ‘hissy fit’ and fired her assistant for failing to look after such a treasured possession.

The untitled artwork by fashionable British artist Polly Morgan – whose creations are much admired by Kate Moss and Damien Hirst – had been standing on a 6ft plinth in the corner of Ms Love’s bedroom. But during preparations for the move in Los Angeles, supervised by the assistant, the pedestal was packed ready for shipping to the new house. The chicklet, however, which was normally seen lying under a mini chandelier, was left sitting on a sideboard.

When the [moving] men came in to pack up the rest of Ms Love’s possessions, they spotted the chick and simply disposed of it.

‘[Courtney has] fired the assistant and is going nuts because, to her, the work was priceless and irreplaceable.’

Lets all have a round of applause for the moving men. This is one of those intriguing moments where real world common sense meets the often ridiculous excesses of the celebrity world. Normally, people who keep dead animals in their bedrooms are not called “art collectors.” They’re called psychopaths. If I were to keep a dead bird in a box on a six foot pedestal in my bedroom, how long do you think it would be before they’d haul my ass off to the nutter institute?

Hell, even the artist who made the piece has described Love as “completely bonkers.” Call me Courtney, but when the chick who puts dead mice in champagne glasses and sells them for thousands of dollars calls you a whackjob, it might be time to get some help.

Featuring the adorable duo of Seth Rogen and Andy Samberg, this 2 minute parody is probably 99% more entertaining than that $72 million dollar car-racing turd that opened at the box office this weekend.

If by the end of this clip the hot Rogen on Sandburg tension has you yelling “Kiss him! Just fucking kiss him already!!” I understand your pain. And while it won’t satisfy your sexual frustrations (oddly enough), I suggest reading the feature interview in April’s issue of Playboy magazine. Rogen is one of only a handful of men to make it onto the magazine’s cover, and the interview is seriously laugh-out-loud funny.

In this installment of How Twitter is Making the World of Celebrity Gossip an Even Weirder Place Than it Was Before, Jimmy Fallon and his family get kicked out of NY pizza restaurant Posto, get into a fistfight along the way, and then immediately tweet smack about the joint and someone who works there that he calls “carb face Carol.”

Before I continue, let’s all take a moment to laugh bitterly at the ridiculous irony of life, given that “carb face Carol” jab and EB’s own recent “Fat Arms” furor….

There. Now we can move on.

While Fallon didn’t tweet about the fight (another Twitterer who supposedly witnessed the eviction tweeted about that) he did say that someone in the restaurant took his comments in a recent NY online pizza tasting the wrong way, thinking that he was disparaging the place’s pies when in reality, he likes them.

But not anymore. After being treated “rudely,” he told all his Twitter followers never to go to any of the restaurants run by the owners of Posto, adding, “Don’t mess with the Fallon Family.”

I’m so happy I wrote this post if for no other reason than it led me to this picture of William Shatner and the Mayor of Long Beach at the grand opening of Star Trek: The Tour– a nasty little nugget of Treksploitation that floats 40 years worth of memorabilia around in a cruise ship, looking to fleece Trekkies and Trekkers in a city near you. Even though I say that, if it comes anywhere near Nashville (doubtfull since Tennessee is a land-locked state) I’ll still fork over the cash to go see it. Feel my pain, fellow Trekkers. Feel my pain.

But I digress. That’s not what this post is about.

This post is about the fact that Hustler plans to release a hardcore porno flick based on Star Trek: The Original Series, which will make it the first piece of Star Trek related merchandise where getting fucked up the ass is the main feature, and not just the lamentable side effect of shelling out your hard-earned cash for an expensive piece of poorly-designed crap.  *Shakes angry fist at Paramount’s licensing division*

The film, starring Evan Stone and Tony DeSergio – as Captain Kirk and Mr Spock respectively – is set to go before the cameras next month.The project is the latest in Hustler’s ongoing bid to turn classic US TV shows into porn films. This Ain’t Star Trek XXX! will follow Not Three’s Company XXX and This Ain’t Happy Days XXX onto DVD.

Now that’s one box set I’d like to have for the video library!

While it makes me giggle to think of Spock and his giant Vulcan schlong, a hardcore version of Star Trek actually isn’t much of a stretch– considering that 15 minutes of every episode were dedicated to Shatner-on-alien softcore anyway. And much of the humor in Three’s Company revolved around the sexual tension between the three roommates, so a hardcore version isn’t all that difficult to imagine.

But trying to picture what would happen in a raunchy, X-rated version of Happy Days just makes me laugh out loud. And then my brains shut off.

And yes, I will watch it if I can get my hands on it. I’ll even let you know how it is.

It was 15 years ago today that Kurt Cobain took his own life with a shotgun blast to the head. His body and suicide note would be found three days later at his Seattle home.

A very polarizing individual, everyone has their own opinions about the quality of his music, his status as a celebrity, and the appropriateness of memorializing his death because of its “ugly” qualities– the fact that it was a suicide and that Kurt’s continuous struggle with drug addiction was probably an influencing factor. But for a lot of people, Nirvana’s music and Kurt’s death constitute defining moments in their adolescence, and are therefore worth memorializing.

The truth is that we depend upon artists to be the whipping boys for all our inner demons– to feel intensely and confront directly the emotions and frightening parts of the human psyche that the rest of us struggle daily to keep under control or to ignore, and to somehow encapsulate those battles in four minutes and thirty seconds worth of commercially viable radio catharsis. Sometimes they lose those battles–casualties of an unseen war whose only manifestations are the writing, the acting, the painting, or the music the rest of us so enjoy.

When those battles are lost, the rest of us remain the beneficiaries of their wills, inheriting a legacy of life experiences described vibrantly and succinctly through a lens of concentrated emotion that is at once both out of control and carefully contained in an artistic format– be that literary, visual, or aural.

So I don’t feel at all inappropriate or pandering in memorializing his passing and recognizing his own unique contribution to the rock music canon.

Rest in peace, Kurt. And thanks for the music.