Brad and Angelina enjoy a DGA date, and it didn't involve screaming. Julia Roberts' love advice. Diddy's default position. Tracy Morgan's awesome, wack Chinatown hijinks. Hipster Birdwomen, SJP, Diane Sawyer, and coconut shrimp. Presenting your Sunday Morning Gossip Roundup.
- Brangelina had a romantic night out at the Director's Guild Awards that involved, let's see here, looking "giggly" and Brad trimming his beard and chatting "animatedly" with Quentin Tarantino, as if there's any other way to talk to him. This could mean any number of things.
(A) They dipped into Brad's sour diesel and got blasted before the show.
(B) They've actually decided to break up, which sometimes can yield a totally great friendship that was—like a geode, or Brad Pitt's balls—encased in a craggy rock that when cracked open, can real a beautiful sparkly purple crystal rock.
(C) They're actually still together and dating and doing fine. Or
(D) Brad got Angelina to a doctor and she's finally taking her crazy pills.
The choice is yours. Isn't it funny how we're pretending like we know anything about these people, or even more, care? And by funny I mean "absurd." But we like it, you know? Well, I like it. Meaninglessness is great sometimes. Related, I couldn't find any pictures of them together at the DGA Awards, so maybe People's lying and running interference? Conspiracy! Possible, but probably not. He just looks like he could maybe be really high in that picture. That's why I picked it. [People]
- One beauty queen gets crowned, another gets engaged, an American Public looks on in awe as we're repeatedly told that these aren't advanced technologies in humanoid robotics. [NYDN]
- Page Six tried ferreting out a rumor about ABC employees being disgruntled about Diane Sawyer flying on private planes and ended up defending ABC. That said, good to know that it'd only take me $7,000 in cash to get the hell out of New York with George Stephanopoulos and five producers, but if I were in a situation that required that kind of clutch escape (alien invasion, apocalyptic deathblast, surprise visit by parents, "learn how to blog" meeting with Nick, late on my rent), I sure as hell wouldn't go to Washington DC. That said, if I had to take an airplane with George Stephanopoulos and five ABC News producers, I'd...pause before getting on that plane. There are way worse airborne situations to be in. [Page Six]
- Something about Michael Strahan and a garage, but more importantly, the man still has not bridged the gap between his two front teeth. The thing is, there's a man. Strahan's like a cuddly smiley former football player who, in all actually, could rip your fucking head off and bowl it down an entire Super Bowl parade route, and then pay for cost to ensure that nobody remembers or really knows that this ever happened. And he still hasn't gotten his teeth fixed. Know why? Because he doesn't have to, is why. Because it gives him one of the most distinguished smiles in America. And because he doesn't give a shit how his grill looks, because he could smash you, is why. Nothing else, just "smash you." [Page Six]
- Joe Jackson, who shouldn't be allowed within 100 feet of anything that's capable of being monetized—like Michael Jackson's children—is proud that Michael Jackson's kids are at the Grammy's. Yeah, I'm...not. At least not like he is. [People]
- "Diddy was running around with a gigantic entourage following him around everywhere," says a spy. Right, but in the machination that is Sean Combs, is this not a given, neutral position? If he's not wearing a white tuxedo and riding a custom AMG Mercedes Giraffe S-Class through the Savannah that is Lower Manhattan or West Hollywood, I'd be concerned. This is not cause for concern. [Page Six]
- Here's Page Six, pretending to be interested in what Sarah Jessica Parker wore in her latest shoot for Vogue. Unless it's a straight husband, I ain't buying. [Page Six]
- Rachel Uchitel had a birthday party and it didn't involve Tiger Woods' penis. But it required a police escort. [NYDN]
- Page Six did something about Michael Buble being engaged, and his face looks all smooshy in the picture. Also, that man makes sucky music. And his last name is one letter short of being "Bubble," but is instead "Buble," which—as noted by commenters—is pronounced "BOOB-LAY," which was different from "BOOB-LE," which is what I thought it was, but regardless, either pronunciation makes everyone saying it sound stupid. Ladies, you're better off. You don't marry the wedding singer. When asked for comment, Gawker Weddings Expert Phyllis Nefler sleepily notes: "i do not know who michael buble is." [Page Six]
- Wanna see where Will.i.am keeps the bandage that went on his hand after he punched Perez Hilton in the face? Well, you can't, but People has video of the room where he keeps his Grammys. Personally, I want to know where he stashes all those punctuation marks. [People]
- Love when Page Six does geopolitical gossip. In this case, O. M. G. The UN ambassador, Susan Rice, is putting the BASS in ambassador, because their spies tell them she's doing a great job. Of course, to Page Six, this somehow involves (or merits segue) into something about eating coconut shrimp and hanging out with art dealers, but, you know, you get the newspaper you read, you get the readers you write for. That said, I do believe The Coconut Shrimp of World Peace is actually the hot order at Bahama Breeze these days. [Page Six]
- Julia Roberts actually has pretty decent advice for Valentines Day: make a reservation and don't forget to get naked sometime before you pass out. My suggestion: don't make a reservation at a "romantic" restaurant. People who need "romantic" restaurants can't actually bring the romance themselves. Need I remind you that Gawker Weekend alumnus The Assimilated Negro rocks White Castle on V-Day? And for him, it's always V-Day, amirite? Anyway: if you take your loved one to a romantic restaurant you're a cheesy maxiezoomdweebie who can't actually be romantic by him or herself. This is probably indicative of some greater Freudian problem and an inability to create something original in your love life that someone else hasn't already packaged you represents some kind of underfed need you're tragically projecting on whoever you're dating. The point is, you suck, and it's not your fault, but there's nothing you can do. Really, I should've been a dating columnist. [People]
- Hold your hats, indie rock fans. This might be your Best Page Six Sighting ev-ar. I really hope Pitchfork picks this one up: "Antony Hegarty (of rock band Antony and the Johnsons) losing his temper at hairstylist Jimmy Paul after being told at a party that he was looking 'very Tiny Tim.'" This is in strong opposition to what Antony Hegarty actually wants to be told he looks like, which is an Internally Bruised Ghost of a BirdWoman. [Page Six]
- Except this sighting is way better: Tracy Morgan, when asked to provide his reasoning for buying a fake Jacob watch on Canal Street, notes that because he has a real one, nobody will expect it. Which is awesome, insane, and also true, I guess. [Page Six]
Happy Sunday, friends! Meanwhile, the perils of working at a Brooklyn coffee shop: you sit next to some of the most insufferable conversations EVER. The couple next to me on a morning coffee date has talked about: the Kansas basketball game (even though the guy talking is SO NOT a basketball fan), her job at the Mercury Lounge, the way she's spread too thin to be an actor/playwright because even though she's got theater experience it's so hard for actors in New York and the industry is too hard and also she works too hard to commit any "real" effort to it, and Conan O'Brien's final speech about cynicism which the more I hear about, the more cynical I get. Funny how that works. COFFEE SHOP EAVESDROPPING RAGE. I know, this makes me an asshole. It happens. I'm putting my headphones in and listening to this really, really loud:
We've got Altarcations coming up around 2:30, and then I'll be setting up a Grammy's liveblog later tonight to play around in. Should be fun. Stick around!
[Photo via Getty Images]