Boy another stunt from the Obama campaign, it makes us sick. The radical Democratic candidate is leaving the campaign trail for "more than 36 hours" to head over to exotic, foreign "Hawaii" to look after his 85-year-old grandmother Madelyn Dunham, who is "gravely ill." Mrs. Dunham raised young Obama for many of his childhood years, and she's among the last of his immediate family left. As we all also know, Obama hates his terrible racist grandmother with a fiery angry black radical passion, because she is a racist. We know this because in a frank and honest interview following his smart and important speech on race, he called her a "typical white person" because she is at heart a kind and good person who sometimes feels irrational prejudices. This enraged Geraldine Ferraro, and others. It was a punchline at The Corner for a good six months. As we all know it is very important for a young man of mixed racial background raised by white people to never acknowledge that those white people are anything but idealized perfection incarnate. To admit that you are pained when they reveal deep-set prejudices is nothing but PLAYING THE RACE CARD. It is disgusting that Barack Obama will now have us believe that he "loves" his grandmother. We expect the conservative commentariat to back us up on this point shortly.

Julian Schnabel's venetian-red West Village palace is an emblem of New York's high-end real-estate boom. The gorgeous condo tower—designed down to every detail by the obsessive artist and director—commanded prices of up to $7,000 per square foot, a record for downtown Manhattan. Or at least that's the price Schnabel was banking on. The only real measure of the value of Palazzo Chupi is the 3,500 square foot apartment bought last year for $12m by Richard Gere. The Hollywood star tried to flip the property for a quick $6m profit; but it now looks like he'll be lucky merely to make his money back.

"All of us are vulnerable,'' Google CEO Eric Schmidt told a Bloomberg reporter yesterday . "It's a race between a contraction in advertising, which would affect everybody, and a very positive shift from offline to online." Carly Fiorina couldn't have said it better. This photo of Squirrel Boy with Barack Obama and PepsiCo Chairwoman and CEO Indra Nooyl is a bit stale — July 28 — but it makes the point: Schmidt has what Tom Wolfe called the right stuff to lead geeks. Try to picture Larry and Sergey in that room as the co-heads of U.S. technical preparedness for a terrorist attack. Vint Cerf, maybe, if he ever ships a project more tangible than Net Neutrality. (Photo by Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images)

The financial crisis is having some unexpected effects on the American people, but now things are getting disturbing: Instead of doing the sensible thing and searching for answers at the bottom of a glass, people are turning to reading, of all things. Both Borders and Amazon, reports Reuters, continue to see a trend towards finance books "from biographies of key players to books about past financial crises."

Anne Pressly, the anchorwoman of a 5 a.m. TV newscast in Little Rock, Arkansas, was attacked in her home, beaten, and stabbed some time early Monday morning. She's now in critical condition. Her other claim to fame: she played (a younger, more attractive) Ann Coulter in the new Oliver Stone flick W. And like the restaurant critic yesterday who was attacked in Albany, there seems to be some suspicion Pressly may have been specifically targeted:

Yesterday, I met Gabriel Snyder, the former W Magazine writer who's starting as Gawker's new managing editor next week. We're coworkers, since Gawker Media publishes both Gawker and Valleywag. He seems nice enough. But one thing worries me: He has a Friendster profile, which was quite au courant in 2003. The profile, like the site itself, is seriously out of date, listing Snyder as single. He's engaged. Sorry, ladies.

The Gossip Girl kids are ever transacting, aren't they? Bartering their bodies for desired outcomes, weighing and counting the merits of friendships, making cost benefit analyses, finally going ahead with the sale or not. It begins to get exhausting to keep track of—who's making out like a bandit, who's penniless, who's anti-capitalist, etc. Last night's episode especially, with its flurry of goods, services, and statuses being exchanged back and forth, willy nilly. A whirlwind! But anyway, let's dispense with this hackneyed metaphor and just get on to the "good" stuff after the jump. We began, as I hope we do more often, with a sunshine-yellow (those shirts!) breakfast at the Bass-van der Woodsen household, where Bart was finally making an appearance. He and Lily were going to be parents, you see and decided to lay down the law. Chuckles! None of your gallivanting. Boring girl! None of your whatever it is you do. Gay one! No more gaying! Serena reacted brattily and bitchily to the news, because well, why not. Her character has never shown any of those qualities before, making it completely inconsistent with whatever meager bit of personality that the writers had cobbled together up to that point, but whatever. She got to wear a hot orange dress and piss off her elders. Meanwhile, Enrique was struggling with his gayness after being kicked out of his house, but luckily his teacher Mr. Katimski was there to help him ou— Oh, wait a second. Sorry. I just had a My So-Called Life flashback. No, hah hah, on Gossip Girl the gay character, Erik, meets floppy haired boyfriends and brings them to brunch with his gorgeous sister and her gorgeouser friend, who are both chipper and curious. Yes, Erik has a boyfriend! His name is Floppy and he is floppy and a gay person. That is fun! Other gay people include: Dan Humphrey, who after being hilariously defensive about his lack of bromances, called up Nate Archibald for a little game of one-on-one ball play. Soccer! I mean soccer. In Latin America, they call it futbol. But here we call it soccer. Well, Dan forgot where he was supposed to meet young Nathaniel, so he went to Archibald manor. Which—holy Christmas!—had been SEIZED (it said so in large letters). Using his Nancy Drew-like woman's intuition, Dan went down to the garden level apartment, broke through the chain, and found inside a sad little scene. A tiny bed, a mess of clothes (Brooks Brothers, Dan cattily points out later), and probably some open cans of half-eaten cold Chef Boyardee. Poor broke ass Nate is squatting while his moms holes up in the Hamptons. Dan feels bad. Also feeling bad was Blair, who was being blackmailed with really old and who-the-f-cares info about the Duke and the Cougar (or whatever) by, um, Vanessa? Really? Again with the major character inconsistency. (Also despairingly inconsistent is V's hair, which last night looked like Gene Simmons' wig had been put in the dryer too long.) Vanessa wanted to save —ha ha ha ha—The Brooklyn Inn from wicked gentrifiers, even though... um. That place? Is pretty yuppie at this point. But in Gossip Girl land it's a soulful dive that's owned by a music-loving Magical Negro. And it must be protected! So Blair was forced to get petition signatures and she decided to get really Dangereuses about it and will Chuckles into a sex pact. If he destroyed Vanessa—humped, stripped of her favorite bar, one enormous dangly bling bling overdone earring missing—increasingly pathetic Blair would let him sample her new and improved Panini Hot Pocket. The game was afoot! Serena kept acting out, pissed at her moms for being all "I've been married 142 times, and now you will obey" about the whole sitch. Then she found out that Floppy had been disinvited from the big party—oh, yeah, there was some sort of party goin' awn at van der Bass acres—and she was all "oh, hellllll no" and decided to be a bitch to some reporters. "My mom's husbands have done cocaine and kept her away from us!" Lily was embarrassed, Bart's face tightened a little more (he's looking a little peaked these days, isn't he?). Eventually though, everyone realized that love was all they needed and Erik made the worst "our ringtone for you was 'Since U Been Gone'" joke that made me keen loudly for the Old World in which people who wrote lines like that didn't get hired to write for network teleivision shows, so they ate cake together and were, finally, a family. Except, um. Chuckles wasn't there. He was busy actually acting nice to Veronica or whoseits about her little Lafitte's Blacksmith. You see, he actually wanted to rescue the place with his oodles of money. Plus he got to be the good guy to this struggling Chicana. Yeah, a fella could get used to that. Too bad Bart had other plans for him. At the party, Bart said "no! no!" to Chuckles' plans and he felt sad. Then Blair acted the bitch with V, telling her about the wicked bet. Chuck was all pissed off and ended up back at the crumbling old aqueduct of a watering hole and told Bagger Vance that he would, by gum or by golly (if necessary), save this important booze parlor. Vanessa lurked in the shadows, vaguely impressed. Or something. Then Chuck, lying essentially, went to get a stiff Waldorfing, which Blair meeped and pouted for in her little red gymnastics outfit. They got almost there, but then Chuck—bizarrely! seriously, what's going on with all these characters these days?—asked B to say those three magic words. Those eight easy letters. And she couldn't. So he left to scour riverbeds like the catfish he is, telling Blair it was time she pursued him. Which just... didn't fit with anything. Oh well! Lest I forget, Dan and Nate fell more and more in love. At first Nate was angry that Dan knew about the pauperdom, but then he came over for chili and Dan took him in his big strong arms and petted his soft, Leeza Gibbons-y highlighted hair, and all was right with the world. Little Jenny fluttered around like a bird in a Disney movie and Pa Humphrey, kindly old King Triton that he is, sang a low song while the boys danced together, fumbling—like fawns, or Lt. Dan, on new legs—ever closer toward ecstasy. And so we close another chapter of our sordid tale of the way New York City was once, when a rich lady named Cecily fell down some stairs and during her unconsciousness dreamt of a place where Floppy exists, where boys will be boys and sometimes more, where home schooled Latina goddesses champion the noble cause of Carroll Gardens bars, and where a Valmont and a Merteuil are forever circling one another; each feint and bow and jab more piercing than the last, more urgent than the desert's need for rain. It's a silly world, but I sort of love it. Oh! And I should mention. There will be another Gossip Girl Summit! It is being organized by the hilarious comedienne Sara Benincasa (she of the outstanding Sarah Palin impersonation) and will feature an esteemed panel of funny and informed guests, plus shambly old yours truly. It's on Saturday, November 15th and more info is here. Hope to see you there!

Rep. Vito Fossella was convicted of driving under the influence in a Virginia courtroom last week. This came after Fossella's attorney offered up a rather novel defense: the congressman wasn't really drunk, he'd just used a lot of hand sanitizer that day, and it was all that goo that was responsible for his blood-alcohol level testing above the legal limit. Fortunately, Slate has the answer to the big question that has been looming ever since: No, it turns out, rubbing your hands with Purell every other minute of the day will not get you drunk. Although considering it's 120-proof, chugging it certainly will. [Slate]

@WiredReader: Kill yr blog. 2004 over. Google won't find you. Too much cruft from HuffPo, NYT. Commenters are tards. C u on Facebook? That's all you need to read from my essay at the front of Wired's new November issue. The rest is good, thanks to stellar editing, but these days a 600-word essay — and a headline like "Kill Your Blog" — only stand out in print. See? They changed it online.

In the same way people thought television and movies and the invention of thumb-twiddling would kill the radio industry, people were convinced the iPod would be the thing that pulled listeners away from commercial radio forever. But they failed to anticipate how utterly lazy and uncultured Americans are! Radio gained millions of listeners last year; young people's time listening to radio rose 11%, while their time listening to iPods dropped 13%. The whelps love Bubba the Love Sponge, or whoever is on "the dial" these days! So then why can't radio make any money?

A couple of weeks ago, Michael Bloomberg's bid to change term limit laws was going rather smoothy. He'd managed to sweet talk Ronald Lauder into not opposing the measure, members of the City Council appeared to be on board with the plan, and New Yorkers were generally supportive. Now? Not so much. Not only did he spark a scandal over his charity donations and is now facing off against another billionaire with an agenda, public opinion has officially turned against him, too: A poll by Quinnipiac University found that 51 percent of New Yorkers are now opposed to his bid to extend term limits, up from 42% two weeks ago. Bloomberg isn't expected to abandon his bid to remain in City Hall for another four years. But it also isn't too late to endorse Obama, campaign like hell for him over the course of the next two weeks, and pray that a cabinet position will become available when Obama takes office in January!

We haven't yet heard who will be the entertainment at Yahoo's Christmas party, scheduled for December 6, four days before the company proceeds with mass layoffs. Yet again, it's being held at a convention center by a racetrack — this year, with a Vegas theme. 2007's party featured a Neil Diamond cover band. For this year, how about Money For Nothing, the Dire Straits tributaries? We're sure they're cheap. Good thing, because a tipster familiar with Yahoo's budget says the company will spend $8 million to $10 million this year on holiday parties alone.Not just the bash in San Mateo, but also festivities for Yahoo's offices in Los Angeles, New York, and around the world. Oh, and more for the divisions. "Each department below Jerry has a party, so you end up going to at least four parties, all for the same company," says our source. For Yahoo, this is just business as usual. "The company leadership is in denial and there are parties every week," our source continues. If a Hollywood producer were to order up a company born out of California's touchy-feely, you're-okay-I'm-okay self-esteem movement, Dreamtown's best screenwriters would be hard pressed to come up with a more risible example than Yahoo, a company devoted to celebrating itself, at the expense of doing anything worth celebrating. Yahoos may not be doing OC-80, but they're addicted to fun for fun's sake — conveniently paid by shareholders. Bread and circuses; but four days after the circus is over, many Yahoos will lose their bread. (Photo by isaacschlueter)

[Tom Cruise, the original Maverick, with Katie Holmes, the original Rachel Dawson, leaving Hermès on Madison Avenue yesterday; image via Bauer-Griffin]

Will beleaguered bankers become a victimized group, ostracized and pushed to the fringes of society? Very possibly! As Time points out today, "people are angry and looking for someone to blame, and the banks and their employees are natural targets." Yesterday's Masters of the Universe, observes psychologist Dr. Peter Jenkin Morgan, now don't want to admit what their job is—or was—because they've "been placed in that second-hand car salesman category." Ouch!

Though you were, as usual, somewhat divided, the majority of you seemed to think that yesterday's singer with a stealing husband was poor old Ashlee Simpson. Would serve her right, in my estimation. Anyway, today we have a tiny singer who's scared of getting caught with drugs, a reality show couple who's just pretending to be a couple (gasp!), and an actress dating a married man. 1) "Which pint-sized crooner recently stood up his date because he was too scared to drive into Canary Wharf? The star feared the area's tight security would sniff out his drugs." [Mirror] 2) "This reality show couple who basically makes a living being a couple is not really the couple they pretend to be. It seems that not only do the couple not sleep together, most of the time they do not even sleep in under the same roof. Can't stand each other, but suffer through pretending for the sake of the money. Not who you are thinking. Think bigger." [CDaN] 3) "This actress has finally landed a married man. She tore her way through married actors, singers and athletes, and now she’s got her married man. He’s so smitten that he’s ready to go public. He has already bought his mistress a condo." [BlindGossip]

The Tivo users among us have decided that they no longer need to watch television commercials, but rest assured that their unpatriotic fast-forwarding will not go unpunished. The entire advertising industry in now engaged in nothing except figuring out how to make TV viewers watch ads whether they want to or not. The most popular method is to try to turn commercials into "shows" themselves, or mix up advertising and actual content so much that you have to watch both. But CBS is raising the question: what if the advertising and the content are equally annoying?

Here are snapshots of the world's biggest blog titles—as they are now and as they were at launch. Here's Gawker from 2003 when the gossip site was edited by Elizabeth Spiers—and from yesterday. Less change than one might expect: the logo has shrunk because the site has less need to trumpet its arrival; the ad is real rather than a placeholder; the testimonials and blogroll have gone from the sidebar to be replaced by data about pageviews and comments; the skyline of top stories is new; and the site is rather more visual than it was. But the ancestry is unmistakeable.

♦ Mariska Hargitay has sold her Flatiron penthouse for $8.15 million. The buyers are real estate investors Ewa and Maurice Laboz. [NYO]
♦ Bank of America exec Ciaran O'Kelly, who paid $17 million for a 12,800-square-foot converted warehouse in the West Village this past July, has sold his previous apartment. The co-head of global equities for BoA unloaded the pad at 102 Wooster Street for $5.375 million. [Cityfile]

If you're still mourning the passing of the New York Sun, here's your chance to indulge in a bit of nostalgia: a (very tragic) denim Sun jacket is up for auction on Ebay for $9.99. [Ebay]

If golddiggers of all persuasions are having a tougher time right now, that includes fictional ones like Janey Wilcox, the Victoria's Secret model whose pursuit of a very rich husband forms the story of Candace Bushnell's novel Trading Up. The book was in the process of being adapted into a Lifetime movie but suddenly, rues a network exec to the Times, "it was like the script had been written two years ago." Talking animals, however, are doing great: Beverly Hills Chihuahua has been killing it at the box office, which Hollywood studios will likely take as proof that audiences want anything but reality right now—as tempting as it might be to rush out films featuring villainous businessmen.