How could I do a column heavy on celebrity romance this week when one of America's greatest couples is presumed lost at sea? I heard the truly horrific news early Saturday morning at the HoJo -- feasting on my usual breakfast of a bran muffin, a bowl of cherry tomatoes and a few mimosas -- and went into instant near-cardiac arrest. Another Kennedy? This "curse" thing is such a cliche! Why does tragedy strike the beautiful ones? Why can't fate strike at the sub-Kennedys, like Arnold Schwarzenegger? I instantly came up with kidnapping theories, military screw-ups and notions of faked deaths, none of which made very much sense but which became fascinating to others after my seventh drink. Here's hoping Rory goes to Vegas to get married, and some semblance of peace finally comes to the Kennedys, who have always been my favorite clan of rich white people.

Clean Slater

The other thing I hesitated to report to BG this week is the disturbing news that Christian Slater, one of the stallions in BG's stable of dream dates (part of the dream, she will tell you, is that he didn't do any of that bad stuff) is finally getting married to his girlfriend Ryan Haddon. (I was tempted to write "his lover Ryan Haddon" and make you ALL guess.) The two already have a child, and now the duo are planning on "legitimizing" the infant by going legal. In fact, the date is set for Valentine's Day 2000.

I have to applaud Chris for his miraculous, classy turn-around from drug-riddled dope fiend to responsible father and Broadway star. It seems like only yesterday he was doing crack, beating up women, and breaking into people's houses naked! Robbie Downey's back in jail and Andy Dick's on his way there, so its relieving to hear of a celebrity really staying off the smack. Come on down to the bar, Chris, and have a drink on me! That's where the party's at!

Renee Gets Carrey-ed Away

Who knew that Jim Carrey was such a babe magnet? Having been previously linked with Carol Alt and Courtney Love -- not to mention his off-and-on-and-off-again ex-wife Lauren Holly -- Carrey is now in serious romantic negotiations with wispy "Jerry Maguire" blonde Renee Zellweger. The two are currently filming "Me, Myself And Irene," and The Daily News reports that the on-screen fireworks are sparking a few home fires for the duo. In the film Carrey plays a man with multiple personalities who all fall in love with Zellweger. Sounds like boyfriend material to me! I'm a little spooked that Carrey uses work as a personal dating service, but then again, rumors to the contrary notwithstanding, I've never been paid to kiss anybody.

Jack's Passenger

Jack Nicholson had a minor car accident in Los Angeles two weeks ago, and upon perusing the humdrum details of the incident, I noticed that the name of Nicholson's young woman passenger was unmentioned. In fact, who knew if she were alive or dead? Seems the press folks covering the story were merely concerned that Nicholson's slurry wit was intact.

Well, I've found out that in fact the woman was seen fleeing the car immediately after the accident, all the way back to Jack's house, which is nearby. (That thing about most car accidents happening five minutes from your home? It's true, dears.) She reportedly didn't want to be seen with the actor for fear we'd all get the wrong idea. Forget the fact that fleeing the scene of a crime is illegal.

But then, somebody playing a television lawyer should know that by know, right, Lara Flynn Boyle?

Diva Jackpot

By fabulous luck, I happened to catch two major concert events last week, featuring two of the supremest divas of the day -- Cher and Whitney.

The older, alien-looking star played Madison Square Garden, and she was unparalleled in her number of costumes, wigs and pure, uncut doses of vanity. Opened by a blue-haired and still feisty Cyndi Lauper, and flanked by six dancers seemingly plucked from the 1980s classic "Solid Gold," the former Mrs. Bono sang -- often without computer enhancements! -- to many of her classics and seemed fairly "with it," despite some severe facial work and some body-binding apparel. She also had video montages of her television and film work, and she seemed so open that I wouldn't have been surprised if we'd been given a tour of the inside of her body cavity via microscopic camera. Now try to out-diva that!

The show was actually topped the next night by Whitney, who seemed oblivious to any sort of moderation or self-effacement whatsoever. Sweating up her usual volume of bodily fluids, the Whit didn't so much sing her songs as simply scat on top of them. (Example: "It's not right, nononononono, not right, nooooooo, not right, but okay baby, ya-bi-da-da-yi") Her husband Bobby Brown, who stood right in front of me in the cocktail line outside, joined her onstage, as did her daughter, her brother, her mother Cissy Houston, Luther Vandross and Brandy, who up close looks like a really hip, sexy robot person. Also on the second row: 7-foot-tall drag legend Kevin Aviance, dressed in a white sundress and metallic make-up, who leapt up in religious ecstasy during Whitney's gospel numbers.

As if that wasn't narcotic enough, imagine my shock at seeing Whitney retire to the back of the stage every couple of songs, to "fix herself" at a small table that held nothing but cloth and some curious looking vessels. Though merely wiping off the sweat, she held that towel to her face for almost two minutes at a time. Knowing her past and Bobby's evil temptations, what do YOU think she was doing?

Of course, if you'd rather hear my opinion, simply tune into MTV News. Gregoire was interviewed before the Houston show by news veejay John Norris, whom I have so much dirt on, I could have ruined his career then and there on camera! The man practically wore an entire makeup counter on his face. He actually looked a little embalmed.

Monica's Soiree

When I'm not drowning my sorrow in midtown, I'm down at Wonder Bar in the East Village, and I was pleased to hear one night last week that Monica Lewinsky and entourage was right next door at trendy new restaurant Coup. (I would have run over myself and checked, but the lighting is so much better at Wonder Bar.) Anyway, I heard she looked horribly out-of-place and un-self-consciously munched on turkey chop, followed by the restuarant's superb pineapple upside down cake. The next day she was mentioned in The Post and was referred to as a "corpulent cutie." Corpulent, whatever! I'll start calling the large-size scandalina "corpulent" when she starts wearing muumuus and washing herself with a piece of soap on a stick!

Until I marry a Schwarzenegger,
Gregoire

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