Courtney's dog days, plus bits on the Cure, Iggy, and more.

In this crazy journey called life, we learn many hard lessons: Not all that glitters is gold, there is no such thing as a free lunch, and all discarded implants are potentially evil instruments of tragic pet death. Courtney Love was victim to that harshest of universal truths recently when the silicone boobies she had removed several years ago and kept in her home as a "souvenir" led to the untimely demise of her curious and/or criminally underfed Pomeranian, who swallowed one of the offending jiggly items and was promptly dispatched to that Great Doghouse in the Sky. Love's press rep insists the implants weren't his client's but does confirm: "The dog ate one and died." . . . Speaking of things hard to swallow, we would like to sincerely apologize to Ryan Adams for ever suggesting he was anything less than a mature and lovely human being. The mere fact that he took the time to share his feelings about DOON from the stage of the Moore Theatre last week (in between a dark, bluesy version of "To Be Young [Is to Be Sad, Is to Be High]" and another, more upbeat one), even dedicating an entire song to us, warmed our shriveled, dried-up little heart—yes, we do have one. We'll take his further comments regarding our questionable journalistic merit and the lack of our boyfriend's bedroom prowess to be mere constructive criticism. And memo to rabid Ryan fans who filled our in box: Adams is talented; we never said he wasn't. And Whiskeytown was a great band. But when a guy takes himself so seriously that he kicks people out of a show for making feeble jokes, we write about it because it's funny. We are, after all (when not busy curing cancer), in the business of writing a silly old gossip column. . . . And speaking of silly old gossip, a few months ago rumors were rampant that Dave Grohl was getting his genie bottle rubbed the right way by Christina Aguilera. Now Dave, who lives happily with his girlfriend in L.A., says the stories all started when the two were working

in the same studio complex and popped in to meet 'n' greet each other. Adds Grohl, "I'm, like, 33 . . . she's a kid, ya know? That's WEIRD, dude! Fuckin' funny, though." . . . Alas, we had a link for you of all the things Dave apparently never saw—outtakes from a racy, nipple-rific photo shoot former Mouseketeer Aguilera recently did for her new album—but the clever webmasters over at linkydinky.com are now charging for the privilege. . . . Speaking of the Foos, the band went karaoke supreme on Halloween night, dressing up in black suits and white ties at N.Y.C.'s Supper Club and opening up their show with the Hives' "Hate to Say I Told You So." . . . Meanwhile, back on the Left Coast, the second annual Shortlist Prize for album of the year was being awarded to, no big shock, N.E.R.D.'s In Search Of. More surprising was a Stooges tribute featuring Iggy himself, the Hives' Howlin' Pelle Almqvist and Vigilante Carlstroem, former Minutemen bassist Mike Watt, and folk-rock Chupa-Chup Pete Yorn on drums. According to witnesses, 55-year-old Iggy's rip through "I Wanna Be Your Dog," "No Fun," and "TV Eye" put today's youngsters to shame. . . . How's this for crossover? Lilith yodeler Jewel is currently in the studio with one Jeff Townes, whom you may know better by his stage name, DJ Jazzy Jeff, and was spotted earlier this month in Philadelphia with "urban" berproducer P-Nut. Can we call her Jizz-ewel now? On the real. . . . In other odd couple news, n-metal impresario Ross Robinson (Limp Bizkit, Slipknot) is currently working with the Cure on their latest album, to be released next year by ARTISTdirect. Maybe Robert Smith can return the favor and get Fred Durst into some sexy black leggings. . . . Finally, Cat Power's Chan Marshall, so long absent from the new releases bin, is finally readying her first album of original material in five years, tentatively titled When You Are Free, due to hit stores next February. . . . Johnny Knoxville, king of

Jackass, is poised to become an honest-to-goodness actor with his upcoming project Grand Theft Parsons, alongside Married . . . with Children hotcakes Christina Applegate. Knoxville will star as Phil Kaufman, tour manager for late country-rock godfather Gram Parsons. Kaufman famously stole his deceased charge's body from a funeral home and cremated it in the desert in the Joshua Tree National Monument, as per (supposedly) his friend's last wishes. . . . To read Pete Townshend's interesting London Observer review of the Kurt Cobain Diaries, check www.observer.co.uk/review/story/0,6903,824698,00.html. . . . In sad, sad news you've probably all heard by now, Run DMC's Jam Master Jay is indeed dead, shot by an unknown assailant in a Queens, N.Y., recording studio last week. The 37-year-old, also known as Jason Mizell, was not only a hip-hop pioneer but also a husband, father, and activist who tirelessly supported anti- violence and anti-gang causes in his beleaguered neighborhood and beyond. A massive memorial was to take place Monday, Nov. 4, and police have reportedly taken a suspect into custody, but no arrests had been made as of press time.

Send news flashes, sightings, and bitchy bits to nights@seattleweekly.com.

 
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