No-mas ...

The announcement that CBS has canceled the Don Imus radio program ("effective immediately, on a permanent basis," the network says in its bulletin, as if it couldn't put enough emphasis on its decision) marks the near end of what has been one of the swiftest falls from grace for a media personality in recent memory. (And remember, this is a nation that loves to tear down its darlings, for reasons both justified and not.) I say "near end" because further developments can always happen here. There's the chance that some outlet may actually hire Imus up - perhaps satellite radio, where anything and everything goes. There's the chance that Imus will send himself to character rehab a la Gibson, Richards, Washington et al. And, of course, there's the likelihood that some variant of the Imus story will end up on one of the three Law & Orders between now and the end of May sweeps - ’cause, you know, that's how they roll. Of course, Dick Wolf would have to throw in a murder or two, as well as paint the story with enough enhanced detail so as to keep the "ripped from the headlines" credo while making the episode not exactly about Imus. And who would play the character of Imus (Not Imus)? Is Rip Torn out of prison yet?

Oh, and there is one other matter that needs to be dealt with - what the hell were all of the politicians and reporters and authors and other reputable figures from both sides of the political spectrum thinking whenever they agreed to be booked on the Imus in the Morning program, knowing that their marbled-mouthed host had the reputation of spewing all sorts of hatred onto the airwaves? I mean, everyone from Dan Rather and Tim Russert to John McCain and Barack Obama had done Imus' show? Didn't their participation signify a tacit affirmation of his persona? How many of them are looking in the mirror and shaking their heads at themselves in shame - that is, when they aren't backing away from the corpse of Imus' career and (rightfully, if belatedly) condemning him for the bigot that he is? And what of CBS and MSNBC, who only canned Imus when the advertisers took their money and went home? Are the big bosses there proud of themselves for doing the right thing, or kicking themselves for doing it at least a decade too late? "Nappy headed hos" was far from the worst thing Imus ever said about someone during his years in broadcasting. And say what you will about Howard Stern, who often challenges his former colleague (and current nemesis), but at least he has never tried to sell himself as a serious radio host who was a clear destination for the best and brightest.

It's fitting, perhaps, that Imus got his comeuppance just hours after one of the great minds of the 20th century, Kurt Vonnegut, passed away - and on the 60th birthday of one of the greatest comic talents of his generation, David Letterman. Both Letterman and Vonnegut possess more class and talent in their pinky nails than Imus has in his entire decrepit body and soul. They will live on in our hearts and minds, while Imus is swept away into the landfill of obscurity. That is, until he gets a new job - or at least until L&O turns him into a victim or a suspect or whatnot.

Tainted Angel ...

As earlier reported on the blog, Jackie Robinson is important. So important that next Sunday, on the 60th anniversary of his breaking the color line in major league baseball - and 10 years after the #42 he wore with the Brooklyn Dodgers was permanently retired throughout Major League Baseball - several prominent African American players, along with the entire L.A. Dodgers roster, will resurrect the number 42 for one day. Among the black players who will sport Robinson's 42 in lieu of their regular jersey numbers are Ken Griffey Jr. (whose idea this tribute was in the first place), Barry Bonds, Derrek Lee, Gary Sheffield and Torii Hunter, along with Mets manager Willie Rudolph. Not joining them will be Angels outfield Garret Anderson, who apparently doesn't want to be a follower in this case:



"It wasn't my idea, and I'm not the type of person to jump on the bandwagon because someone else is doing something," Anderson said (to the Los Angeles Times). "If I did it just because someone else was doing it, it would seem kind of empty to me."


Er, Earth to Anderson - since you don't like to be one to jump on the bandwagon, perhaps you should report to your manager and turn in your uniform^*. Because, guess what - you are on a bandwagon. You're on Jackie Robinson's bandwagon, bub. You owe your stardom and your millions to the blood and sweat that man left on the diamond. And when Barry Bonds has a better grasp on history than you do, maybe it's time for some personal re-evaluation.

Garret Anderson is a pig.

^*Oh, and give back the millions you've made playing baseball while you're at it - you know, so you can be your own man.

"That quite definitely is the answer. I think the problem, to be quite honest with you, is that you've never actually known what the question is."

Most of my friends know that I think Bud Selig is an idiot, not to mention the worst baseball commissioner in history. There are many reasons for my feelings toward Selig, reasons that can be enumerated at a later date. But one thing I will give Selig credit for is recognizing the achievements and the importance of Jackie Robinson. Robinson was not the best player in baseball history, but as the man who broke the color line in the major leagues on April 15, 1947, at a time when African Americans still were considered inferior by a large portion of white people in this country, the Brooklyn Dodger likely was the most important player in baseball history, if not sports history. More than once, in fact, I have called Robinson the originator of the American civil rights movement, starting his campaign when Martin Luther King was still in college.^*

Ten years ago, at a ceremony in New York's Shea Stadium marking the 50th anniversary of Robinson joining the Dodgers, Bug Selig declared April 15 to be known as Jackie Robinson Day throughout baseball, and permanently retired Robinson's #42 throughout the big leagues, an unprecedented act for any major sport. Since then, only players who were already wearing 42 at the time have been allowed to sport the number. (Today there's just one player, Yankees reliever Mariano Rivera, wearing #42.) But now, to mark the 60th anniversary, another idea - Reds outfielder Ken Griffey Jr., who wears #3, went to Selig to ask permission to change his number to 42 for one day, the 15th, a week from this coming Sunday. In a somewhat surprising move, not only did Selig approve Griffey's request, but he subsequently announced that any player who wanted to do the same would be allowed to do so.

As a result, there has been a flood of superstars who have revealed plans to pay tribute to Jackie Robinson's legacy by bearing the jersey number he wore with pride six decades ago. The players who will make the one-day shift include the Cubs' Derrek Lee, Minnesota's Torii Hunter, Detroit's Gary Sheffield, San Diego's Mike Cameron, Boston's Coco Crisp and Washington's Dmitri Young. So will New York Mets manager Willie Rudolph and even baseball's active home-run king and active grump, San Francisco's Barry Bonds. Oh, and the entire Dodger squad will sport #42, which could give the official scorekeeper at that game a major headache.

It pains me to give Selig props for approving all this, but really, what choice did he have. If he had turned down Griffey's request, word would have leaked out and he would have come across as the myopic muckymuck that he is eight times out of 10. And once he said yes to Griffey, that opened the floodgates, so he decided to go with it. I also won't be surprised to see "Griffey 42" and "Bonds 42" jerseys being sold at MLB.com for a pretty penny. But if this huge gesture gets more kids asking about why their favorite player is wearing that strange number - and parents telling the story of the man who changed his sport and his world - then I can live with the extra commerce.

^*Strong words? Perhaps. But if you don't believe me, then believe Dr. King, who told Robinson's teammate Don Newcombe that they - along with another African-American Dodger, Roy Campanella - made it "possible for me to do my job." King told Newcombe this one week before his assassination in 1968.

Oooooooh ... fuuuuuuuuuudge ...

Much of the local news shows in L.A. this morning were devoted to covering a grisly car accident that closed down the Pacific Coast Highway for several hours. At the time all viewers were told was that two men were killed in the accident and that they appeared to be father and son. Now it's been revealed that the deceased victims were film director Bob Clark and his adult son Ariel. In the early hours of what was a very foggy morning, Clark's sedan was hit head-on by a GMC Yukon that had swerved into their lane, PCH being a two-lane road for much of its stretch. The driver of the Yukon faces serious charges, including vehicular manslaughter, as he was driving under the influence at the time.


The name Bob Clark may not resonate with a lot of people, but not unlike many people in the business of show, his work speaks louder volumes than his ID. In fact, he has the distinction of being at the helm of two of the most iconic films of the 1980s - two films that couldn't be further apart in genre and tone. In 1982 Clark made Porky's, a sex comedy about 1950s Florida teens obsessed with losing their virginity. The movie was a surprise commercial hit (indeed, it is the highest-growing Canadian film in history, having been financed and produced by Canucks) and opened the door for a new wave of R-rated fare in the days before softcore dominated Fridays nights on Cinemax. And along with the nudity and juvenile behavior (including an infamous sex scene that featured a very young and very loud Kim Cattrall), though, was a large dose of nostalgia and even a bit of poignancy and drama, as the sex-obsessed high school students also learned lessons about friendship and racism when they weren't concerned with getting their knobs polished.


Those sweet moments in Porky's also set the stage for Clark's more enduring movie, the 1983 holiday comedy A Christmas Story, based on the stories of the humorist Jean Shepherd. It didn't do much at the box office, but today the charming tale of little Ralphie's fervent campaign to get Santa to send him that precious air rifle has become a holiday staple, to the point where cable channel TBS has aired a 24-hour marathon of a continuous loop of the movie for the past several Christmases.

Bob Clark was not a filmmaker on the same level as a Spielberg or Scorsese. But how many directors are lucky enough to make one movie whose reputation endures long after their careers or even lives are completed. Clark has two. That's a life well lived, at least in professional terms.

P.S.: For the sake of this post, I'll ignore the fact that Clark also directed both Baby Geniuses flicks. Hey, no one's perfect.

Daddy's Little Helper ...

Rolling Stone guitarist and gilded member of the living dead Keith Richards has revealed to the world that, sometime after his father's death in 2002, he did what all dutiful sons aspire to do with the remains of their paternal units - he snorted him up his nose:

"He was cremated and I couldn't resist grinding him up with a little bit of blow. My dad wouldn't have cared," [Richards] said. "... It went down pretty well, and I'm still alive."

Honestly, wouldn't you have been just the tiniest bit disappointed if Keith hadn't cut a stash of Colombian gold with a smidge of his dearly departed da? The only question left, really, is who will sniff up Mr. Richards with his pact with the devil expires and his desiccated corpse loses its re-animation spell - which we hope happens during a Stones gig. Not because we wish him any ill will, ’cause he's really a cool bloke. But just because the video of such an event will be killer, and may actually cause Mick Jagger to stand still for a minute.

UPDATE: Ah, fudge - it turns out the whole daddy-snorting thing was just a joke. Why did Richards have to blow a great story with the truth?

Isn't it ironic?

And with one simple song, Alanis Morissette instantly makes herself relevant yet again.

I present to you Ms. Morissette and her cover of The Black-Eyed Peas' "My Humps". Listen, watch and thank God that Alanis walks the Earth among us.

The guns weren't shooting green slime, either ...

This made the celebrity-slash-police blotter this morning:

LOS ANGELES - Suspected gang members opened fire on a Nickelodeon Kids Choice Awards after-party early Sunday, wounding three and scattering 200 mostly teenage attendees, police said.

Now there are shootings after the Kids Choice Awards? Oy vey. But really, where else could the East Coast-West Coast, Abigail Breslin-Dakota Fanning feud go but to the gunplay?

FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST - THANK GOD ALMIGHTY WE ARE FREE AT LAST!!!

My friends ... our long national nightmare is over. Because ...

THE CUBS ARE FOR SALE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


As of the end of 2007, the Chicago National League Ball Club will no longer be under the aegis of the treacherous and evil Tribune Company. Finally the team will be available to the highest bidder who is not Tribune Company. Already names as varied as Bill Murray and George Will have been brought up in terms of potential buyers, though it's unlikely that either of them have $600 million lying around. My preference is for Mark Cuban, the eccentric owner of the NBA's Dallas Mavericks. His name has been linked to any possible Cubs sale for a couple of years now, largely based on his own words, though he always denied actually approaching Tribune, and Tribune always denied any interest in spinning the team off. Well, all o that has changed now, because Tribune has been sold to real estate magnate Sam Zell, and as a result of that ....

THE CUBS ARE FOR SALE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
THE CUBS ARE FOR SALE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
THE CUBS ARE FOR SALE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Actually, it would be need if a consortium of prominent Chicagoans - Murray, Will, the Cusacks, etc - could pool their money together to make a run at the franchise. But at this point, all that matters is that the owner will not have "Tribune" in his or her name. Unless the new owner's name happens to be John Tribune or Tribune Jones or something, of course.

Now watch the Cubs win the World Series in the team's last year under the Yoke O'Tribune. Eh, I could live with that.

THE CUBS ARE FOR SALE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This year is next year! (Really!)

Tomorrow Major League Baseball kicks off yet another season, which means that it's the one day of the season when hope will spring equally for all 30 of MLB's member clubs. The fans of any of those teams can legitimately state, for at least a brief while, that their squad has a chance to go all the way to the World Series. Of course, most of those dreams will be dashed in short order as small-market teams succumb to the onslaught of the likes of the Yankees, the Red Sox, the Mets and the Dodgers. And at the same time, there may be the Cinderella story or two in the form of a team from which no one expected anything, but that remains in contention deep into the summer, maybe beyond.

And then there are the Cubs fans. No one need tell us what year this is - it's the 99th year since the Chicago National League Ball Club ended a season as the kings of baseball. No other team in professional sports can "sport" such a record. But this year ... I just have a feeling that this is it. So I will go out on a limb like a lunatic and predict that the Chicago Cubs will win the World Series this year.

And if not this year, then definitely next year.

And if not then, then surely it will be the year after that.

And if not ... oh, well, you get the idea.

Grrr.

Is Robert Guillaume available?

Y'all know who Uncle Ben is, right? At least you know his rice - wholesome grains of white or brown rice that go with everything from stir-fry to rice pudding. For decades one of the most popular brands of rice has been Uncle Ben's, and for just as long the symbol of the company was, well, Uncle Ben, an old black man in a snappy suit who was always beaming, even though he seemed to be nothing more than a servant in the employ of rich, white folk. Them were the days, right?

Well, not anymore. In an effort to return to the modern confines of the 21st century, Mars, the food company that owns the Uncle Ben's brand, has transformed its mascot from an old and wizened African-American man at the bottom of the economic ladder into an old and wizened African-American man who now runs the entire freakin' operation. That's right - Uncle Ben is movin' on up to his own deluxe apartment in the sky - or, at least, a deluxe office.

The reason for this update is obvious - in a world where the most powerful person in the country is black, when a black man is a legitimate candidate for president, when African-Americans are winning Oscars with nary a eye blinked, it really didn't make much sense for Mars to be using a stereotypical Negro as the face of one of its products. Thus, the makeover. But will it work? (Hey, it worked for Benson DuBois.) And what does this mean for Aunt Jemina? Two words: Dr. 90210.

Sobering ...

Word tonight that Charlotte Winters died yesterday. Who is Charlotte Winters, you might ask? I might have asked that before tonight as well. Shame on me for not knowing. Yeoman Winters was, at age 109, the last surviving female U.S. veteran of World War I.

What's even more startling is that, according to official records, there are only five surviving U.S. vets of what was once called "The War To End All Wars." Ironic title, no?

There is much talk, and deservedly so, about the "greatest generation" - those who fought and died in World War II. Sooner rather than later they will speak of the men and woman currently putting themselves in harm's way in the Middle East. But don't forget about the batch of young kids who left for Europe 90 years ago and put themselves on the line for their nation and their way of life. Because it won't be long before the only ones to keep their valor alive will be us.

The current cutest commercial ever made!

This is adorable - even if the elephant may have committed identity theft.

There are easier ways to get publicity for your new movie ...

The Ferrari Enzo is one of the rarest cars in the world. Named after the founder of the Ferrari motor company, Enzo Ferrari, the high-powered car utilizes the components usually seen in Formula One racing vehicles. And only 400 of the model were built between 2002 and 2004 - all of which makes the Enzos very, very fast and very, very expensive.

Film producer Daniel Sadek owned one of the precious Enzos - the operative word being owned. His ownership ended abruptly Monday afternoon when actor Eddie Griffin, who stars in Sadek's upcoming action comedy Redline, took his boss's Enzo for a spin at the Irwindale Speedway, just outside of L.A., in preparation for a charity race that also would promote the film. Unfortunately, Griffin took what could euphemistically be called a "wrong turn at Albuquerque" - and accidentially slammed the Enzo into a concrete barrier.

It was at that point where Sadek's Enzo was transformed from a $1.5 million work of motorized art into, well, a pile of smoldering crap. Expensive crap, but crap nonetheless. The car is a near-total loss, even though Griffin escaped unharmed.

Sadek took the accident in stride, saying that while he lamented the fate of his Enzo, "I went to my trailer for about 15 minutes and I thought, 'There's people dying every day.' A lot of worse things are happening in the world." That's a nice sentiment, but don't be surprised if Griffin's role in Redline is significantly reduced. Of if the film is dedicated to the memory of the Enzo, which appears in the flick. For $1.5 million, I'd sure as hell dedicated an entire movie to a car.

The evil that man (and woman) can do ...

They say you can gauge how you lived your life by how many people attend your funeral, the rationale being that those that you touched during your existence are more likely to show up to mark the fact that you were once you are not. Well, Christopher Barrios Jr. must have touched a lot of people considering the hundreds who attended his service in Brunswick, Georgia on Thursday. The real sadness, though, comes in the reason why so many were there - most of whom had never met Christopher in life - a life that lasted only six-plus years. Indeed, many of the attendees were complete strangers to the entire Barrios family. A lot of them had spent days searching for Christopher after he disappeared from a local playground on March 8. They were shattered when his body was found a week later. It had been stuffed into a trash bag just three miles from his house.

Christopher had been murdered in the more horrific way possible - as if killing a 6-year-old child isn't horrific enough. The authorities say that a 32-year-old "man" named George Edenfield, already a convicted child molester, allegedly abducted Christopher, took him home and repeatedly raped the boy anally and orally - with the help of his 58-yer-old father David. The authorities go on to allege that Edenfield's 57-year-old mother Peggy watched all of this go on - and pleasured herself in the process. After all of this gratification, Christopher was strangled to death and dumped like he was so much garbage.

Apparently George Edenfield, who was on probation for molesting two other boys in 1997 (I wonder how that judge is sleeping these days), admitted to killing Christopher, claiming that "the devil" told him to do what he did. Let's see how that holds up in court. Then again, it's been revealed that Edenfield was in a courtroom just days before Christopher was abducted, accused of violating his probation by living too close to a playground. A deal was made to extend Edenfeld's probation by another 10 years, though there seems to have been no provision that he move away from the area where so many kids lived and played. Oh, and did I mention that Edenfield wasn't the only sex offender living in his house? Turns out that Daddy pled guilty to incest with another relative in 1994.

I usually keep my political beliefs out of this blog for a number of reasons. But most of my friends know that I am against the death penalty for reasons both moral and practical. I though long and hard about whether the case of the Edenfields merited an exception. But in my mind, if they are indeed convicted of these crimes against young Chris Barrios, the death penalty would be too good for them, too easy. I would sentence each of them to life in prison without parole. Then I would find the worst prison in the state of Georgia - or worst male and world female prisons, that is - and throw their asses into the general population. I would also make sure to announce very loudly to their new neighbors who they were and what they were there for, fully cognizant in the knowledge that even the most hardened convict have their own code, and that said code strictly prohibits violent crimes against innocent children. And then, as an added touch, I would accidently put each Edenfield in a cell with a flimsy lock - you know, so their cellmates could provide their own form of welcome wagon for the newbies. These pieces of filth deserve nothing less.

Knut!

This is Knut. He is a polar bear - most likely the most famous polar bear in the world, even though he is less than 4 months old. (How many 4-month-olds do you know that have their own Wikipedia page - that is, that aren't related somehow to Angelina Jolie?) Knut (Knut!) currently resides at the Berlin Zoo, where he is being raised by humans, a situation necessitated by the fact that his polar bear mother, Tosca, rejected him and his brother soon after they were born in December. Knut's brother passed away, but the tiny powder puff was scooped up by handlers at the zoo before he became too frail. Now he seems to be thriving, though not everyone agreed that was the best for Knut. (Knut!) A German animal rights group, in a sentiment that an earlier group of Germans could probably appreciate, has stated publicly that little Knut would be better off dead than being raised by humans, that he would suffer the "humiliation" of being treated like a mere pet.

Hmm, humiliation - that's a loaded word. Let's see, if I could be hand-fed and allowed to play and look cute 24 hours a day and to be adored by strangers just for my looks and my status - yeah, I could live with being humiliated. It seems to be working for Paris Hilton, so there's no reason why it won't work for little Knut. (Knut!) Even when he's big Knut. Polar bears, after all, can grow to be up to 1300 pounds and 10 feet tall. By then, if anyone of his polar bear cousins give Knut any trouble, he can just whack the crap out of them. Or run them over with the Mercedes he'll get with his share of the profits from the inevitable Knut dolls.

In the meantime, marvel at the majesty that is Knut. And see if you can stop saying his name now.

Knut!

Happy St. Patty's Day, y'all!

Now go get your shinebox!

Happy Pi day!

Pi - get it?

3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971
69399375105820974944592307816406286208998
62803482534211706798214808651328230664709
38446095505822317253594081284811174502841
02701938521105559644622948954930381964428
81097566593344612847564823378678316527120
19091456485669234603486104543266482133936
07260249141273724587006606315588174881520
92096282925409171536436789259036001133053
05488204665213841469519415116094330572703
65759591953092186117381932611793105118548
07446237996274956735188575272489122793818
30119491298336733624406566430860213949463
95224737190702179860943702770539217176293
17675238467481846766940513200056812714526
35608277857713427577896091736371787214684
40901224953430146549585371050792279689258
92354201995611212902196086403441815981362
97747713099605187072113499999983729780499
51059731732816096318595024459455346908302
64252230825334468503526193118817101000313
78387528865875332083814206171776691473035
98253490428755468731159562863882353787593
75195778185778053217122680661300192787661
11959092164201989380952572010654858632788
65936153381827968230301952035301852968995
77362259941389124972177528347913151557485
72424541506959508295331168617278558890750
98381754637464939319255060400927701671139
009848824012 ...

Or something like that ...

If you really want more, go here!

Scientology's got nothing on this!

It wasn't enough for Academy Award winner Ben Affleck to raise the population of Red Sox Nation by having a daughter with wife and kick-ass artist Jennifer Garner. No, now he's got to get greedy. One of Affleck's next projects will be narrating a new DVD called (I kid you not) Red Sox Baby: Raising Tomorrow's Boston Red Sox Fan Today. Ostensibly the video will be geared to the very young ones to teach them lessons of teamwork, spelling and color recognition. (Get it? "Red Sox, not White, boys and girls!") But at least the title of the project is honest - this is no less than the most sinister indoctrination video since that creepy Dharma Initiative film on Lost. "Welcome, kids, to a life of misery and suffering and inherent disappointment. Here's your hat and your T-shirt."

Oh, I'm sorry - that would be whatever the Cubs are doing to bamboozle win over impressionable souls. Psst - someone get John Cusack on the phone!

(P.S.: Of course I know the Red Sox have won the World Series very, very recently - but when the hell do you think that's going to happen again? Oh, and if you asked Affleck what was bigger to him - winning the Oscar or watching Boston finally win it all - I wonder what his answer would be.)

He's bringing sexy back!

It seems that Ralph Fiennes may have met his match. The AP reports today about the prowess of Akili the gorilla, who resides at the Artis Zoo in Amsterdam. Akili was brought in from a German safari park to give some pick-me-up the social life among the other primates. (Translation: the ladies weren't having babies because they weren't getting any from the other guys.) In comes Akili (no pun intended), and within six months all three of the female gorillas are either with child or have had child.

There's no joke here - just a whole bunch of jealousy.

NOTE: Click here for the page on the Artis Zoo's Web site about Akili and his, er, success rate. Yeah, it's in Dutch, but I can give you the basic translation: Dude's got game.

WTF has gotten into Ralph Fiennes all of a sudden?

I mean, really, what's going on here? Suddenly the mild-mannered British actor is challenging George Clooney and Colin Farrell for the title of Hollywood's Busiest Stud. First there was the incident in February in which Fiennes apparently joined the "mile high club" with the help of a willing-and-able flight attendant during a Qantas flight from Darwin to Mumbai - where, in a crazy-meets-crazy situation, he was to give a lecture on safe sex practices (Fiennes allegedly performed sans protection on the plane - and then later covered himself for a second tryst that night in her hotel room.) Now comes word from the city of Bruges, Belgium, where Fiennes is shooting a film, that he was spending a very late night frolicking nude at the pool of a swanky hotel with four equally nude young ladies. The partying was such that hotel guests were awakened at 5 a.m. by all of the noise. Of course, there's a chance that no sex was going on at all this time around. Maybe it was good clean fun. Or maybe a World Series trophy will fly out of my butt.

Dude, this is not how Oscar-nominated actors behave. (Wait a minute ... Peter O'Toole ... Richard Burton ... Richard Harris ... never mind.) This has all the earmarks of a mid-life crisis for the 44-year-old Fiennes, though he's already had a colorful love life. He was once married to the luscious English actress Alex Kingston before dumping her for another hot British Babe, Francesca Annis, who is 18 years older than Fiennes. They were together for more than a decade. And there had been recent rumors that Fiennes was dating Ellen Barkin, So obviously he's no slouch when it comes to the carnal arts. Still, he should tone it down a notch, lest he be tagged with the male whore label. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

NOTE: Oh, the film that Fiennes is making in Belgium between sexual conquests? One of his co-stars is the aforementioned Colin Farrell. One wonders what he must be thinking right now.