I've just this very moment flown back from Washington DC, and boy are my arms tired! I decided to spend Independence Day in our nation's capital with four billion other proud Americans, and despite the oven-friendly heat and a general disillusionment with the United States government, we all had a wonderful time. Why, one of my companions for the week was even a White House intern whose name began with an 'M'! Of course, she wasn't THE intern, and in fact, she even informed me that the name 'Monica' is never even mentioned in White House. They apparently refer to her as "the unfortunate incident" and "that previous intern." I neglected to find out if the Gap was still acceptable office wear. (Luckily for the boyfriend of my intern friend, she's petite and pretty and will pose no temptation to our Commander In Chief.)

It wasn't all politics for me, however, as I and my "posse" crashed a series of rooftop barbecues, visited some marvelous museums (the Charles and Ray Eames show at the Library Of Congress really "chaired" me up!), and slashed shamelessly through bars and restaurants in Dupont Circle with our rapier wit. The day before the fireworks I did of course crash a rehearsal of the nation's July 4th festivities and caught Nell Carter practicing a sassy blues number while youngsters swing-danced as though in orbit around her. (Surveying the dancers, that look on her face screamed, "Gimme a break!") I didn't see her performance the next night because it was a little to the right of the VIP martini lounge on the Capitol steps, but I heard she was divine. The Washington Monument itself, however, has put on a little weight as of late; girl needs to look in her reflecting pool a wee more often 'cause she's positively chunky. Could those rumors of late-night binging at the Lincoln Memorial be more than mere speculation?

Posh Ceremony

While I was munching on somebody else's spare ribs this weekend, the English Wedding Of The Century Of The Week was taking place in Dublin, Ireland, as Posh Spice Victoria Adams and her soccer/football/whatever-they-call-it stud David Beckham tied the knot in a typically low-key, casual wedding involving a 14th century castle, thousands of screaming fans, hundreds of doves released into the sunset, and a performance by Elton John. (Did he do a Ginger Spice "Candle In The Wind" homage?) Adams wore Vera Wang and that cold, unconcerned look she calls seductive, while the other Spices looked on and openly wept, presumably for the bride and not their deteriorating careers. I mean, have you heard Scary Spice's version of "Word Up" on the "Austin Powers" soundtrack? There ought to be an [English common] law.

Getting Spiked

A more culturally sound nuptial took place last week as Francis Ford Coppola's nonactress/model daughter Sofia married way-cool video director Spike Jonez (known for his fab Beastie Boys work, to name one thing) in California last week. A spy nearby the event called the wedding "a very classy affair," and considering the guest list -- including David Arquette and Courteney Cox and I-can't-believe-he's-Coppola's-nephew Nicolas Cage -- I don't doubt it.

Downhome Attitude

An astute and twangy reader writes up this scoop regarding Shania Twain grabbing grub before a concert: "She was in line getting dinner when a local crew member came up to get in line beside her. He said hello and remarked how he admired her talent as a singer and had worked other shows of hers. She turned around, with an annoyed look, and flatly said, "Oh ya did, did ya?" turned and walked away. Leaving the poor crew member with his mouth open, not to mention turning red! The whole room saw, and the room went silent. Can you say DIVA? DIVA + Shania = Bee-otch!"

Stars + catering = down-to-earth, first of all. Do you think Barbra Streisand stands in line for catering? Now that's a diva in its truest, pre-Entertainment Weekly catchphraseness. Celebrities are accosted every day of their lives by fans and sometimes, like any normal person, they'd rather be left alone. I'm sure she could have been more polite, but then can't we all? (Why, if somebody labelled me a diva everytime I was rude, I'd have a lustrous career in opera by now!) Until I see Shania actually eating the flesh from the bones of innocent children, I'll hold off my judgment and simply call Mrs. Twain .... a little peckish, that's all.

Little Ricky

Now, as I've reiterated before, I do not give out dating advice to civilians, as that's BG's job. However, if you do have any pesky celebrity woes that you need to resolve (i.e. "Dear Gregoire, I invited Stephen Baldwin to sleep on my couch, and now he won't leave!"), then I implore you to drop me a line. Don't suffer through a star situation without my word on the matter.

Here's an inaugural letter inquiring about a problem that we all face every day of our lives: Ricky Martin.

"I have an unhealthy (and slightly embarrassing) obsession with Ricky Martin. I need to find a real man replacement. I have tried to use the guy who vacuums my office nightly at 7:00 pm as he has a vacuuming technique that slightly resembles Ricky's Elvis-y hip shake. Although my consulting firm is thrilled with the hours I'm billing, waiting around until 7:00 every night to stare at a boy is taking a toll on my personal life -- I haven't done laundry in eons and by the time I get home at night my go-out friends are already out somewhere, cell phones off. Advice would be greatly appreciated.

Sincerely,
Born to Wrong Culture."

Dear Born-to-Wrong-Culture (no, no, that's too bulky. How about I just call you Frenchie?):

Frenchie, Martin has captured all our hearts with that "Elvis-y hip shake," so you're not alone in your guilty admiration. Everybody sins at least once! As for your projection of celebrity lust on a custodial member of your office environment, may I clarify a few things for you:

1) No need to find a "real man replacement" because Ricky Martin [insert cheap joke about RM not being a 'real man' to begin with].

2) Vacuuming is more difficult than taking your clothes off and going "dancing in the rain." I bet this man can count beyond "uno, dos, tres" as well.

3) Complexion-check! Is it in need of magazine and music video retouches like Ricky's? Doubtful.

Conclusion: While you're turning this man into a vessel of hot Latino eroticism, has it occured to you that this man might be better than Ricky Martin? Why not mold him into a fantasy that's more accessible -- and more dangerous --- by lusting after him? This way, you'll get more work done, you won't feel like a silly teenage girl and, who knows?, maybe he'll give you a reason to turn your cell phone off.

Until Ricky's hips have left the building,
Gregoire

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