There’s a cool Los Angeles flavored anecdote in the online tease for Vanity Fair‘s April cover story on Twilight lead bloodsucker Robert Pattinson.

When the actor decided to take a road trip from our fair city to the New Orleans set, he did so using back roads and an iPhone for navigation, all to avoid the throngs of crazed airport fans. And for a brief moment at a bar in Lubbock, Texas, his plan worked:

“No one recognized me or anything,” he says. “And I was like, ‘Ah, this is really cool, sitting there eating chicken wings and stuff.’”

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The story of Theresa Duncan and Jeremy Blake’s tragic deaths really should become an opera, not a sad little documentary, not a poorly-lit cinema-stylo indie movie. Everyone involved is so dramatic.

Famed writer Nancy Jo Sales, author with the solo byline on Vanity Fair piece, takes issue with Melinda Hunt’s version of events at St. Marks in the Bowery that night in July and on her own relationship with Father Frank Morales.

Morales is begging for a nickname, ala the NY Post–the frisky friar? The popular padre. The ecstatic ecclesiastical, the vivacious vicar, the randy rector, the liturgical Lothario, the cuddling canon, the sexy sacristan.

Let’s hope Father Frank got lots of Christmas gifts, so he can give up wearing Jeremy Blake’s old wardrobe.

(Photo: Jeff Mermelstein/For New York Magazine)

The long awaited Vanity Fair piece on Theresa Duncan and Jeremy Blake comes out in the January issue, by Nancy Jo Sales. Fun fact: Sales was married to Father Frank Morales They met when he was a source for a story.

Gustavo “Ask A Mexican” Arellano thinks he’s smacking us upside and downside, but he’s not. How do you polish an orange, anyway?

Sean Penn rails against state of the world, state of the union, state of bugger all. Boy, Madonna must be so glad she’s not still married to him.

Nancy Jo Sales has the Padma Lakshmi story in VF, but overstates things a wee bit:

How amazing was it that she, the daughter of a single mother who fled India to escape the stigma of divorce, was poised to become the first Indian woman with an American brand—perhaps the first to self-brand. “I’m as American as anyone else,” she has said.

Susie Coehlo, who’s also Indian/American, has Padma beat by quite a few years.

And then there’s this:

the many contradictions in its author, such as: she’s an educated woman–with a B.A. in theater arts from Clark University, in Worcester, Massachusetts, 1992–who swears freely: “Finishing the fucking book was like being in labor for two years!”

What planet is Sales on–the nun planet? (And since when does a degree from Clark impress anyone at Vanity Fair?)

Oh, and Padma? You didn’t get death threats for your writing, so pipe down.

(Photograph by Alexi Lubomirski)