Brad and Angelina in Malibu (updated)

CURRENT OWNER: Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie
LOCATION: Pacific Coast Highway, Malibu, CA

YOUR MAMAS NOTES: Located way up the Pacific Coast Highway in an area of vast oceanfront estates, Brad and Angie's contemporary beachfront home includes a very long stair to the beach. Now, Your Mama knows it's nice to live on the beach and all, but who needs to heat stroke from climbing all those stairs? This home has been published in so many magazines Your Mama does not feel like going and getting these photographs...sorry babies.

Your Mama actually knows a lady that lives a few does down and she says that despite the constant barrage of paparazzi and other hangers on, the couple manages to live a relatively normal life here...If you call helicopters overhead trying to take their photographs as they walk to their cars in the driveway.

So again, the Real Estalkeer is going to keep this house number in the vault to keep the prying eyes away from these lovebirds and their multi-culti children.

Quit Clowning Around!

I read today where imitation legendary clown, Emmett Kelly Junior, died last week, some 40 years after his originality. He spent his career doing his father's act, the great, original legendary clown Emmett Kelly Senior, star of Cecil Blunt DeMille's The Greatest Show on Earth, not to be confused with legendary minuscule-penile-overcompensator Charleton Heston, who played a small role in the film, doing his imitation acting. Cheston darling, when you are acted off the screen by a pretend hobo and Betty Hutton, it's time to retire, and that movie came out 54 years ago. You were never more than a Steeve Reeves wannabe anyway.

(Incidentally, The Greatest Show on Earth, though a ludicrous piece of melodramatic claptrap, nevertheless won the Oscar for Best Picture, a monumental example of the power of suggestion. In the picture, Jimmy Stewart, as Buttons the Killer Clown, delivers one of the greatest lines in the history of dialogue: "You know, clowns are funny people.")

Imagine spending your life pretending to be a hobo. Some of my closest husbands spent their lives pretending they weren't homos.

I shudder to think what my life would have been like had I spent my life doing my mother's act. She started out as Bertha Morehead, Baby Juggler back in vaudeville. I was the baby. Good lord, do you suppose that's why my daughter Patty disappeared back in 1959, and hasn't contacted me or anyone else since, despite publishing that libelous work of fiction, her "Autobiography," Mummy Darling, the very day before I received my second liver transplant, this one a perfect, almost familial, match from an anonymous female doner my daughter's same age who was beheaded in some kind of tragic automotive mishap not 500 yeards from my home in a series of coincidences that is almost eerie? Is Patty afraid I want to juggle her? For Heaven's sake Pattycakes darling, your were 21 at the time. You're nearly 70 now. Even if I had the upper body strength to toss you about, and the single, focused vision to see where you were with sufficient accuracy to catch you again, you still would no longer qualify as a baby. Please darling. Get back in touch. You'll always be a part of me.

In any event, Mother's primary career was as a housedrunk, something this Social Drinker has never been. True, I'm at home enjoying a cocktail or two at this very moment, but I'm not alone. Little Douglas is here taking this all down, and the Headless Indian Brave is mixing my drinks. All right, neither of them drink; Little Douglas prefers his intoxication via cannabis, while the Headless Indian Brave has no mouth. I suppose he could just pour his firewater down his open neck, but when we tried that, it just poured straight through him onto the floor, and my tongue got filthy lapping it all up. I'll have to sweep the floor before we try that again. My point is, I'm drinking and we're being social, so it's Social Drinking. Were I doing my mother's act, I'd weigh 400 pounds, smell like a urinal, and never move off this chaise.

I adored Little Emmett Senior. What a man, although so vain. The man wore a ton of make up, almost as much as I do, yet he still looked like a bum. It took me weeks to get my breasts clean again.

So Little Emmett Junior is gone now; another clown bites the sawdust. First Emmett Senior, then Chuckles shucked off this mortal coil when he was terminally shucked (But wasn't his funeral a riot?), then Bozo - actually several Bozos - went to the Big Top in The Sky (I adore a Big Top, as does Little Douglas.), Pennywise has danced his last dance and eaten his last child, Buttons finally joined his victim in Clown Hell, and now Emmett Junior. When will this Clown Massacre stop? Are they all buried in the same tiny coffin? I say put Krusty into the Federal Witless Protection Program now! (You know, the same program that protects Bush, Cheney and Rove, Witless Protection.) A world without clowns is unthinkable.

Save Krusty; save the world.

Cheers darlings.

The Last Train to Siskville

One of my most fiercely loyal and obsessive reader/fans, a Mr. Keith Sisk, of Siskville, North Carolina, sent me this lovely photo a couple days ago. He took it in Siskville, the town where he lives, which has, coincidentally, a quite similar name to his. I must say, no disrespect to the citizens of Siskville except for the disrespectful ones, since they clearly have tremendously good taste given how I've been held over, but their town looks a bit plastic to me. Frankly, Disneyland looks more genuine.

Quite oddly, Little Keith says that Siskville is reachable only by train. Rather insultingly, he says you can only get there by his HO Trains. Now I've been called a Ho many, many times over the years, and it's only seldom been a compliment. See F. Emmett Knight's comments re: "The Whore of Babylon" in my posting Marry Me a Little below. The fact is that charges of my being a "Ho" are greatly exaggerated. I have never charged for it in my life.

It's even odder to call a train a "Ho," since, let's face it, the train generally goes into the tunnel. The tunnel never goes into the train. So whatever Keith meant by calling his trains HOs, I can't imagine. On the other hand, you do pay to ride them, so maybe they're hustlers.

Still odder, he says the trains into Siskville are "Electric Trains." I was unaware that there were any electric trains in America. I thought you could only find electrically powered trains in backward Europe, where Diesel trains have yet to be invented, although there are no shortage of Diesel Dykes, particularly in lovely Holland, where no visit is complete if you don't spend some time with your finger in a dyke, or, if your hands are full, your tongue.

I was also a bit puzzled to see that the movie advertised as being held over in Siskville is My Lush Life. To the best of my admittedly hazy memories, I never appeared in a movie with that title, though I did write an autobiography, beloved the world over (More than 70 copies have sold in Britain alone - 1 more - which I believe makes it their all-time, number one best seller. Eat your heart out, Charles Dickens!), titled My Lush Life.

I wrote to little Keith and asked him about this, and he responded that the movie My Lush Life is, in fact, a documentary about my career, full of clips from my 90 feature films. I have never seen this picture myself, and would love to see it, if someone could send me a print or DVD.

But in any event, it is certainly nice to know that the people of Siskville, North Carolina, love me so much that they have held me over. Further, as I can see from the posters adorning Siskville's many civic buildings, they have placed me on a pedestal, fortunately a shallow one, as I am a tad unsteady on my feet at times, and to tumble off a higher pedestel could land me in a bed beside Liza Minnelli, needing a new hip. And no one wants to end up in a bed next to Liza.

So thank you, Little Keith, for this lovely glimpse at how my cult of fans are still alive and unwell. Let this be a challenge to the rest of you to find your own ways of demonstrating your unhealthy obsessions with me, and send me the photographic proof, to share with the world.

Oh, one other little matter, concerning My Official Portrait Artist, the talented and lovely (And I mean lovely, darlings. He is adorable. I'd be all over him like stupid on President Dubya if he weren't the merest whisper of a homosexual.) Glen Hanson, who created the gorgeous portrait of me that graces my profile on this flog, as well as the covers of my book. Little hair-challenged Glen has a new book out this week, titled Chelsea Boys, Steppin' Out!, written and drawn with his professional partner Allan Neuwirth. It's a collection of their lovely, hilarious comic strip, about three Merest Whispers sharing an apartment in New York City, having gay adventures, so clearly it's science fiction because let's face it; there are no actual gay people in New York. The world of Broadway Theater is utterly incompatible with Sodomites. In any event, no living room is complete without a copy of Chelsea Boys, Steppin' Out!, or better yet three. It's the perfect Christmas Gift for all the little homos on your shopping list, like, for instance, your personal shoppers. While you're at it, check out his website: Glen Hanson.com

Cheers, darlings.