Riiiiiiiight...

I was about one sniffle shy of heartbreak last Sunday when I read that the film industry's P.R. apparatus is losing its stranglehold on coverage of its clients. So imagine my overwhelming relief this morning when I heard about the publicity tag team that used their evolved, opposable thumbs to gouge Liz Smith's eyes:

Jennifer Aniston, currently a femme fatale (or is she?), luring Clive Owen (or does she?) in the thriller Derailed, couldn't have been less the cautious, wounded doe of recent lore. Although our 10-minute chat was obtained with the promise — extracted by Jennifer's p.r. sultan Steve Huvane — that no personal questions would be broached, I had the feeling Miss Aniston wouldn't have had a breakdown had we be been so bold. But a promise is a promise. ...

Suddenly the voice of the Weinstein Company's p.r. woman breaks in, "Your time is almost up!" We say, "And I suppose you want us to talk more about Derailed? Jennifer is laughing hard: "What else can we say . . . oh, I know, it's kind of Fatal Attraction-ish. But I keep my pants on!" The p.r. woman concurs, 'Yes, that's good!' We are all giggling now. ...

"Jennifer has to go!" OK, we bid the actress adieu and point out that not all gossip columnists have two heads with horns. "Oh, I know that, and maybe we can get together when I'm in New York again." Definitely. But next time, at least one personal question, honey!

Oh. Well, in that case, never mind. Sure, she is a softballer to begin with, but what is this world coming to when the Lizosaur has to defer to not one but two publicists just to get 10 minutes about nothing with Jennifer Aniston? God, I miss Lee Anne DeVette already.