Here’s who’s doing what:
Sharon Stone once wanted to buy a 56,000-square-meter island. The thing’s in the Adriatic. Off Croatia. And it was unloading for $1.8 mil — and that was give or take a kuna’s exchange rate.
Brad Pitt. Big with homes. Like his marriage, he fights over them. Once his had quantities of travertine marble, hand-carved in Rome. Even the toilet was marble. And he had water pour from a ceiling rainhead — no actual shower thing. The splash overflowed onto the floor. Not sure how that helped him. Also who cares.
Madonna once bought a 9.5 million pound place on the Wiltshire-Dorset border. She then examined a 16th-century 10-roomer thing in the Adriatic with stables and what everyone needs — a croquet lawn. In case you ask, King Edward schlepped there.
All look to get out of the USA. Johnny Depp went for a country pile near Bath, England, which he considered the perfect spot for his — excuse the phrase — temperament.
And don’t knock home lives of our pols like Biden, Kamala, our Mayor. Madeleine Albright once said: “We’re hardworking people who sometimes must live in subconditions. In Moldova, our ambassador there washed dishes in the bathtub.”
For his health
I’m not sitting up nights thinking about Eddie Murphy, but I’m told — ready? — he requested peach-scented potpourri in his hotel room. He has a germ phobia. Washes his hands 100 times a day. Also afraid of catching a bug while filming a love scene. For a love scene better he should’ve washed other parts.
It’s a ruff life
And all right already with police dog Commander chewing on White House guests. Barbara Bush’s freckled English spaniel Millie was called DC’s ugliest hound. And Clinton’s black-and-white cat, Socks, napped on the South Lawn. (Biden, too.)
Farewell, friend
We just lost NY1’s Ruschell Boone. I loved her. We loved her. NY1 loved her. And she loved everyone. Her life, her family, her work. Then came one mean condition that didn’t love her.
She sat in my home. Told me she came from Jamaica. Cashiered at a grocery. Then Lord & Taylor. Then reporter. Married. Had two boys. Home was Astoria. Next came an evil. An emergency. Hospital.
She lost 50 pounds. When released she came over to my home. She brought me Jamaican rum and flowers. We cried together. Her co-workers sent gifts. Some overnighted. Her fellow reporters kept in touch. Pat Kiernan called. Frank DiLella stayed close. Annika Pergament sent flowers. Errol Louis, phone calls. Jamie Stelter and Lewis Dodley wrote cards.
May the next life love her the way we did.
Always a day off
Stop stories on “how hard” BS Biden works. I had the next table — our napkins nearly touched — at then-Sen. Alphonse d’Amato’s 2004 wedding to now-divorced Katuria. Biden preened. Posed. Drank. Did photos. Smiled. More photos. Drank. Patted backs. Preened. More photos — providing the person was a VIP. He reveled in his own importance. Last time this guy worked was in rehearsing his son.
A new thing’s being perfected in Washington. Thieves are training to be topless muggers. This way you won’t remember their faces.
Not only in DC, kids, not only in DC.
This story originally appeared on NYPost
