About Lindsay But NOT REALLY ABOUT HER BECAUSE GIVE THAT GIRL A BREAK

She's a fucked up 20-something. I wish her all the best in her recovery. Trying to get sober under that kind of spotlight surrounded by showbiz diks and bitches, shit. I can't fathom talking to my publicist about the 'official statement' I'm expected to make to Access Hollywood while checking into rehab. Perez Hilton et al have a lot to say but if they knew any better they'd shut up and let that girl try to get better.

INTERIOR. BRITNEY SPEARS LIVING ROOM. BRITNEY sits in front of TV, texting like a hurricane.

The TV television V.O. in background PAT O'BRIEN'S unmistakable tenor: "...not 48 hours after a DUI, hit and run incident, another sorry stumble for Lindsay Lohan..."

BRITNEY (to herself): Whew! Party on, Lindsay. Outta my business into yours. Hot spotlight, ain't it?

INTERIOR. ACCESS HOLLYWOOD STUDIO.

OFF CAMERA V.O.: And we're out. Back in 3 minutes, Pat.

O'BRIEN: Got it. (to self) Party on, Lindsay. Been there. Drank that.

EXTERIOR. LOHAN'S BLACK MERCEDES pulls up to PROMOSISES. PAPARAZI everywhere. Lights. Cameras.

INTERIOR. INSIDE LOHAN'S CAR. LINDSAY sits in passenger seat, sunglasses askew.

LOHAN: (Sung.Garbled.)They try to make me go to rehab I say NO, NO, NO.

Lastly, for those who read about the "useable amount" of cocaine found in her cracked up car wondering whqat in hell is meant by 'useable amount' lend The Shan an ear.

The newspaper editor knows it to be a bullshit term made up by Team Lohan.

Team Lohan is terrified to find out how much Escobar Love in Dust was there, so they firmly believe that useable amount is just that: we don't have a clue.

The police on the scene know that it's not worth stealing to sell later as an ancillary dontation to their retirement fund.

In reality, the casual observer, the layperson getting 25 Cents worth of Tough News in THE POST, assumes that a useable amount might be a couple of Splenda packets worth of blow. They'd probably need to look at it then determine whether or not it's jail-worthy.

To the dealer, a useable amount means at least the gram equivalent of $50.

The 'weekender' or 'day player' considers a few lines in the bathroom QUICKMYTURN a useable amount. And this useable amount is so not a big deal, whatever!

For a cokehead/addict/expert, a usable amount is a single microscopic grain of powder you nervously rub on your gums thinking, "Oh yeah...yeah that's good. That's the stuff." This same person simultaneously fantasizes it's a mound like what Pacino shoved his face in a la SCARFACE. Never too little. Never enough.

I only know all this b/c I read a lot.

This is all for you Steve Nash!

Perhaps watching sports on TV isn't the best thing for me. I am a single woman in New York City. Tonight I've chosen to sit on my futon, on a beautiful Friday night and the Phoenix Suns (a team I love) are self-destructing right before my eyes. I'm emotionally invested in this game. Every missed shot, stupid foul or crap defensive effort causes stress and anger. I'm frustrated because it's somewhat pathetic. The whole scene here. I'm a lost cause, just like this elimination game ass beating:94 - 80 in the 4th quarter w/ 6:28 to go and I hate Tim Duncan, Tony Parker (Eva Longoria by association), Bruce Bowen, Manu Ginobli.

COME-BACK! COME-BACK! The lead has melted a bit. Phoenix Suns like a phoenix rising from the ashes? Could it be so? Please God, I want a game 7. That'll really give me an excuse to choose the futon yet again. How about a string of 3-pointers, God?

I'm going to invent the basketball equivalent of a rally cap. Pants on inside out? Keeping your hands in the air just like when you're on a rollercoaster?

So Much for the So Little

I have a lot of funny, silly shit to write, but I'm behind w/ real work. And real work is hows I pays my bills, yo. So, here's teaser:

I'm sitting in the Dr.'s waiting room and the check-in lady shouts to some patient seated right next to me: WHAT'S YOUR INSURANCE? He answered: CASH.

That's pretty badass. N'est pas?

I have a homo hoedown of a show on Sunday, in case you (Mom) are interested. Spread the word. JUST the word. Spread nothing else whatsoever. Eh, maybe your legs every now and then, voluntarily of course.

See that little flyer? That's everything you need to know so you can get your ass to my gig. Please come! With your kind support, perhaps I won't want to shoot myself in the face after my set. But I'm not putting any guilt-driven motivation out there. I'm just saying if you come I might live to see another day.

Betcha I'm More Smartest Than You Is

The 2007 NBA finals will pit the Detroit Pistons against the Phoenix Suns and the series will go 7 games. I'd be willing to bet $2 on my prediction, no more, no less. That's really more of a reflection of my meager bank account than anything else.

I shit you not: While in Chicago on business I was brought to a piano bar called, "Howl at the Moon." Trust me, my expectations were LOW. I mean righteous, holier-than-thou, judgemental bitch LOW. Man, I shoulda gone lower, like first date with weird bitch from internet dating site LOW. As if being surrounded by suburban drunk 20-something bachelorette partiers wasn't a sign of my ultimate sink to the cultural armpit of G.W.'s USA, I sat through 45 minutes of two piano narks singing the fight songs of every Midwestern Ra Ra schools in a "Who'lll pay more to hear their shit tune" contest. $5 bucks for On Wisconsin was just the beginning. Then it got nuts. $15 for Indiana University, $17 for Marquette, $25 for U Michigan and $32 for Ohio State. Even Minnesota alums coughed up a measly $40 bucks! Even the Iowa Hawk something-or-others spent $50. Then it got all "My alma-mater's song is better than yours" up in da house. Just to be a superior vagina hole, I went up to the stage, handed the piano fucks $125 and said, "Boston University. Hit it!" OK, I didn't but it woulda been funny. More funny b/c we didn't even have a fight song. Jeez, if we did I wouldn't know it if you played it on a Casio in my bathroom.

I don't quite know how I can effectively comunicate how INCREDBILY IRRITATING it is to hear "On Wisconsin" followed by "something something Illinois" only to be followed by "On Wisconsin" again!?! For fuck's sake...didn't anyone apply to fucking Nebraska? Any state school that doesn't TOUCH Illinois on a map? Anybody?

Wisconsin won for $73. I shit you not.

Man, it was an aural nightmare to be reminded how fucking better than anyone else I am. Plebians!