Blather

And SLAP! And two. And three. And four.

This is so wonderful I hardly know where to begin: Richard Simmons (yes, that Richard Simmons) overhears a guy make a comment while waiting in line for a flight at Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport. The comment, if accurately reported, is so mouth-breathingly dopey that it barely even registers as a quip: "Hey, everybody, it's Richard Simmons. Let's drop our bags and rock to the '50s." Simmons, however, goes nuts when he hears it, tells observers he's going to "bitch slap" the guy, and proceeds to do so. The guy -- a 6'1", 255-lb. Harley salesman and cage fighter named Chris Farney -- is apparently so "stunned," in the words of a police spokesman, that he walks away, then thinks better of it and contacts authorities. Farney tells the cops he wants to press charges. Simmons is later allowed to board a flight to Los Angeles.

Dignity. Always Dignity.

You know, I've been as hard on David Gest as anybody in the wake of this... unpleasantness with Liza. I've called him a "publicity ho," a "waxy-headed publicity ho," a "shiny-skinned creepy-haired publicity ho," and "the senior senator from the great state of Wyoming" (I might have been a little off on that last one). But I'm starting to think I may have been a tad rough on the guy. What turned me around? These sincere words of support from R&B great James ("Just Once") Ingram: "When people see this interview they will see what I have known about my brother and what he has been through for the last seven months. It's pretty heavy." The heaviness Ingram refers to is an upcoming segment on "Dateline" in which Gest really nails down his claims to aggrieved dignity by receiving, on-camera, "around 80 shots with 4-inch needles in the eyebrows, front and back of ears, forehead, head and neck in front of interviewer Stone Phillips and the Dateline staff. One of the producers left at the beginning of the treatment because she could not watch it." Creepy, semi-literate press release is here. And David? You hang in there, buddy. It's almost unbearably sad that a man like you should have to suffer through this kind of humiliating treatment on camera, in prime time, during sweeps.

That'll Be $400

"If anybody doesn't think based upon what's happened so far that the true motivation of these charges and these allegations is anything but money and the seeking of money, then they're living in their own Neverland," Michael Jackson's lawyer told reporters Tuesday, adding: "It isn't not unclear that the real reason for these charges is the lack of the presence of facts that, if shown, wouldn't not tend to un-exculpate my client."

It's Up to You, Supreme Court of the State of New York, New York Or: You Gotta Represent

Liza Minnelli claims in court papers obtained by The Smoking Gun that estranged husband/waxwork David Gest "represented to Plaintiff that he was a major 'player' in the entertainment business" at the fateful mid-2001 meeting that led to their 26-minute marriage. Just to prove that there's a cosmic logic to the universe, or that all cosmic circles eventually close, or at least that the cosmos has the spiteful wit of a Friars Club roast, the pair met at -- wait for it -- the taping of a Michael Jackson TV special.

I've Been Drinking For Days, So Yes, You Could Say I'm Exhausted

I'm not saying this story, about Meat Loaf collapsing on stage in London due to exhaustion, is hooey. I'm just asking: Have you ever heard of anybody who wasn't in show business collapsing from exhaustion?

Oh, Shut Up

David Blaine reportedly broke into tears on his release from a Plexiglass cube suspended over the Thames embankment, telling reporters: "This has been one of the most important experiences of my life." The reporters started to ask followup questions, then stopped, stared into the middle distance, blinked repeatedly, looked at each other out of the corners of their eyes, started to speak again, stopped, wetted their lips with their tongues, paused, scratched absently at their scalps with their pencils, looked at each other again, shrugged, then drifted away to their cars, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when their lives had turned so awful and empty and sad.

So Much in Love

There's nothing sadder than seeing two starry-eyed, deep-in-love kids, all goofed up on the romantic thrill of being young and besotted with each other, hit the rocks. But that seems to be what's happened with a couple of crazy dreamers named Liza and David, and it's ended up where all love stories eventually end up: In the Supreme Court of the State of New York, County of New York. (God bless The Smoking Gun for this.)

Let's Be Responsible, People

Did a screaming, hissy-fit-throwing Deborah Norville cost a 72-year-old security guard his job? It's unclear -- there are two sides to every story, and the Dallas Observer doesn't run Norville's take on the incident. If it isn't true, then the Observer has passed on a false rumor and maligned a beloved American TV news celebrity, and shame on them. Norville is best known for hosting "Inside Edition," and for a 1996 incident in which she beat a hobo to death with a tire iron. (Via Romenesko.)

What's Norwegian For "No, Seriously"?

Scandinavians are naturally reticent, and the members of the Norwegian Nobel Institute are more close-mouthed than most. So it's no surprise that the Institute's director, Geir Lundestad, is reluctant to handicap this year's crop of 165 candidates for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Except when it comes to Michael Jackson.

God Bless The Brits

The New York Times and the LA Times run virtually identical pieces today on David Blaine, the weirdly monotonal illusionist/freakshow who's currently spending 44 days dangling over the Thames embankment sealed in a plexiglass cube. He's doing this because... ummm... Oh, right, because doing things like this gives you a small measure of fame, which you can then turn around and leverage into public support for something meaningful, like... ummm... Yes. Well. Blaine, who is from Brooklyn and probably no stranger to tough audiences, has reportedly been taken aback by Londoners' response to the stunt, which has involved a high degree of jeering and food-throwing. His surrogates on the ground, who actually include spoon-bender Uri Geller, have been sent out to defend his good name: "I am not only surprised, I'm angered," Geller says. "Not only is David having to deal with the medical effects of going without food, he's got to deal with the demoralization that comes from all the abuse he's getting, the ugly screams and shouts." The best part of all this -- well, there are so many good parts -- but the best part is the indignantly high dudgeon in Geller's tone, which is pretty funny considering that he's Uri Geller, a guy well-known for putting the "flim" back in "flim-flam." The argument seems to be that the stunt defines Blaine as -- yes! -- a figure of high moral authority, because by sealing himself in a plexiglass cube for 44 days he is doing something pure and spiritual. And goodness knows, the side deal he's cut for a British TV special only reinforces that image as a -- well, just say it: A sort of holy man. After all, I think we all remember Mohandas K. Gandhi's fateful decision to jump on a Vespa and seal himself inside the MotoSphere as a protest against the British salt tax. And who can ever forget the bravery and passion in Martin Luther King's seminal "Letter From a Shark Cage Suspended in a Tank of Deadly Piranha"?

NYT piece here, LAT piece here (although you can't get either unless you register, and the LAT has recently put into place a separate and even-more-Draconian signup process for its Calendar section, so unless you're already registered or have about 45 minutes of your life to invest, don't bother).

Up By Her Blahnik Bootstraps

"I know that I would not be where I am today in my career, as a woman, without [Arnold Schwarzenegger's] support," Maria Shriver tells a campaign crowd, drawing cheers for the courageous way in which she has overcome the career-crippling traits of being rich, razor-thin and a Kennedy.

Start The Countdown

"I'm not getting divorced, never, never," Catherine Zeta-Jones tells Reuters, as nearby PR personnel sigh and look down at the ground and think ahead to the 3 AM phone call which will eventually come -- maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday, just as surely as the earth will someday plummet into the sun -- in which they will have to disavow this very quote to a wire-service reporter, and wish she'd just shut up and talk about the movie for God's sake.