TOM'S BACK ON CRUISE CONTROL

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL

Less than three months after getting his walking papers from Paramount Pictures, Tom Cruise is making all the right moves to become a Hollywood top gun again.

Paramount ended its 14-year relationship with Cruise in August, citing the actor’s "unacceptable conduct" (See: "Wingnut, Acting Like A"). Now Cruise is having the last laugh as a new part-owner of United Artists.

Cruise and his producing partner, Paula Wagner, have teamed with MGM to resurrect UA, the Hollywood studio founded four score and five years ago by Charlie Chaplin and a bunch of other dead famous people.

With Wagner as his chief executive officer, Cruise will produce about four movies annually – a number expected to increase in years to come – as well as star in some of the movies. According to MGM chief Harry E. Sloan, MGM will fund, market and distribute the films, but Cruise and Wagner will have almost-total control of greenlighting and developing new productions.

This is a win-win situation for Tommy Boy, a very shrewd career move that will allow him to orchestrate a comeback on his own terms. Say what we will about Cruise being nuttier than a pecan pie, the man is intelligent and a skilled self-promoter. He has put himself in the perfect position to reestablish his credibility in Hollywood while giving his colleagues the security of knowing UA is being run by someone who knows the business from an artist’s perspective.

It’s also his golden opportunity to woo back fans who wrote him off as an arrogant, opinionated crackpot. Moving from Oprah’s couch to a producer’s chair may help "de-kook" his image, as well as lessen the likelihood that we’ll be subjected to such projects as a Placenta: The Other Other White Meat cookbook.

Jests and jibes aside, Cruise is as passionate about his craft as he is his much-publicized religious beliefs. And underneath all the Tom-foolery, he’s oddly charismatic in a way even his detractors can’t ignore as they insist, "I’m so sick of reading about him" – while scouring the gossip rags for TomKat headlines.

With his persistence and never-say-die attitude, Cruise stands a good chance of succeeding in his new venture. An entertainer who can’t salvage his career with the support of a powerhouse like MGM would have to be a hopelessly lost cause. Or Mel Gibson.

So hats off and good luck to you, Tom Cruise. I sincerely wish you the best because: a) Eccentricities notwithstanding, you are a compelling actor; b) You have a respected track record (true fans eventually will forgive you for Mission: Impossible III, I promise); and most importantly, c) I can hardly wait for the release of When Harry Met Xenu.

SCARING UP THE PERFECT COSTUME

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL
GHOUL SCOUT

With pre-Halloween parties going full-tilt this weekend and the holiday itself just four days away, there’s still a ghost of a chance for Johnny-come-lately types to find the perfect costume. Sure, a witch’s outfit is easy to throw together and what it lacks in originality is made up for in … well, nothing. So give Grandma’s lacy, black shawl back, unless you’re going as Stevie Nicks.

The key to throwing together a last-minute ensemble is to keep it simple yet clever. The idea is not to be instantly recognizable, but to make people interested enough to ask, "Who or what are you?"

Some years ago, I bought red horns and a matching tail, a plastic pitchfork and a navy-colored thrift store frock. It cost me less than 10 bucks, but the inexpensive price tag was worth the fun of telling people I was The Devil with the Blue Dress On. (Ba-dump-bump!) Groan if you will, but it got their attention and won me many compliments on my ingenuity.

I was celebrating Halloween in L.A. that year, so it was no small feat to stand out from the other couple hundred partygoers – especially that Courtney Love lookalike. I still shudder at the memory of that belligerent, sunken-eyed … wait – that wasn’t a lookalike.

My point: You don’t have to spend a fortune to be interesting and unique this Hallows Eve. Hollywood offers a broad spectrum of themes to be imitated and improved upon, so that’s a good jumping-off place. Here are a few ideas off the top of my little pumpkin head.

A big Cher fan? Pick an era, any era – there’s a wide array of looks since her career has spanned from the 60’s to the present – then recruit a friend to wear identical garb (butt tattoo optional if you opt for latter-day Cher). Two is always better than one, especially when you Cher and Cher alike. (Thank you, ladies and germs, you’re a lovely audience!)

Kirsten Dunst as Marie Antoinette is a lovely choice, but you can add a twist simply by adding a platter of Ho-Ho’s. Why the desserts? So you can let them eat cake, of course!

Remember the classic black bodysuit with a skeleton on the front? The bad boys wore them in The Karate Kid when they welcomed Ralph Macchio to the neighborhood with a beatdown. Add a pair of gi-normous sunglasses, top it off with a blonde wig – and voila! Instant Nicole Richie!

Wrap yourself in an oversize leather jacket, wear an impeccably styled, side-parted dark wig and a wise-beyond-your-years Mona Lisa smile – poof! You’re Suri Cruise. Unfortunately, you’ll have to remain out of sight most of the evening or the effect will be ruined.

Throw on a Medusa wig – any Halloween shop worth its salt will carry them – then strap on a pair of cardboard wings with "TWA" written on them and look, Ma, Snakes on a Plane!

Don’t despair if you haven’t the time or resources to bring these ideas to fruition. If all else fails, you can make a giant leech costume out of a Hefty trash bag and go as Kevin Federline.

CELEBRITIES AND THEIR LOVE HANDLES

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL
It all started with Bennifer.
By merging the names of then-couple Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez a few years back, the media created a monster of Frankenstein proportions. Two became one … kinda like Jeff Goldblum in The Fly, but scarier.
Bennifer begat Brennifer, whose life was cut short when its components defected to new mates. Brad Pitt was swallowed into the gaping maw of Angelina Jolie to become Brangelina, while Jennifer Aniston merged with Vince Vaughn, forming Vaughniston.
Eventually, Bennifer also split. Lopez became J-Lo, then married singer Marc Anthony. But Bennifer did not die an easy death. Affleck paired with another Jennifer – she of the Garner variety – and the media dubbed them Bennifer II. But this new amalgam was seemingly normal, at least by Hollywood standards, and therefore deserving of its own identity. Thus was born BenJen. Or Garfleck, depending on which tabloid you read.
And of course, there’s the unforgettable TomKat, created by the coupling of the volatile (translation: crazier than a sack of rabid weasels) Tom Cruise and the younger, utterly smitten (translation: quite possibly a robot) Katie Holmes.
From there, the combined-name trend has mined the depths of silliness and come up with fool’s gold: Romber (former Survivors Rob Mariano and Amber Brkich) and RenKen (Renee Zellweger and Kenny Chesney), as well as numerous soap opera couples renamed by daytime TV viewers.
What’s with the fusion confusion? Are today’s celebrities more noted for their couplehood than for their individual merits? Or maybe Hollyweird relationships come and go so quickly that we can’t be bothered to remember them as individuals.
I mean, you’ve never heard Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman referred to as Woodman, have you? Or Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton as Elizaburt.
Humphrey Bogart plus Lauren Bacall never equaled Humphren. Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn … Traceburn? I think not.
What started as a semi-cute, amusing idea has deteriorated into gimmicky self-parody. Next thing you know, Mattel ™ will jump on the bandwagon with a new Karbie doll. Hey, it’s not like this thing could get any sillier. Could it?
Of course it could. If the trend continues, there’s no limit on the unholy unions that might result. Rapper Nas could hook up with Carmen Electra and become NasCar. Perhaps Emma Thompson will go slumming with Eminem and become Eminemma. Robert DeNiro and Tyra Banks? Rob DeBanks. What if Oprah dumped Stedman for Hank Williams Jr.? H2-O, of course.
Here’s a little more merger math for ya:
* The Rock + Star Jones = Rockstar
* Comedian Rita Rudner + David Duchovny = R2D2
* Naomi Watts + Paul Newman = WattsNew
* Rob Lowe + Winona Ryder + Lowryder
* Lance Armstrong + Ivanka Trump = Armstump
* Condoleeza Rice + actor Aaron Eckhart = RiceAaronE
* Madonna + Marilyn Manson = MadMan
* Heath Ledger + Barbra Streisand = HeathBar
* Mira Sorvino + Macaulay Culkin = Miracul
* Paris Hilton + Andrew "Dice" Clay = PariDice
* Courtney Love + rapper Warren G = Love ‘n’ War
* Orlando Bloom + Penelope Cruz = LanCruzer or Dope
I hope it doesn’t come to this, as most of these pairings are downright ooky. Besides, in the event that Andre Agassi goes temporarily insane and asks for my hand in marriage, I certainly don’t want to be known as PasGas.

CATCH A FALLING CHILD STAR

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL
Danny Bonaduce. Todd Bridges. The Coreys – Feldman and Haim. Drew Barrymore. River Phoenix and Dana Plato, may they rest in peace.
Former child stars falling into the clutches of drink and/or drugs – it’s nothing new. It’s a sad story made sadder by the fact that it’s all-too-familiar and unfortunately, expected. But nothing could have prepared me for the addition of li’l Rudy Huxtable to the list.
According to the celebrity gossip web site, Bossip.com, ex-Cosby Show star Keshia Knight Pulliam allegedly has an affinity for snow – and I don’t mean she’s a skiing enthusiast. I’m talkin’ about cocaine. Nose candy. Blow. Toot. Dust. Powder. California cornflakes. Booger sugar. You get the point.
At age 6, she was the youngest actress ever nominated for an Emmy and possibly one of the Top 10 cutest kids in TV history. (And I’m not just saying that ‘cos she looked a lot like me at that age.) She’s a college grad with a degree in sociology – a sorority girl, even. She won celebrity editions of The Weakest Link and Fear Factor. Now, "friends" speaking anonymously to Bossip have reduced her to a sensationalistic headline.
Perhaps they had good intentions, but we all know how the road to hell is paved. Perhaps they went public thinking the attention and criticism would motivate KKP to get help. That makes about as much sense as going on Jerry Springer to break up with your girlfriend because you’ve been cheating with her: a) Mother; b) Sister; c) Brother; d) All of the above, plus you suspect you’re not her baby’s daddy.
(Note to KKP’s "friends": Interventions are supposed to be private, not internationally broadcast.)
Sigh. What would Cliff and Claire do? In an ideal world, the solution would be a stern admonition from Mom – "Rudy Lillian Huxtable, go to your room and don’t come out till you can act like you got some sense!" – while Dad hovers in the background wearing colorful sweaters and funny facial expressions. Problem solved, all wrapped up in a neat half-hour package (including commercials). Unless it’s A Very Special Episode. Then they get a whole hour.
But this is the real world, where young people, famous or otherwise, sometimes make bad decisions and engage in risky behavior as part of the growing-up process. All we can do is hope they learn from their mistakes before it’s too late. I’m talking to you, Lindsay Lohan. You were great in Mean Girls. You have talent, charisma and seriously great hair. Get it together, Missy, and start working that LiLo magic again. But please, no more albums.
I jest, but the problem is serious and very real. Any child star, no matter how wholesome, can fall into the trap. Just last month, Haley Joel Osment – the apple-cheeked waif from The Sixth Sense – celebrated his entry into adulthood with misdemeanor charges of DUI and marijuana possession. The 18-year-old actor tested at almost twice the legal 0.8 blood alcohol level after crashing his 1995 Saturn into a brick pillar in L.A.
Oh, Haley J. Pull it together, little man. You’ve got genuine acting chops; you don’t need Hollywood Bad Boy antics to get noticed. Jodie Foster and Ron Howard turned out just fine. Seeing dead people? Cool. Becoming one because you drink and drive? Not so much. Besides, when you’re the most bankable kid actor of the early 2000s and you drive a’95 Saturn, it’s pretty much a foregone conclusion coolness is not your forte.
Come back to us, HaJo. Get yourself back on track. Then pay it forward by making sure Dakota Fanning doesn’t end up with a standing reservation at the Betty Ford Clinic.

MISHEARD IT THROUGH THE GRAPEVINE

By BELINDA M. PASCHAL
GYPSY, TRAMP AND THIEF
Have you heard about Shaft? He's a carpet-cleaning man, and no one understands him but his woman.
I was talkin’ ‘bout Shaft, but my then-5-year-old self wasn’t aware that John Shaft’s woman knew not only her man but the correct song lyrics and would describe him as "a complicated man," rather than an employee of Stanley Steemer.
Faulty hearing can turn out highly amusing interpretations. So prevalent are such gaffes that the Internet has countless sites devoted to the subject, most notably www.amiright.com and www.kissthisguy.com. The latter borrows its name from the widely misheard line, "’Scuse me while I kiss the sky," in Jimi Hendrix’s Purple Haze.
These mishearings are known as "mondegreens," a term writer Sylvia Wright coined from her own childhood misunderstanding of the Scottish ballad The Bonny Earl of Murray. What she heard was, "They hae slay the Earl of Murray and Lady Mondegreen," when what they’d actually done to the earl was "lay him on the green."
In the early ‘70s, when Cher still had all her original parts (including Sonny), she went to No. 1 with Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves, a mondegreen smorgasbord for the aurally challenged:
What it says: Gypsies, tramps, and thieves … [b]ut every night, all the men would come around and lay their money down.
What they heard: Gypsies, chimpanzees ... [b]ut every night, all the men would come around and lay their monkey down.
What it says: I was born in the wagon of a traveling show.
What they heard: I was bored in the wagon of a trampoline show.
The Temptations’ Papa was a Rolling Stone was mondegreened as the result of a homophone – words that sound alike but are spelled differently.
What it says: When he died, all he left us was alone.
What they heard: When he died, all he left us was a loan. (Perhaps Papa’s unpaid debts led to his untimely demise.)
Merilee Rush had a hit with Angel in the Morning in the ‘60s; the song has since been re-popularized by country-pop singer Juice Newton in 1981 and reggae star Shaggy five years ago. Each version was popular, but that didn’t prevent the perpetual mondegreening of "Touch my cheek before you leave me" to "Brush my teeth before you leave me." (Despite its inaccuracy, the latter is good advice for avoiding the dreaded morning breath.)
A friend of mine once thought the chorus of Soul Man (originally by Sam & Dave, revived by The Blues Brothers) proclaimed, "I was soooo mad!" (Perhaps The Soul Man was experiencing residual anger from being "brought up on a side street.") Another pal’s bad hearing turned Van Halen’s Panama into Padded Bra. Yet another buddy misheard Bruce Springsteen’s Tenth Avenue Freezeout as "Tell the devil I’m in the freezer aisle." (Just in case ol’ Lucifer was looking for some brimstone-flavored ice cream.)
Even when the word-butchering is intentional, the results can be entertaining. For instance, the Four Tops had a hit that proclaimed, "Ain’t no woman like the one I got!" Thanks to my nephews’ twisted minds, this declaration of love became, "Ain’t no woman like the one I shot!"
I’d offer more funny examples, but I’m tired from writing into the wee hours. So, like Round John Virgin, mother and child, it’s time for me to sleep in heavenly peas.

GOT URKEL?

By BELINDA M. PASCHAL
RECOVERING URKEL-HOLIC
It’s a pretty good indication that a celebrity’s career has hit the skids when: a) Their name is follows the words VH1: Behind the Music; b) They’re on a 3 a.m. infomercial pimping stepladders for dogs and products with names like Stink-B-Gon; c) They’re constantly mistaken for Gary Coleman, even though they’re female. And Caucasian.
Well, Jaleel White – better known as "Steve Urkel" – isn’t a faded rock star, hasn’t hit the infomercial circuit, and is too tall to be mistaken for Gary Coleman. So where is he? When a star falls out of the public eye, speculations start flying, the usual options being "rehab," "mall security guard" or "dead."
In White’s case, the final option is reputed to be his final destination. The most popular nerd of the last decade allegedly has gone on to that great big Geek Convention in the sky, according to a story currently traveling the email circuit: "Following the cancellation of Family Matters in 1997, friends claim White became obsessed with the character and grew despondent … neighbor and friend Bradley Spencer alerted police after hearing what he described as ‘a loud bang’ coming from White's Los Angeles apartment," the story reports.
"Authorities state that upon entering the home they discovered a young African-American male with an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Also found was a note, which read simply, ‘Did I do that?’ – a popular catchphrase from the show."
Now hold on, Urkelmaniacs, don’t get your high-water britches in a knot! The story is a hoax – a poorly executed one, at that. For one thing, Family Matters ended in 1998, not 1997. Had the "writer" done a little homework (It’s called fact-checking, nimrod. Look into it.), he/she would know that White recently finished two upcoming films – no easy feat if you’re dead. Unless you’re starring in a remake of Weekend at Bernie’s.
If he’s now a member of the corpse corps, how to explain the blog White maintains for NBA.com? I’ve heard of ghostwriters, but never in the literal sense!
We haven’t seen much of His Urkelness in the last eight years – during which he graduated from UCLA’s film school – but he’s been working quite steadily, including producing/starring in a short-lived UPN sitcom and providing the voice of Sonic the Hedgehog.
Gossip grapevines also report spotting White a couple weeks ago partying with the bunnies at the Playboy Mansion. Eat your heart out, Arnold Horshack!
Fabrications about the demise of young celebrities are nothing new. There was the now-legendary "Paul (McCartney) is Dead" hullabaloo of the late ’60s, and just last year, Napoleon Dynamite star Jon Heder shook hands with the Grim Reaper either during a car accident or a cocaine overdose, depending on the source. When asked if he was aware of the hoax, Heder told a reporter, "Yeah, and apparently it's not true." His film alter ego would have said it better: "Ugh! Freakin’ idiot!"

Doo-Wah Diddy Diddy DUMB

By BELINDA M. PASCHAL
AKA "B. DIDDY"
Why Diddy do it … again?
His mother gave him a perfectly nice name, but apparently, Sean John Combs just doesn’t carry enough street cred. I could see if he’d been born, say, Marshall Mathers – Eminem was wise to veer away from a name that screams, "I’m the kid who smells like cat food and sits in the back of the class eating paste."
But I reckon "Sean" is not a handle befitting the über-cool of a hip-hop and fashion impresario. A man like Mr. Combs needs to "maintain his sexy," as he proclaims in his infomercial for ProActiv acne solution. And so, Sean Combs was compelled to fell back on his high school nickname, Puffy. Which is a fine name if you’re: a) A big, bad wolf threatening three little pigs with your amazing lung power; b) Sporting one helluva circa-1973 Jackson Five afro; or c) A woman in the throes of PMS.
Puffy gave way to Puff Daddy – heaven forbid we confuse him with the other members of the Puff family – Puff Mama, Puff Granny and Puff Cousin-Once-Removed. Just when we’d gotten used to that moniker, he pulled the fast-change again in 2003, dubbing himself P. Diddy.
Then, deciding he "needed to simplify things," he 86’ed the P. and became plain ol’ Diddy – "One word. Five letters. Period." Like Oprah, Sting or Usher. Except I don’t have to wonder what Oprah, Sting and Usher will be answering to next week.
"Nobody knew what to call me," Diddy said last August. "People were uncomfortable when I'd meet them for the first time … they'd ask me what they should call me."
Call me crazy, but could that be because … oh, I don’t know … you keep changing your name?!
Now, after less than a year of Diddy-hood, he’s gone and done it again. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my dubious pleasure to introduce you to … The Puff. Yeah, I know. This is … The Ridiculous.
The Puff – or as I like to call him, "The Artist Formerly Known As Puffy Formerly Known as Puff Daddy Formerly Known as P. Diddy Formerly Known as Diddy," is reincarnating as such an exponential rate that soon, he’ll have more personalities than Sybil.
Next thing ya know, he’ll re-christen himself as P. Diddle Diddle and introduce us to his latest protégé, The Cat and the Fiddle. Being of an entrepreneurial bent, he could market a nutritious chocolate drink and rename himself Cocoa Puff. Those who prefer their beverages in just-add-water form could enjoy a similar libation sold by Powder Puff! Personally, I’m looking forward to the day he does a stint on Sesame Street as Puff, the Magic Rapper.
It’s anybody’s guess as to what The Puff will be calling himself by the time this goes to print, but I have a suggestion. One word, two letters. Just drop "The," as well as the two f’s and you have the perfect name: P.U. ‘Cos frankly, Mr. Puffy Puff Diddy Daddy, all this name-changing business STINKS.