Brandon Davis vs Taj Burrow

Stab hunts down Brandon Davis and holds him to account for cuckolding Australia’s most radical surfer… By Charlie Smith in Holllywood I FEAR THE END OF CELEB GOSSIP MADNESS IS AT HAND. When middle class mom is aware and involved in something, that thing is officially done. A shame, really, cuz how will our beloved Top 44 find out if their lady friends are necking with cuddly teenage millionaires? Whatever for pro surfers, I guess, but I really do feel bad for the cuddly teenage millionaires. Their bread (cocaine) and butter (homosexual orgies) have been these very magazines, websites, and blogs. Without TMZ, Nicole Ritchie would just be another anorexic mulatto and Brandon Davis would just be another fat Turk. Speaking of Brandon Davis, he’s the tub o guts who stole the loverly Cheyenne Tozzi from Taj Mahal Burrow (the story broke while TB was in SA carving up Billabong Pro J-Bay). Sad. Being a dedicated surf journalist, I decided to track Davis down and get his side of this sordid tale. Ain’t as easy as you’d think. Los Angeles is a maze of hip and less hip clubs/bars/lounges and Brandawg is persona non grata in more than one. His velvet rope denials have made gossip writers squeal with delight (Taj isn’t the only feller who loathes BD). So finding him means gracing the wrong club at the right time. A painful necessity. I hate the uncool. Brandon has made his name by coming of age in the “Era of Heirs” (officially 2003-2006). His grandpappy was an oil magnate and billions of theoretical dollars float around his family tree. Anyhow, he’d be a normal turd in a BMW except he dated Mischa Barton, hangs out with Paris H. and called Lindsey Lohan dirty names. Oh yeah, and now he sees Tajikistan’s ex-girl. He gets singled out for being greasy and fat, but frankly, I don’t see the difference between him, Stavros Niachros, David Katzenberg or Brody Jenner. They’re all worthless motherfucken doughboys. After hitting up gross totally yesterday “hotspots” LAX, Geisha House, Koi, and Element I finally found Brandon wedged into a booth at The Standard Hollywood. The Standard is not a club, it’s an Andre Balazs hotel but everyone who’s anyone eats there after a night on the town. Some sort of weird “famous-for-being-famous” democratic spirit reigns supreme. This night, Brandon was near the back with a pathetic crew stuffing French fries in his spammy mouth. None of these fame-bots travel in groups less than 12. I had a cold, which gave me that cotton otherworldly feeling. Perfect for conversing with a C-list celebutant. I approached with a Long Island Ice Tea for my man Brandon (nasty people should drink nasty drinks). BTW, it’s totally no prob to walk up to people at places like The Standard. It’s, literally, so full of “industry folk” that if you act right, they assume they know you/should know you/slept with you. Hollywood is a town of two-second memories. All you need is a bit of swagger and not stupid clothes (plus I’ve done crap TV stuff so I know people and I know people who know people who know people. Baby.). And another BTW, having lots of “development meetings” at Vh1/Fox/William Morris/ Brian Grazer’s poorly decorated office will give you the gayest shmoozie skills possible. Highly recommended.