As Glam Quest fades wistfully into the sunset and the dog days of summer begin to settle on this post-Teen Choice Awards, pre-Emmy Awards time known as August, I can finally kick back and enjoy a gimlet in peace. I don't know what it is about a gimlet, but every time I drink one, I always think of Renee Zellweger's face. In fact, gimlets taste how Renee looks, don't you think? Bitter, pinched, at once unpredictable and well-worn, yet undeniably pretty and full-bodied. Am I drinking or am I watching that Amish movie "A Price Above Rubies"?

You know it's a slow week here at the HoJo when I have time to reflect on Renee's precious visage and my top story is...

Culkin Divorced!

Yep, that formerly pint-sized, formerly popular child star is splitting from his young wife of two years, Rachel Miner. Personally, when I heard he was getting a divorce, I had to remind myself that he had actually gotten married! In fact, he and Miner tied the knot when he was 17 years old and she was 18. Gee, how surprised are we that this obviously rash decision did not develop into a lifelong marital bond? They met in actors' high school -- Professional Children's School in Manhattan -- and swiftly got hitched at a quaint country church. The pair had lived on and off in their Upper West Side flat as Culkin dealt with a faltering career, an apartment fire that killed four non-Culkins, and some difficult decisions like dying his hair blue.

Spokespersons for the pair say it's an amicable split and that the two remain friends. And, as neither of the ex-lovebirds is technically of legal drinking age, I'm sure both will move on quite nicely. In fact, Mac is going back into acting. I have it from an extremely confidential source that the formerly (and possibly still) annoying "Home Alone" star is being courted for a rather adult sounding role in a racy indie film. Imagine "Richie Rich" meets a modern "Studio 54" and then picture Mac's face.

Love Slave

The 90s are truly over. Seems the former Mrs. Kurt Cobain -- that legendary mess/vixen Courtney Love -- is settling down with her non-famous but oh-so-powerful music exec boyfriend, Jim Barber. Word has it that Court and Jim are looking for a house together in LA, miles away from any memory of her grunge queen antics and post-Kurt dating days which included Edward Norton and, depending on whom you believe, Jim Carrey. She has more time to look for new digs as she was forced to drop out of the film "John Carpenter's Ghost Of Mars" due to a twisted ankle. (Courtney, love, I think your injury was a wise career move. Sounds grossly straight-to-video to me.) I hope she goes completely Donna Reed on us and buys something traditional with a white picket fence. She'd look marvelous in a bouffant, don't you think?

Bits On Brad and Jen

Details of that super-secret (but, ah yes, not sooo secret) Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston wedding have started to spring from the ceremony like a leaky silicon implant, such as:

• Included in the traditional vows was Jen's promise to keep Brad in his "favorite banana milkshake." And instead of "'Til death do us part," they opted for "forever and ever." (Wise move. That other line is so morbid!)
• Matthew Perry was "the life of the party," whatever that means.
• Before the ceremony, Brad and Jenny went to a Beverly Hills salon and got matching blond highlights in their hair so that they would glow like fluorescent bulbs when the sun flowing through Marcy Carsey's cliffside abode beamed upon their heads.
• A lengthy toast during a slide show of Brad and Jenny's childhoods -- hmm, wonder if I made it into any of Brad's slides? -- prompted Jon Lovitz to proclaim loudly that the speaker sounded like a "dying cat."

SEEN!

-- Move over Leo! Is monkey-boy Justin Timberlake becoming a member of the downtown glitterati? This past Wednesday, well after his *NSYNC extravaganza at Madison Square Garden, he was dancing with an assortment of chicks in Soho, while nightlife regular Kylie Bax stared from a booth with her new object of interest, hockey stud Sheldon Souray. And, what? No Britney Spears in sight!

-- On the opposite end of the cultural spectrum, aging news legend Walter Cronkite was also being entertained by a gyrating alien -- no, literally, it was a man in an alien costume -- at midtown's futuristic theme restaurant Mars 2112. He was there to enjoy his grandson's birthday party, not to report on the Republican Convention (which hosted a few aliens of its own).

-- The same four fabulous super stars -- Puff Daddy, Jenny Lopez, Jay-Z, and Aaliyah -- who appear at the same trendy club every week popped up once again at One 51 last week for the birthday party of Faith Evan's new hubby, Bozak.

-- Last Friday, four giggly girls burst into the fish aquarium room at the Limelight (NYC's church-turned-nightclub) and remarked quite loudly how cool the room was. A gaggle of well-dressed fabulons sitting at a banquette laughed at the girls' naivete. (I mean, the Limelight has seen better days...) One of the gigglers wanted a picture with her friends, so one saucy, fire-haired fabulon stood up and snapped their pic. The girls giggled some more and crawled away, not realizing that Joely Fisher (the "Ellen" costar celebrating her last night of "Cabaret") just took their picture! My informant added that Joely is as fabulous and fun as she seems -- a regular party girl-starlet.

And, naturally, you've all been busy the past couple weeks spying on the fabu and faux-fabu ....

"Gregoire: according to many Disney employees, Michael Jackson was at the Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World with his two children. Fantasyland, for a fact. Although we never spotted him, we did catch four people eating dinner at The Plaza Restaurant on Main Street USA wearing black 'Michael Jackson: King of Pop' ball caps..." -- Kelly

Seeing Michael Jackson in Walt Disney World is kind of like seeing Madonna in a sex boutique. And those ball-cap-wearin' Jackson promoters might not have actually been his family. I predict it was just some Japanese tourists; they still love him over there.

"Gregoire, I just wanted to contribute my Jerry Stiller story. Mr. Stiller works out at my gym, and I have not only seen him numerous times, but I have seen him NAKED numerous times. You haven't lived until you have seen George Costanza's dad naked. Quite scary let me tell you." -- Pete

Why is it that nobody sees Michelle Pfieffer or Freddie Prinze Jr. naked? Why is it always the offbeat ones who seem to be naked? Give Mr. Stiller a break; he is an older guy, and I applaud his workout regimen. However, I'd suggest skipping the locker room at all times, were I you. A naked James Garner or Wilfred Brimley may be around the corner!

"Gregoire, Today was a big day for bulbous blonde sightings in LA. Saw Pamela Anderson in a black VIPER stuck in traffic and looking so pissed. I feel like I am finally a citizen of LA. Isn't she sort of a municipal landmark -- a rite of passage we all must go through? She was perfectly LA -- blond upsweep, lips for days and, well, breasts. Just breasts. Lots of breasts. She is kitsch, cheese, camp, porn, sex, irony and Americana all rolled into one and I, for one, can now die." -- Adam

Actually, you haven't yet seen that other LA staple -- Mickey Rourke. See Mickey; THEN you can die. (Anything to keep you breathing!) How may breasts did Pamela have exactly? Like, 90 breasts?

"Gregoire, at lunch I went to a little nail shop in the shopping center on Hollywood and saw ANNA NICOLE SMITH! She sounded drugged up and kept calling about a prescription. She had a big Jesus tattoo and a Virgin Mary on her ankle. Her girly son was there, and he had to go next-door to a cheesy dress shop (where she said she shops all the time) to buy her a pair of pink and blue flower socks. The owner of the dress shop came over to the nail shop to say hi to Anna and let her know that the socks have been discontinued. She was very upset!! She also found out that a store was selling her picture at 25% off and began to call them *&@#%%." --Vanessa

Dear Jesus,

As you currently adorn the pliant gams of the world's premier plus-sized model (and Gregoire's favorite celebrity, see last week's column), I'm sure you're aware of the predicament of Anna's son. Any child forced to buy his mother discontinued stockings is a whelp in serious need of prayer. Oh Son Of God, please keep this lamb under your wing, far away from Anna's prescription drugs.

Your Prodigal Son Of Style,

Gregoire

P.S. And don't let him see the gigantic billboard of mom literally feet away from my headquarters here in Times Square, showing her off in some seriously tight trou. Apparently, the photo is so revealing that The Wall Street Journal is refusing to run it.

G-Mail

Rarely do Breakup Girl's pioneering powers of relationship superhealing and my own mutant-like ability to report meaningless celebrity information merge in a universal cry for help, but when they do, I heed the clarion call! Fear not, oh reader, I will protect you!

"Dearest Gregoire, I have both a celeb sighting and a resulting problem, and I just know you're the only one who can help. Last Friday, a "special friend" and I caught Sandra Bernhard's new show at Joe's Pub. Simply inspiring! Who else can preach the virtues of spirituality and Gucci? Anyhoo, before the show began, Roseanne -- sporting a crimped yellow and orange Betsey Johnson wig -- sat in the booth behind us. No one noticed, but my date and I recognized her voice (loud). Two unsuspecting patrons innocently asked whether they could sit at her booth since all the other spaces were taken, and I'm happy to report that Roseanne said yes! No star power trip here. My problem? My date couldn't take his eyes off Roseanne -- not even long enough to stare into my lovely, green eyes during the love songs. Gregoire, how can I compete with a celebrity?" --Trenton

Unless you happen to be Trenton Reznor, I'm afraid you will not be able to pull your "special friend" away from the siren-like appeal of this kooky comedienne. She's simply too much of a one-woman carnival to ignore. My suggestion would have been to feign dysentery or dyslexia or something and rush out of that performance with "special friend" in tow. (Apologizing to Sandy on the way out, of course. She just hates people who bolt in the middle of her show.) Better to miss a sterling cabaret act than lose a "special friend."

Oh, and I'd cancel my subscription to Gear Magazine. Word is, oddly enough, Roseanne has just shot some nudes for the magazine that they are planning to run. Are they afraid they have too many readers?

"Gregoire, uh, hello, Miss Thang! In [last week's] column, you stated that *NSYNC had nothing on the Backstreet Boys. Au contraire! I am a fan of both groups, but *NSYNC has the better dance music of the two. Apparently, you can't figure out what most of the population obviously knows -- *NSYNC rules!!! A fact that has been made quite evident by the sales of their latest album and by the fact that their concerts were all sold-out shows. Not to mention that "Digital Getdown" is an amazing song and a favorite among many.

As for your question about why David Spade can get invited to the Brad Pitt/Jennifer Aniston wedding when you can't? Hmm, let's see, Girlfriend...perhaps it's because you're a gossip columnist and he's not. If you had been invited, everyone would have known all about it sooner. If people want to announce their lives, let them do it for themselves. I sincerely hope you get a real life and stop obsessing over other people's activities. There are far more honorable ways to make a living." -- Heather from Kentucky

Far more honorable ways to make a living? In Kentucky? Darling, you might have had a truly legitimate argument had you not begun with all that *NSYNC and Backstreet Boys nonsense. As you have missed the subtextual parody that often runs through this column, let me unsubtly spell it out for you: I WAS KIDDING. BOTH "BANDS" SUCK. REALLY SUCK. Comparing *NSYNC to the Backstreet Boys is like comparing death by decapitation to death by being skinned alive. It's still death, sweetie. As for my not obviously living a "real" life -- well, I am a cartoon character -- please note that gossips are a reflection of trash, not the creators of it. If you didn't want to read it, I wouldn't write it. I am a mirror, baby. I reflect you. And right now, I'm reflecting some serious Midwestern disillusionment...

Until it's safe once again to place one's hands upon one's cheeks and form one's mouth into an O just like our pal McCauley,

Gregoire

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