"Yes, I am. We are. I'm almost four months," Nicole Richie tells Diane Sawyer about her pregnancy as boyfriend and father Joel Madden looks on.

Photo from TMZ.com

Barbara Walters announced on The View this morning that Whoopi Goldberg will replace the slot which Rosie O'Donnell left.

Goldberg will join the daytime gab fest after Labor Day.

Goodluck Whoopi. Hopefully you can run Elisabeth Hasselback right out of there unlike Rosie.

For the first time in the history of this column, I am feeling a bit guilty.

This is a girl guilt — the kind you get when you tell your friend not to worry about her bursting belt-buckle and that she hasn’t gained a pound since high school. That’s after she just ordered the bone-in rib-eye steak with extra béarnaise sauce and French fries. At least she ordered a light brew. Though it was 22 ounces and she got three refills.

Girl guilt is different from thinking about your beer buddy’s fiancé or sister in ways only reserved for the set of Jenna Jameson’s new movie. This is something that goes deeper than the Coach hobo bags we carry.

It is when you blow-off your pal who just got dumped on MySpace for a bikini wax appointment that you waited more than a month to get. You are both going to need a drink after to ease the pain, so that situation can be justified — sort of.

It is also when you pretend to enjoy the company of her new beau at parties, cookouts or social gatherings. Though you and your gal pals spend the next week sending e-mails back and forth about how much you detest the man and conveniently leave her name off the receiver’s list. Or it could be when you tell her the blonde highlights, she just paid $150 for, flatter her skin ... yeah if orange is in.

I have finally had it. Enough is enough. I am starting to feel like I am a major contributor to glamorizing cattiness, drunken debauchery and superficial socialites who have nothing to contribute.

I have to admit that anything racy appeals to my senses. I tell dirty jokes in mixed company. I have an extreme potty mouth that would make the Osbourne family blush. I am fascinated with Pete Doherty. Nicole Richie is my idol and I think swigging tequila straight from the bottle is sexy.

My vice is recklessness.

The knot in my stomach is from the guilt I feel about promoting promiscuity. Or it could be left over from the multiple mai tais that had me feeling less-than-chipper in my cubicle the other morning. I knew my problem had magnified after Lindsay Lohan was arrested last week.

Fresh from a stint in rehab, LiLo was out roaming the streets of Los Angeles flaunting her alcohol monitoring ankle bracelet. Less than a month since her release, she was booked for her second DUI and had cocaine on her person — again. Instead of thinking to myself, “Wow, this girl is a mess and needs a serious intervention before she kills someone or herself”; all I could think was “Wow, that is the best mug shot I have ever seen. She looks great as a blonde.”
Guilty as charged. The question is can I be saved? Is there a promiscuous girl anonymous group I can join? If so, sign me up right away.

Should Lowellita change her lifestyle before she ends up like LiLo? E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.

America's favortie party girl and train-wreck, Lindsay Lohan may just have a Lowell connection. In the new issue of Elle magazine, LiLo graces the cover and gives a candid interview that was conducted before her latest DUI arrest.

When asked about what she wants to do next, Ms. Lohan responds...
“There’s this Walter Salles film I really want to do. It’s called On the Road. It has the vibe of that movie The Dreamers […]"

I wonder if Lohan even knows that "On The Road" is a novel or who Jack Keruoac is? I guess she would fit right in with the cast of characters in the Lowell author's book.

There is hope for the east coast LA.

The Lowell Area has been rumored to be the site of Mark Wahlberg and Matt Damon's next project "The Fighter" — a bio-pic about boxer Micky Ward of Lowell. There is also always rumblings about the movie version of Jack Kerouac's "On The Road" that never seems to get off the ground.

Well, two California filmmakers scouted Lowell yesterday as a location for their flick "Christmas Jars". Kieth Merrill and Grant Baird want Keira Knightley to play the lead role in the feel good movie.

For more on this story, check out Kathleen Pierce's article in today's Lowell Sun on page 6.

No, no, no!

Soulful singer Amy Winehouse was treated and released from the hospital this morning for exhaustion. This comes after months of canceling shows at the last minute and rumors the singer is having troubles with the bottle.

A rep told TMZ that was ordered to take "complete rest."

Sounds like a familar downward spiral...

I am warning all of my Lowellita loyalists now that I am not on my A game. The certain burst that comes from deep within me and emits energy through my fingertips has been snuffed out this week.

I am now at the point where that burning desire in the pit of my stomach to let you all in on the torrid details of my so-called life is on the last inch of its wick.

What happens after it goes out?

I am not sure.

There comes a turning point in every person’s life when you ask yourself, “Is this it?” And do you know where this all hit me? Of all places — in the ladies’ room at a bar.
Without getting too vulgar, you get the picture.

In the stall, between the cell phone numbers scratched into the metal and political debates scribbled in different colored markers and handwriting, something caught my eye.
Amid all the graffiti musings about how meat is murder and the drawings depicting unnatural acts were nine bold block letters in green marker. All I could make out was “Lowellita,” then below it someone had taken a black marker and colored over the rest of the message.

I tried to see if I could read what was underneath. It could have just finished with a “was here,” but my mind was racing thinking of all the possibilities. And who else had seen it before some wonderful woman came along to spare me more embarrassment?

This was no bathroom humor. Actually, there was nothing funny about it. They say what you don’t know won’t hurt you, but this wasn’t the case.

After failed attempts to blot out my pseudonym with anything I could find in my purse — eyeliner, lip gloss, a Tide 2 Go Stick and even some chewed gum, nothing was going to erase my identity from this stank stall.

So there I was, standing in the rest room of a dive, staring face to face with my alter-ego. It wasn’t pretty or glamorous or anything like I thought it would be.

This is where the story of my life, which is this column, can take one of two turns. Will I continue down the same road that landed me on the wall next to the other graffiti? Or will I turn right onto a path I have never explored before and give it a chance?

I unlocked the stall, put my unfinished drink down on the bar and walked out the door into the balmy summer night, looking for something less familiar.

Where should Lowellita’s travels take her next in life? E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.

Preggers that is. A four months pregnant Nicole Richie stepped out in Los Angeles yesterday looking better than she ever has.

No word yet when she will turn herself in for her three-day jail sentence.

Are you a 20-something college grad who just can't seem to move out of mom and dad's?

Maybe you tried living on your own only to end up with your stuff in storage or your parents' basement and back in your childhood room — twin bed and all.

I am looking to speak with young professionals who can not afford to rent, nevermind buy, because of the high costs of living and/or their debt.

Send an e-mail to rbriere@lowellsun.com.

Lindsay Lohan came out of hiding yesterday from her stint in rehab at the Cirque Lodge in Orem, Utah. We don't know if she is hiding from the number of lawsuits piling up or the charges against her or even her spotlight stealing parents.

Whatever it is LiLo was spotted getting a spray tan then working out at Gold's Gym. Hey no matter what the problem is a girl's gotta stay in shape right?!?

TMZ is reporting that Lohan has been a "model patient" in rehab at the world-renowned Mormon facility.

Lowellita continues her journey to find herself this week, after discovering her name defaced on a bathroom stall. Is the writing on the wall for this columnist?

The bar door shut behind me with a weak thud. Not even a thud. It was more like a soft muffle. In reality it was barely audible. It was a similar sound to when you crept into your parents’ home way after curfew, tiptoeing up to your bedroom. A time before cell phones, when parents had no way of knowing whether you were in the next room wrapped up in your twin bed under your Nirvana poster or still running amok in abandoned mill buildings and the deep thicket of what little forest the city spares from condo development.

They would never imagine you were sitting at the crest of Fort Hill looking out at the lights of South Lowell that seemed to flutter as they turned off and on at this hour of the night. It was already way past your time to be home, but it didn’t matter. In the back of your mind, you knew that you would not be able to have this experience ever again — or at least until you were off groundation a month later.

There was no better feeling than that moment, perched on a falling tree, the rotting bark scraping the back of your thighs.

It was always the most interesting crowd that was left mingling early into the morning, grasping red Solo cups, filled with lukewarm foam, in their hands . The ones who didn’t care what their parents thought and the ones whose parents didn’t care about them. The reckless and the abandoned. The ones who would never sell out, never be tied down to a desk, never listen to anyone, never have any regrets, never be stuck — I was one of them, once.

It is strange that I noticed the sound of the door at all, after coming face to face with my alter-ego, rushing from the bathroom stall and uncharacteristically leaving a half-full beer on the bar. I didn’t even hear the band breaking into my favorite guitar riff, the clinking of an empty glass I knocked over hitting the wood floor, or my friend calling after me. It was as if I pressed the mute button in my mind.

Then there I was, trying to catch my breath in the thick summer air only this city’s canals can produce — a smell I have yet to find in any other place I have traveled. Maybe it was the slow flicker of the barroom’s faulty window sign. Or the chirping of the crickets in the minuscule sprigs of grass sprouting up from where the red brick building meets the asphalt. Or the echo of sirens off in the far distance across the bridge somewhere getting quieter and quieter as they drove into the depths of Lowell’s gritty underbelly.

It could have been all of these things combined. Whatever it was, those nights at the peak of the city all came rushing back to me. When I let the door close behind me, I was set to search for the unknown. Ironically, it was the familiarity of this city and its people that has inspired me.

It just hit me there and my stomach started to ache from either the beer, the depression or hunger. I was not going to let any of them get the best of me, so I headed into another familiar place where inspiration flows out of every inch of the place more freely than the grease — the Club Diner.

So far Lowellita’s travels have not taken her too far from her roots. Is there room for her to grow in Lowell? E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.

I don't know where to begin...Britney Spears was spotted out with Criss Angel at 4 a.m. this morning in the Towers Hotel of Beverly Hills. I am sure that K-Fed's child custody lawyer will be bringing this pic to court...noting the early morning hours Ms. Spears seems to keep.

The "MindFreak" must have something magical about him since he has recently been linked with blondes Paris Hilton and Cameron Diaz — who is sited in Angel's divorce papers as a reason for breaking up his marriage.

Donald Trump has a few job offers for the terrible tabloid trio...Paris Hilton, Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan. Trump plans on hiring one or all of them for his new "Celebrity Apprentice, after of course he insults them.

She's a "#$&$!@&% mess," he told Page Six about the Britster.

What a way to woo a potential employee! I am sure she will drop everything to go to work for you Donald!

Hilton's rep said he was not aware of any wheeling or dealing between Trump and his client. As for the other two we'll just have to wait and see.

Nicole Richie certainly looks healthy as she was photographed yesterday. Her baby-daddy, Joel Madden, announced he proposed to her sometime last week. No word yet if they have set a wedding date.

Speaking of babies..when is Tom Brady's finally going to bless the world with his prescense?

It better not be the Patriots season opener! And does anyone else find it fishy that Brady and Monahan broke up more than nine months ago????

Also, Christina Aguilera has not denied or confirmed if she is expecting or not. She has been spotted wearing loose flutter tops, but those are in style...any guesses?

Actress Bridget Moynahan and Patriots QB Tom Brady welcomed their son to the world yesterday. Brady flew to L.A. to be at Moynahan's side. No word yet if he will make it back for tomorrow nights pre-season game.

Lowellita has shut one door in this chapter of her life and is now opening up another. That door belongs to a late-night gathering place filled with the reckless and abandoned she seems to relate to. Will she finally find that burst of inspiration in this downtown Lowell institution?

I was in the ninth grade the first time I took a step through the squeaky front doors of the Club Diner. It was 7 a.m. on a bleak late November morning, the kind that siphons the life out of your existence. You awake with the street lights still on. No songbirds join in a chorus leading the soundtrack of your day. Only the off-tune piercing pulse of the clock radio and your neighbor¹s third attempt to turn over his car engine meet you on this brisk fall dawn.

The home room bell was set to ring in five minutes, but that was not as essential as the garlic-spiked homefries I had heard were legendary. A disheveled couple pushed their way past us on their way out the door. They stumbled onto the sidewalk. I watched as they seemed startled by the sunlight that had begun to crest and spill over the tip of the skeleton of the long forsaken mills. My friend turned to me and said, ³I didn¹t even know they made people like that anymore.²
Neither did I, but I was mesmerized by their presence ‹ or lack thereof.

I realized that although my breakfast buddy and I were just beginning our day, they were just ending theirs. I was instantly attracted to them. My runny eggs got cold as I repeatedly peppered my friend with questions she could not answer. Where do you think they came from? What do you think they ordered? Where do you think they are going? What is their story?

She was less than thrilled and suggested I go ask them myself. That was the moment I knew I wanted to tell the stories of people and their tribulations. Plus, I don¹t even like eggs.

My friend and I never spoke to each other again after sophomore year. I find this aspect of friendship the most peculiar. You attach yourself to a person at a certain time in your life, delving into the depths of their idiosyncrasies, discovering their vices and sharing intimate moments. Years later, you can pass the same person on the street and barely whimper a hello, never mind make eye contact or muster a weak grin.

That was my initial introduction to the Dutton Street institution. But it wasn¹t until years later, after last call one night, that I had my first true Club Diner experience.

When there is no sunlight, the place is like a cocoon. Thick, sticky and filled with people who can escape at anytime, but instead remain inside. It glows like a beacon floating amidst a sea of crimson brick and concrete, attracting all the bugs that flutter about in the small radius of downtown Lowell.

Every inch of the place ‹ the floor, the booths, the vinyl stool tops, the ketchup bottles ‹ is bathed in a coating. A scent seems to linger on the skin of the people who spill out of there early in the morning. There is something in the air here. Everyone who flanks the counter seems to have an aura around them. It is the meeting place for those who come alive when the sun goes down. The ones who find it difficult to maintain a normal 9-to-5 schedule.

Exhausted by what took place earlier in the evening, I rested all my weight atop the last empty seat at the counter. I had to be up, showered and ready to start the day in six hours, when I hadn¹t even finished the one before. I took a sip of my black coffee, brushing the man seated next to me with my elbow.

The unkempt guy turned to look at me and asked if I smoked. I replied no and he proceeded to pull two Camels from his tattered soft-pack.

³There¹s a first time for everything,² he said, handing me the smoke and walking toward the door.

I took one more sip of my coffee and scurried to catch the door before it closed behind him.

Will Lowellita find the answers she is looking for from this rogue character, like she did when she saw the couple leave there a decade earlier or will her curiosity get the best of her? E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.

Owen Wilson's apparent suicide attempt was not over his break up with comic cutie, Kate Hudson. Reports are surfacing now that he had a falling out with a close friend before a family member found him with his wrists slit next to an empty bottle of pills.

Hudson and Wilson broke it off this past spring. She has been in Boston filming a new movie with Dane Cook. Her new boy toy is Dax Shepard, who has appeared in other Cook flicks and also on the MTV show Punk'd.

Wilson released a statement asking the press and public to let him be as he recovers.

The Brady baby has been named...and it isn't a Brady. Actress Bridget Moynahan and Patriots QB Tom Brady son is now officially John Edward Thomas Moynahan.

Ouch! Sounds like some unsportsman-like conduct on the field.

For the second time in her life, Lowellita has met someone at The Club Diner that has piqued her interest. Has she finally found what she is looking for?

I erupted from the womb of the tin building into the damp dawn air. Above me the sky seemed to toss aside its thick opaque blanket to reveal a softness underneath. The sparkle of the stars had been smothered by a more prominent background light that was beginning to sprawl across the tip of the horizon. The street light was still on outside The Club Diner, but I produced no shadow standing in its delicate gleam.

There is something bewitching about this time of day, if it actually is a time. There is a stillness. To me it is the part of day I savor the most. To insomniacs it is a scourge.

When does a day end and the next one begin if you have not actually said your prayers and shut your eyes?

The calendar had put an ‘X’ through yesterday and went onto tomorrow leaving me one day behind. Not that I minded. To some, staying out all night only to shuffle through the daylight with your eyes half closed is destructive behavior. To me, a spontaneous moment that may only happen once is much more important to relish than the doldrums of what many call their everyday existence.

I noticed that the hair began to stand on my arms and that my clothing was starting to get damp, clinging to my body from the heavy dew in the morning air. The moisture had cleansed away the film of second-hand smoke, spilled Pabst and maybe some sins that I had accumulated from my travels that evening.

I lost track of how long I had been lingering on the sidewalk and then recalled that I followed my counter companion out the swinging metal door. The rogue who had offered me a smoke and left a $10 bill atop his scrambled eggs as he floated out into downtown Lowell.
He had put on his faded Army green raincoat and began to walk down the middle of Dutton Street. I found it strange that he was carrying a trench at all since it was not raining or in the prediction. The farther he headed away from me, the more his outline began to fade into the backdrop of the mill buildings. Eventually the only thing visible was the lit end of his cigarette dancing like a firefly in the wet air.

I could easily let him slip into the abyss that Lowell seems to possess. The black hole where people that are lifelong residents of this city meet once but never cross cobblestone paths again. Or I could follow after him and look the rising sun in the eye — side by side. He took the corner at Market Street and I watched as he flicked his still lit Camel into the canal only to light another one without missing a step in his swagger. I followed.

We walked the length of Market Street without saying a word. He was chain smoking, I was keeping a watchful eye on his movements. He was not much older than I, but had a thick tough layer of skin that seemed harder than his years. He had developed wrinkles at the corner of his eyes that I believe were not from too much sun, but his affinity for tobacco. He held his cigarette between his thumb and index finger rolling it back and forth over his calloused finger tips. His eyes resembled those of a figure of Jesus on the crucifix — lamentable but optimistic yet almost empty.

We both didn’t have to say anything to each other. It is one of those feelings that you experience when you meet a person that is the mirror image of yourself internally. You are both elated that this person exists, but there is an overwhelming feeling of impending doom. It is the simplest rule of life — there is never a high without a low.

I hadn’t even realized that we had stopped walking and were now standing under the ominous green rusted arches of the Cox Bridge that hung above us like menacing mistletoe. It was eerily silent, enough that I could hear the shifting bolts of the bridge clanging. The sun had now began to illuminate Christian Hill, but still left the rest of lower Centralville in the dark. He made a motion with his chin toward the neighborhood.

“Strange how that reflects life there,” he said softly.

I knew from this point on I was crossing into a new adventure in my life.

Where will Lowellita’s travels around the Mill City take her next? E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.

In the ongoing drama that is the Kevin Federline-Britney Spears custody battle, the falling pop princess's former manager, Larry Rudolph, has now been subpoened to appear in court.

Rudolph called Ryan Seacrest's radio show earlier this week saying he was in hiding, so he didn't have to testify against his ex-client.

He was served this morning at a Sunset Tan in West Los Angeles. Rudolph joins a long list of those who have been called to court by Fed-Ex's lawyer, Mark Vincent Kaplan.

Someone must have something to hide.

Angelina Jolie took her little angel, Shiloh, to Central Park Zoo in New York yesterday. The baby with the perfect genes is being compared to the Gerber baby on TMZ.

Take a look what do you think?