No wonder that poor man has bodyguards:
Sister Pru, regular poster to the Beautiful Minds message board, is responsible for uplifting the moral fiber of the frequenters of that fan site. She has a difficult task indeed. Some days prove to be more difficult than others.

SISTER PRU
Sister Pru has finally had it with you girls. You are all incorrigible and beyond any redemption. Now Sister knows that an actor as busy as Mr. Crowe does not lurk on this board - but if he did - what do you think he'd see? What do you think he'd see girls? What do you think he'd see with that third eye?

Filth and depravity that would make the devil blush.

Sister Pru dos not think this board should not be called Russell Crowe's Beautiful Minds. A beautiful mind girls is a pure mind. Free of any lustful, impure thoughts. No, this is not a board for beautiful minds. It should be called: Rusell Crowe's perverted, dirty minds. Because that's what it is. Perverted and sinful.

Now Sister Pru has been warning you since the summer...and you have not paid her any heed. It began when she had to confiscate the handcuffs from Roon's luggage before she went to Austin. Then she had to impose a dress code on the girls going to the POL premiere. And let me tell you... she confiscated a few little unmentionable things from that luggage as well. Actually, Sister Pru didn't know what some of them were... but she knows they did not come from a church.

Now... what do you think this poor beleaguered man would see these days ? Girls in a frenzy trying to get porn names should they ever want to become pornographic stars. Pictures of this poor man in his underwear.... over and over and over again. Just because he played that Hando person - do you not think he's entitled to just a little dignity? Fictional stories that would make Satan himself blush. Sister Pru is now asking Mad to turn over ALL her writings - ALL of them Mad so that Sister Pru can decide for herself how depraved they truly are before she metes out her punishment. This man's body is a temple girls. Do you not understand that? And I don't want to hear any cracks about... "oh Sister Pru... can I worship at that temple." Stop it this minute. I can hear you snickering in the back of the class. No you cannot, girls.

And what else would the poor man see. Disloyalty. Perverted talk about the competitors he has to deal with in his real life. Owen marrying Jesus. In the name of God, girl! Holly (well Sister Pru has totally given up on her) skipping after every single actor who's ever been born on this universe; Tricia, about to stalk The Spacey on his next movie in Canada; Chili with her separate pagan board; other disloyal fans talking about that good Catholic boy, Mr. Toro. Are you going to turn him into an object too, girls?

Do you wonder why Mr. Crowe has bodyguards who are ready to yell: Step back!

Sister Pru may have to set up her own website...Spiritual Thoughts from Sister Pru…where it is forbidden to talk about body parts or to post pictures that are an occasion of sin or to make up stories that drag you to the depths of depravity.

It's too late to ask any of you to repent. You are lost.

Novice Roon (rebuked and shame-filled): ...can we at least keep that nice gardener, Dick, on...?

Novice Roon (meditating on Dick): He works so *hard*... please, please, Sister Pru?? He says he needs the money to get that bump between his brows rectified...

Pru: You see? you see? This is exactly what I've been talking about! And I'm on to you about the detention stuff too, little Miss Roon.

Novice Roon: That was Father Cort's idea!

archived from the Russell Crowe Beautiful Minds message board

9:45am - I am covered with shame...

Better get a move on, just need to check my emails for a quick minute before I start on my manuscript…

Oh, my... 7 jokes! Here's one from a chat room sistah:

ANSWERS TO THE QUESTION:
"WHY DID THE CHICKEN CROSS THE ROAD?

JERRY FALWELL
Because the chicken was gay! Isn't it obvious? Can't you people see the plain truth in front of your face? The chicken was going to the "other side." That's what "they" call it the "other side." Yes, my friends, that chicken is gay. And, if you eat that chicken, you will become gay too. I say we boycott all chickens until we sort out this abomination that the liberal media whitewashes with seemingly harmless phrases like "the other side." That chicken should not be free to cross the road. It's as plain and simple as that.

PAT BUCHANAN
To steal a job from a decent, hardworking American.

DR. SEUSS
Did the chicken cross the road?
Did he cross it with a toad?
Yes! The chicken crossed the road,
But why it crossed, I've not been told

ERNEST HEMINGWAY
To die. In the rain.

MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR.
I envision a world where all chickens will be free to cross roads without having their motives called into question.

GRANDPA
In my day, we didn't ask why the chicken crossed the road. Someone told us that the chicken crossed the road, and that was good enough for us.

ARISTOTLE
It is the nature of chickens to cross the road.

KARL MARX
It was an historical inevitability.

SADDAM HUSSAIN
This was an unprovoked act of rebellion and we were quite justified in dropping 50 tons of nerve gas on it.

RONALD REAGAN
What chicken?

KEN STARR
I intend to prove that the chicken crossed the road at the behest of the president of the United States of America in an effort to distract law enforcement officials and the American public from the criminal wrongdoing our highest elected official have been trying to cover up. As a result, the chicken is just another pawn in the president's ongoing and elaborate scheme to obstruct justice and undermine the rule of law. For that reason, my staff intends to offer the chicken unconditional immunity provided he co-operates fully with our investigation. Furthermore, the chicken will not be permitted to reach the other side of the road until our investigation and any Congressional follow-up investigations have been completed. (We also are investigating whether Sid Blumenthal has leaked information to the Rev. Jerry Falwell, alleging the chicken to be homosexual in an effort to discredit any useful testimony the bird may have to offer, or at least to ruffle his feathers.)

CAPTAIN JAMES T. KIRK
To boldly go where no chicken has gone before.

FOX MULDER
You saw it cross the road with your own eyes. How many more chickens have to cross before you believe it?

SIGMUND FREUD
The fact that you are at all concerned that the chicken crossed the road reveals your underlying sexual insecurity.

BILL GATES
I have just released eChicken2001, which will not only cross roads, but will lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance your checkbook-and Internet Explorer is an inextricable part of eChicken.

ALBERT EINSTEIN
Did the chicken really cross the road or did the road move beneath the chicken?

BILL CLINTON
I did not cross the road with THAT chicken. What do you mean by chicken? Could you define chicken please?

LOUIS FARRAKHAN
The road, you will see, represents the black man. The chicken crossed the "black man" in order to trample him and keep him down.

THE BIBLE
And God came down from the heavens, and He said unto the chicken,"Thou shalt cross the road." And the chicken crossed the road, and there was much rejoicing.

COLONEL SANDERS
I missed one?

ROTFLMAO!!! Sent the following reply:

RUSSELL CROWE
It's a FUCKING CHICKEN…!

The following is a brilliant parody written by Zenith of the Crowe's Perch based on various incidents that have occurred on that message board, featuring a number of posters who post regularly to said fan site board; if you don't understand it, heaven help you, there's just no explaining it in a way that will make any sense to you whatsoever, so you're on your own. However, the disclaimer might help you:

The Great Debate
Zenith - Crowe's Perch

Chili
We are here today with four posters who may or may not be Russell Crowe. The four posters are: Kookaburra, Lone Wolf, Rirac, and the polyandrous Invisigoth6.7 Sid's Cyberslave Property of Hando White White O'Brien. We will be asking the posters a series of questions and we have translators standing by with expertise in back-masking, code-breaking, and Strine, should translation become necessary.

Chili
Now for the ground rules. No flaming. No finger pointing. No name-calling allowed. No snarling or biting of the ankles. No pecking or wing flapping. No leaving the room in a huff. No heckling or razzing or fawning from the audience will be acceptable. All poetry and philosophizing will be devoid of sarcastic innuendo. Fruing allowed, but only in the FIRST definition of the term.

Chili
Lady and Gentlemen, you will each have one minute to make your opening statement. Mr. Kookaburra, perhaps you would start?

Kookaburra
Russell Crowe is not participating in this debate. But if he was he would say: G'day mates. Thanks for coming.

Cindy/Sindy
Coming? **THUD** (Sindy slumps over in her chair)

(Kookaburra looks alarmed)

Lone Wolf
She'll be apples!

Chili
Translator?

Translator
Everything will be okay.

Chili
Yeah...Mr. Wolf, would you like to go next?

Lone Wolf
Lovely Ladies, I am a Wolf. Nothing more, nothing less. Sometimes, when I feel like a Bird, I am a Bird. But only when I am a Bird am I truly a Wolf. And a Wolf by any other name is still a Bird in Wolf's clothing. Wolves are much more cuddly than Birds. And you can pet them. But please know, as cuddling and petting would fall into the category of objectification, I do not require either cuddling or petting.

Cindy/Sindy (now recovered)
...stroking, caressing...

Lone Wolf

Chili
Would the audience please hold your expressions of lust until the end. Thank you. Mr. Rirac, your turn.

Rirac
No BS. I am Rirac! I have made fire!

Anon
...

Anon
...

Anon
Why tongue-tied get I guy this do around?

Anon
AHEM! Why do I get tongue-tied around this guy?

Lone Wolf
Anon, you are a very unusual lady. There are no illegitimate thoughts, no illegitimate feelings, we simply are who we are. It takes courage to be who we are. Therefore, you are a legimately unusual lady.

Rirac
Bahstard Life or Clarity, baby?

Chili
Would the participants please refrain from addressing audience members. Thank you.

Anon
WTF did that Wolf just say about me? I don't know if I like it.

Chili
Moving on...Ms. Invisi, you are the final participant to give your opening statement.

Invisi

No introductions are necessary.

Chili (momentarily distracted)
Ummm...yes...We will now take questions from the audience.

Anon
Madam Moderator, would you ask the participants to address Multiple Personality Disorder and it's manifestations on internet message boards?

Cindy/Sindy
With the understanding that Cindy does not post to Anon, ROFLMAO!

Anon
With the understanding that Anon does not post to Cindy:

Chili
Lady and Gentlemen, I believe you heard Ms. Anon's question. Mr. Kookaburra, you have three minutes to respond.

Kookaburra
.personalities other their consult not do and independently act and think people when best are Outcomes .maths and psychology on books of lots reading been I've :say would he ,did he if But .question this answer not would he ,debate this in participating not is Crowe Russell As.

Chili
Translator?

Translator
As Russell Crowe is not participating in this debate, he would not answer this question. But if he did, he would say: I've been reading lots of book on psychology and maths. Outcomes are best when people think and act independently and do not consult their other personalities.

Chili
MR. KOOKABURRA, WHAT DO YOU SAY TO THE ACCUSATION THAT YOU ARE A PSYCHOLOGY STUDENT DOING RESEARCH ON US, THE SAME ONE THAT POSTED NASTY POEMS ON GRUNTLAND.COM???

Kookaburra
That's not me, luv.

Chili
Oh. Ok.

Chili
Mr. Wolf, three minutes.

Lone Wolf
We all have our masks, we all have our personas, we all have our roles that we play on this, the great stage of Life. Who is to say that one might not have several people living inside them? And who is to say that this is not a legitimate way to live? Judge not, that ye be not judged, my friends. What better place to live out our multiple personalities than on an internet message board? What better way to explore our multiple personalities? What better place, than this, the microcosm of the Universe? What better place to contemplate our cyber-navels?

Invisi

NAVEL!

Cindy/Sindy
***THUD***

(Sindy falls to the floor)

Chili
Ms. Invisi, please wait your turn. Would someone please assist Ms. Sindy with the smelling salts?

Sheeps (waves smelling salts under Sindy's nose)

Chili
Ms. Sheeps, could you just sit by her and keep those handy? Thanks. Now, Mr. Rirac. Three minutes. Multiple Personality Disorder and internet message boards.

Rirac
Bahstard Life or Clarity. Old Maori saying.

Chili
Thank you. And now for Ms. Invisi. Three minutes.

Invisi
This guy could tell you something about Multiple Personalities.

Chili
Ok, now for the final question. What do you think of the nickname "Sparky"?

Kookaburra
UI ERSYLIEUFGE, WOY AWOE?

Chili
Translator?

Translator
An electrician, you mean?

Chili
Ummm...no. Mr. Wolf?

Lone Wolf
There are no illegimate terms of endearment. If Anon wishes to call me "Sparky," I will of course answer her. I do not wish to exclude anyone.

Chili
Thank you. Mr. Rirac?

Rirac
It's a bit...odd, but it's creative. I like creativity. Sheeps, would you tell Anon I said so?

Sheeps
Tell her what? Oh, that you like her creativity. Of course.

Rirac
Thank you. (Presses clenched fist to heart.)

Chili
Invisi, the nickname "Sparky."

Invisi
The only nickname around our house is "Master."

Cindy/Sindy
****THUD****

(Sheeps catches Sindy.)

Chili
Closing statements?

Rirac
Bahstard Life or Clarity. www.gruntland.com

Kook
Bahstard Life or Clarity. www.gruntland.com

Lone Wolf
Bahstard Life or Clarity. www.gruntland.com

Chili (looking puzzled)
It seems we have an echo in here. Invisi, closing statement?

Invisi
Did someone say bastard?

Chili
Sheeps??

Sheeps
Got her.

Chili
And with that our debate is concluded. I hope this has helped our audience members in their pursuit of Clarity. Thanks to everyone for joining us. Good night!

archived from the Crowe's Perch message board

It is entirely unknown who posted this parody anonymously on the Beautiful Minds message board. Whoever it was should receive a medal for creativity, imagination, and balls. No doubt whoever it was has NO, absolutely NO AFFILIATION WHATSOEVER with Russell Crowe, or with anyone in his organization. It was a FAN, a fan familiar enough with the other fansites to sign it "Lone Wolf / Kookie Insider" (Kookie = "Kookaburra"). So, please, no lame anal-retentive feverish speculation about whether Russell Crowe ever thought or ever said anything here.

Thank you.
Management

Russell's Golden Globe Diary

Russell Crowe does not post on this board, respond to his critics, or talk about his relationships, but if he did, this is what he might say

From a very secret memo passing between the offices of Steven Spielberg and Jeffrey Katzenberg; intercepted by an enterprising copy room clerk, smuggled out in the tampon of a junior administrative assistant.

Russell's Golden Globe Diary

G'day mates, how the f--- are ya? I've been reading the tabs, and I know you have, and I can just hear you thinking, "That wanker Russell is really up himself, being all churlish and surly at the Golden Globes." Y'know, I try not to focus on other people's opinions of me, good or bad, to get through what I have to do. I mean, they're not going to change the way I put on my pants, y'know? And I hate whinging, so I've kept quiet about certain, um, incidents that, y'know, really changed my life this year. So I have to get used to being got at, pursued, and knowing there's nothing I can do about it.

But all those stories are written by people looking at me from far away. Fucking hell! Some of those journos are thousands of miles away when the things they report on happen, or don't happen, as the case may be. That old diesel Liz Smith (sorry Jodie) hasn't left New York since grandma was a girl, but she acts like she's camped out in my bedroom. If I ever have some journo shiela in my bedroom, I guarantee you it won't be Liz Smith, although I will guarantee you that whoever it is, she'll get more than a mouthful.

Here I am rabbiting on and you haven't got a clue what I'm talking about. Not much, really, I just thought for a change I'd tell my story myself.

I made my great escape from Los Angeles in the middle of December, not a moment too soon mate, thought I was going to find bunnies boiling on the stove, y'know? I felt stuffed. All I wanted to do was go home, sleep in my own bed, see my mum and my mates, y'know? Be someplace where I could take a leak off the roof without some f---ing parasite recording the event for posterity.

And I got that, sort of, when I got home, except for the multitudes camped out at the gates of my property waiting to see if a certain person who shall remain nameless was going to arrive for a wedding that was supposed to take place on New Years Eve. Unfortunately none of those wankers were bitten by a snake, although come to think of it, the snake might have gotten the worst of it! Jesus f---ing Christ there were even helicopters doing fly overs! You'd think I was building missile sites instead of a f---ing tent for a f---ing party. Quite a joke on them when New Years came and went and I was still a single man.

After the hols, things quieted down nicely, but then I had to fly back to LA for the first round of ass kissing, I mean, award giving. The Golden Globes are like the first in the series, and they are important because, sometimes, they predict who's going to get an Oscar. But basically it's the same boring bullshit, except with a dinner and lots of skinny women from TV. I didn't want to go but I had to support the team, fly the flag, be true blue, y'know?

I waited until the last minute to fly to LA. My plan was, get on the plane, drink, get off the plane, go to the dinner, drink, get an award maybe, go to some parties, drink, get up, go to a lunch, drink, maybe get another award, get on the plane, drink, go home. Bob's your uncle, piece of piss. But nothing's that simple, y'know?

First of all, there's all the kerfluffle about the clothes. You'd think that the only reason people make $100 million movies is to give a few skinny actresses the opportunity to dress up three or four times a year. Truth is, I don't care what I look like; gimme flannies, jeans and a nice pair of tennies and I'm good to go, y'know? But that just wouldn't do for this mob, I'd stand out like dog's balls.

Anyway, last year was easy, I had a sheila on the line to dress me, well not literally dress me, seeing that she bats for the other team, but Jodi picked out my clothes, got me groomed, all that nonsense. No worries mate! This year I was going stag. Just got out of one situation and wasn't looking for another one, thank you, and Jodie wasn't looking for a repeat performance. She's cross as a frog in a sock because I happened to mention the other team thing to a reporter in Oz, the comment got picked up by the international press, and now everybody in the f---ing world knows I said she plays for the other team. Like that's a surprise.

Luckily, one of the perks of my job is free clothes. Armani sent over some things, and I picked a long black coat, to cover up some of mom's cooking, y'know? Black shirt, and, as long as there wasn't a woman around to make sure I was uncomfortable, no tie. I didn't bother to cut my hair or get rid of the whole bush beard, since I was going home right after I did my duty. The outfit looked good to me, had that outlaw edge. I could imagine Johnny Cash wearing it while he sang "Folsom Prison Blues," a favorite song of mine. After I had a good scrub and a rub from the hotel masseuse, magnificent woman who had just the right touch, it took me about 10 minutes to get dressed, I was good to go.

Now, when I said I was going to the Globes stag, I didn't mean I was going alone. I can't go anywhere in America where I'm expected and sure to be noticed alone anymore. All the loonies have come out since, uh, uh, my connection with a certain person became known. Some of them call me a home wrecker, some of them call her a slut, a skank, a whore, a miserable high-maintenance anorexic jealous neurotic harpy cunt, uh, y'know, that's not fair, y'know. She's a great actress, really she is, especially in bed.

Anyway, I've been getting hate mail, which is frightening, and love mail, which is even more frightening. Y'know, there are websites where women, at least I think they're women, discuss my donger 24/7! Holy snapping assholes, that's peculiar! But as long as we're on the subject let me set the record straight: ladies, it's big, very big. (imitating Mike Myers) Discuss amongst yourselves.

I'm rabbiting on here and losing track, oh, yeah, so now I've got these bodyguards. Huge guys, a brick shithouse each and every one, whose job it is to get between me and those who love me and those who hate me and those who used to love me and now hate me, the last being the most frightening. They're also there to keep rabid journos from asking embarrassing questions about the person I do not wish to discuss, which, of course, is all the journos want to know about. Jesus f---ing Christ as if everybody in the year 2001 didn't know what comes from rooting the wrong person. Actually, the studio is afraid that I'll spit the dummy at some stupid question and engage in fisticuffs with a gay gossip columnist right there on the red carpet. I don't know where they get they idea that I'm prone to get physical, but f---, y'know, once you get labeled as a bad boy it's all over. At least these big guys can put away a bit of the amber liquid, which makes them more pleasant company than the usual mincing public relations lady.

We pile into a Suburban with tinted windows. Make that bulletproof tinted windows! Crikey! I've got better security than the president, but then, I make a whole lot more money. Then there's a never-ending wait in traffic. How the f--- can people stand to live in Los Angeles? Takes an hour to get to the bloody bottle shop on a weekday afternoon, y'know? This expedition was timed so that I wouldn't get to the Hotel until the show was about to start, so those bloody parasites drooling over their microphones couldn't keep me posing on the red carpet too long, right?

So we get there, and I get out of the car, and for about 30 seconds it's so sweet because the fans see me before the f---ing press does, and they start to cheer. It was like being back in the Coliseum, y'know? Except everybody's yelling Russell! Russell! instead of Maximus, really got me into the moment. Then the f---ing flashes started to go off, blinding me, and somebody grabs my elbow and starts steering me to the friendlies and away from the nasties on the red carpet.

Wonder how the ladies and gentlemen of the press would like their looks and demeanors evaluated? A little turnabout is fair play, right? What a crew! All of these look-alike plastic women with big hair, tarted up in dresses the colors of a liquid laugh, shoving microphones in my face, asking the same stupid questions. How do I feel about being here? Just bloody f---ing wonderful, y'know?

That Mary Hart now, how long has her face been steeped in formaldehyde? Big plastic smile with those big plastic lips that are so popular among Hollywood folk. I'm sure she's paid big bucks, but let's be honest folks, she doesn't know Christmas from Bourke Street. Miss Hart and her colleagues spent a good part of last fall telling lies about my life as if they were gospel - yeah, she's another one who had me marching up the aisle, or as good as, on New Year's Eve - yet to play the game I have to smile and nod at her like she was the Pope come to give me special dispensation. Bloody oath that makes me cranky!

I almost had a f---ing heart attack when I looked down the red carpet and saw this skinny woman with a head of stringy blonde hair. Thought it was she who must be avoided, y'know? Ducked behind one of the bigger body guards as we got a little closer, and got even a worse fright, it looked like that person had aged 30 years, y'know? Truly, truly frightening, mate, chills my blood just to think about it. Finally, we got close enough so I could see that it wasn't her at all, it was that old ratbag Joan Rivers. I made my escape, passing close by her daughter, who seemed to appreciate the proximity. Melissa is a bit of a dog but she turned out to be okay, defending me and my Armani from her mother's knocking. I'd toss her one if I hadn't learned a hard lesson about those pity f---s.

The male reporters are dipsticks to a man. The gay ones all knock me because I'm straight, and the straight ones . . . well, there are no straight ones.

Inside the hotel I made the rounds saying g'day. Saw my mates Al and Curtis, saw that kid Jaime Bell, the only person in Hollywood who seems genuinely glad to see me. I was dry as a nun's nasty by then, and really happy to sit down to dinner and knock back some free plonk. Then the show started. I was bored shitless within 15 minutes. The dialogue was stupid, let's face it, most actors should only be heard when they're saying other people's words. The only women in the room who could make me crack a fat were the waitresses. I spent half my time out on the balcony where at least I could have a ciggie, although I looked down at one point and saw about 50 people looking up at me, like I was a two-headed giraffe or something, y'know? That sent me back inside right quick.

And the whole bloody thing went on too long. When it came to my category, announced in the last 15 minutes of the show, the award went to that figjam Tom Hanks, who spent most of his movie talking to a f---ing volleyball, while I was fighting f---ing tigers. Should have known I had a Buckley's chance of winning this particular popularity prize after nailing a married woman, y'know? All I wanted right then was the loo and some stronger drink, so my paid mates and I took off for fairer climes. I missed seeing Gladiator get the award for best dramatic picture, or whatever it was called. Sorry I missed Liz Taylor's performance as a presenter, too, although from what people told me it might have put me off the piss forever, and I don't know how I'd get through awards season without it.

Afterwards, there were the parties, and a couple of strange encounters with women. At one party I was chatting up this tall girl with long pretty hair. I haven't seen enough of that lately, y'know, pretty hair, I mean. Anyway, she was dressed like the town bike and looked about 35, so I was petting her hair and hoping I could move on to petting other things, y'know, when she blew me off by telling me she was only 18. Loudly. That's another strange f---ing phenomenon, women who are earning points god knows where by giving me the flick. Half the female race is telling me I'm too touchy and familiar, while the other half of the female race is obsessed with my doodle and following me into the loo! Then the young thing's mother gives an interview about defending her daughter's honor from me! Y'know, I bet if there was a part for her in one of my films mom would serve her up in the nuddy on a silver platter, to me, the director, the cinematographer, the script girl and the best boy.

Later that night I ran into Miss Courtney Love, who has been trying to serve herself up to me for at least a year. Courtney isn't someone I'd bring home to the oldies, but I have to respect her. She writes songs, plays the guitar, acts better than some I could name, and she can suck the chrome off the bumper of a '63 Buick. She'd probably like the car, too. Yes, I respect Courtney, you always know where you are with her, and that's generally naked and on the floor!

Anyway, Courtney comes back to my hotel with me, and we spend the rest of the night listening to the Grunts, that's my band, Thirty Odd Foot of Grunts, new album Bastard Life or Clarity. The album will be released in February, an it's available on the internet through TOFOG's website, www.gruntland.com. Of course, a couple of days later all these reports hit the tabs that she spent the night with me, implying that we had become lovers. Well, that's ridiculous, she didn't spend more than a couple of hours with me, and just because someone milks you dry it doesn't mean you're lovers, y'know? Just ask Bill Clinton, a truly great man who knows what's what, if you ask me.

Well, it was morning and I had to go to another do, so I called that nice masseuse again. Magnificent woman, from Thailand, where they learn very special massage techniques, y'know? Anyway, I was feeling really relaxed and happy at the Broadcast Critics Award, and I had a much better time.

The Lone Wolf Kookie Insider (BKA Unknown)

Now, don't go gettin' freaky on me - "Felipe" is neither gay nor a Native American. "Felipe" refers to the stage persona of one of the Village People (the one who wore the headress, remember?), whom this female Beautiful Minds regular emulates whenever she feels in the mood to do so. Okay? Don't make me get the belt.

A Gay Indian Adventure
Felipe - Queen of New York

Well, the NYC girls had such luck in meeting Da Man; I had to give it a whirl. So I packed my fru-fru frocks, sequined loincloth and hopped the greyhound to NEW YOURK CITEE. **note to self - take a plane next time, gummy grandpa on the seat next to me had roamy hands **.

I arrived in the Big Apple and I just knew Russell had to be near by, cause saw a bunch of cute little red scooters everywhere. I was checking for half helmets and ciggies but alas no luck, though one guy looked suspiciously like Paul Hogan…How did he get that little helmet over that big hat? but instead of smoking a cigarette, he was drinking a (GASP) Fosters Beer!! Second rate actor, second rate beer….

I checked into the swank Intercontinental and got a dinky room with a HUGE price tag BUT there was no chocolate, or bellboy, or CHOCOLATE BELLBOY on my pillow!! I was miffed to say the least.

Okay, I started my quest for the "" thigh master "" and who should I run into instead but Tom Cruise on the set of Vanilla Sky. He hadn't seen Russie, but wanted to buy me a drink after I agreed to sign some whacky confidential waiver. Scoozi...me honey. Tommy babe, I love ya, but I ain't signing nothing that gives away my rights to scream the house down if you get all freaky deeky on me. A boy's got to have his limits and my name ain't Richard Gere.

So on down the road, I check in the Mercer's Kitchen, only to find out by a chatty bus boy that Russell had just left, but Nathan Lane was still in back holding auditions. For what I asked? Sexy Bus Boy's cheeks got red and he scooted off. Well, I have been formulating a little ditty called Y.M.C.A - the musical and wanted to see what Nat had to say about my rendition. He didn't even let me get the 1st verse out before he was blabbering about how he and Russie were talking about doing "" Chicago"" together. They were going to share dressing rooms, among OTHER things…now all this according to Nathan…I haven't heard THAT rumor yet, have any of YOU?? He was all a twitter and saying "" It's true, It's true, we ( us queens apparently) finally have a chance with the Aussie Love Muscle"". I thought he was going to expire on me, so I left him to his ramblings.

I figured I needed some Russell Bait, but they don't sell VB in this town, so what was a poor limp-wristed Indian to do? Buy Boxes of White Zinfandel that's what! Nothing says class like vino from a cardboard box. Tied them together with a very fetching paisley scarf and hung them about my neck. Look out Russell, here I come! Ok, so I looked like a fucking, faggy packmule schlepping around that city…I WAS DETERMINED!!

First off, I sat on a park bench with my trusty purple IMAC and let you girls (FemDogs, for all you lurkers in da house)know my whereabouts…funny no posts came back…

I headed over to the Gym and again missed Russell by a few minutes, what does he have Indian GAY-DAR or what? RuPaul was finishing up her treadmill workout. She can really get down with those 10-inch platforms and a strapless workout gown. I asked if she had seen Russell.

""Honey-child, he ain't been in here, but his drunk Aussie ass showed up at my last set, yesterday at the Rainbow Room. Hopped up on stage and sang a song, he did. Girl, he looked so surprised when I grabbed that apple butt. Well, hell he was singing something about Prison and got the blues..and I just couldn't help myself. He was asking for it, if you ask me"".

I left the ebony queen to her massage and sand blasting facial peel and headed out into the Naked City for the man of my dreams.

Saw Jodi Foster waiting in line at Starfucks-(ok, ok YOU try hauling two boxes of wine around NYC without a triple skinny latte to keep ya going…I DARE YOU!!!) She was mumbling something about a replacement for Flora Plum and then asked if I had seen Melissa Etheridge, she had heard she loved kids. I said ' No, but the uncombed one might know her whereabouts, in fact might want to check her bed.'. She said "chick a mae mae" and ran off.

I was ready to give up when I spied Richard Hatch the original Survivor and thought he might have some tips about how to locate Russell. He hit me up for a loan, since had spent all his loot on liposution and fake friends. Then he proceeded to tell me that he was looking for Russell himself, the dirty, nakid-needs-to-wear-clothes-even-to-bed-by-himself, double-crossing QUEEN. I was just in a huff. How dare he try to steal the object of my objectifying?

By now I was tired…I was WRECKED!! And to say the least, VERY disappointed! Shit! I saw everybody else BUT the man!! I needed a shower and some juju bees and quick! So I grabbed a cab and headed back to the hotel…

On the way back traffic was STOPPED because some "Viking" chick on a bike had been hit by a bus…she was wearing a whistle around her neck and had on a shirt that said "I WILL make you SWEAT!" I heard her mumbling something about "…keep him AWAY from cheeseburgers and Hershey bars, dammit!!" as they were loading her into the ambulance…

Well, ladies, you can just imagine the snit I was in when I arrived back at the Intercontinental…tired, wilted and hungry-AND NO RUSSELL!! When I opened my door, I found the maid (who looked suspiciously like Kathy Lee Gifford w/o makeup-SCAREY!) going thru my bags! My diamond tiara was missing so I immediately phoned the concierge and DEMANDED a strip search…and HELL NO! I didn't stay around to watch!

I went down to the lobby to file a complaint..about the maid, about the lack of chocolate on my pillow, shit! About NYC in general!! " I just KNEW I shoulda stayed at the Plaza…IVANA KNOWS HOW TO TREAT HER GUESTS!!" I screamed at the boy…I was so busy ranting, I failed to notice the scene behind me…Two large body guards walking with a (shorter?) gentleman who was carrying his own bags…Suddenly I got a whiff of cigarette smoke, eucalyptus and flannel, just in time to turn around and see the three of them getting into a SUV!! DAMN!! Could that be?? Could I have missed him??? The man turned to look out the vehicle window just as it was pulling away, and there…on his face…were the FUG-UGLIEST sunglasses I HAVE EVER SEEN!!!

Missed the man all over the damn city when he was right under my (perfectly, cosmetically enhanced) nose!!! I almost cried!! SHIT! I DID CRY!!! I will return, though…IN THIS LIFE OR…SCREW THAT!! In this life!!! I'll see you ladies later…..

signed Felipe, gay reporter and her trusty side kick (and she really kicks me too, OWEE!!) Trishabelle, T2, TNT, 2, damn girl how many names you got?

Felipe & T2
Russell Crowe's Beautiful Minds message board

3:30pm - RRROTFLMAO!!!

Oh %$#@! [*looking at the clock*] Too late for the show! And I haven't even eaten breakfast yet! And I'm so sleepy, I can't keep my eyes open, since I stayed up 'til 5:30 this morning posting on the boards and reading everything... *yawn* let me just - ju...

*BAM!*

ggggfdxxv bbbbbbbbbb,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Whenever it is quiet in the Land of Crowe, where even the tabloid presses lay in eery silence under a thin veil of dust, and the Watchers in the towers at the gatehouses can't see a Crowe for miles, no, not even on the far horizon, not even with high-powered binoculars and the aid of high-frequency radar and satellite coverage, the natives get restless. They start to shake, their fingers to twitch, a tick develops in the corners of wary eyes. There are grumblings. There are tremors. Rashes develop in unspeakable places. It's an ugly sight. Oh, what to do, what to do???

*SING!*

Singing in the rain

We're gathering here in vain
Just coping with the pain
Never hearing no news
Really struck by the blues
No scandals in sight
No bar brawls, no fights
Just waiting for Austin
Cause that'll make us alright

No TOFOG-gigs announced
No new pictures of our Crowe
Is it strange that we feel
A bit deprived 'n' out of glow
So hold the line here femmes
This isn't really the end
Be faithful and be strong
And soon this silence will be gone

© Donna-Babe 2001 / Beautiful Minds message board

Neese
(feeling like singing, forgetting most of the lyrics, but doing it anyway!!!): Memoriessssss of the times we use to have ...(I'm a mom man!)...misty water colored memoriessss...(I'd move to L.A. for luurrve!)...of the way we wereeee....(he wanted sex all the time!)...scattered picturesssss...(I'm a very besmirchable character)...of the timesss we use to have...(I won't talk about Russell)...times we shared with one annnotherrrr...(I feel like a hunted animal)...of the way we wereeee ...(she's a great actress)...could it be we were all so simple then...(no one will know what really went down)...or has time rewritten every lineeeee..(I dumped him!)...if we had the chance to do it all again...(there was no third party involved)...would weeeeee...(I'm still looking for the right woman)...could weeeeee...(my life was turning into a Neil Simon play)...........Memoriessss....da da da da da daaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!!! ..................I think it's important we remember some of the great quotes from the last year!!! Some of them are classics!!! and forgive me Barbs!!

Neese / Beautiful Minds message board