Earlier, I had confessed my secret desire to run my tongue along the stubble of Mr. Britney Spears, Kevin Federline. But now there's a new debate:

David Amsden happily leers between Alex Mar and Alexandra Kerry

Attention all Sony staffers: Do you find yourself tense and burned out from a day of making movie-widgets for your corporate Japanese masters and need a place on the lot to decompress? Finally, a chance for relief:

From today's New York Times review of The Name of This Play is Talking Heads:

· We don't know how much more celebrity heartbreak we can handle; Brigitte Nielsen and Flavor Flav are no longer an item (shock!), and Nielsen has married her 28-year-old Italian houseboy, Mattia Dessi. [R&M]
· Jeff Koyen's resignation from the New York Press enters the name-calling phase in under 24 hours. [Page Six
· Potentially bad news for the ladies and good news for the gents: Prince William is a big fan of Desperate Housewives. [Lowdown (bottom of page)]
· Nicole Kidman continues to overcompensate for God-knows-what by signing a three-year, first-look deal with Blueprint Films as a producer. [Page Six]
· Sylvester Stallone's mother, Jacqueline, may be getting her own reality TV show, in which she doles unsolicited psychic advice and embarasses the hell out of her son. [Scoop]

We missed last night's premiere of Kirstie Alley's lastest resuscitation, Fat Actress, because we don't have Showtime (does anyone?). The pilot episode (creatively titled Big Butts) is available in its entirety online, however, so we decided to try watching it this morning. We lasted exactly 4 minutes and 52 seconds — that's about all we could take of Alley's heaving bosom. Granted, we weren't expecting Curb Your Enthusiasm-caliber entertainment, but we also weren't ready to deal with Alley's version of improvisation, which seems to revolve around her cleavage. We'd like to think we're strong people, but is anyone so strong as to deal with Alley clomping about in a negligee?

Admit it: deep down inside of you, in a nasty little crevice of your soul, you secretly want to be a publicist. Right? While you revel in the tales of evil misdeeds and audacious comments, you're actually jealous. You want to be part of the PR cult; you're a great liar, as is, and you want to get paid for your talents.

· Halle Berry is not to be trusted, and the Gays are onto her: "I feel that under the clause of 'equal protection under the law,' gay men should have a fair and equal shot at hot young fuckable guys BEFORE that Halle Berry beauch can turn them all into heterosexuals." [Drama NYC]
· Richard Hatch continues to fight the IRS. Isn't vanity amusing? We think so. Heh. [TaxProf]
· The Times informs us that "getting a fake ID is a right of passage," and we inform the Times that learning about homophones is a rite of passage. Not that we should nitpick — but what the hell, we're cranky about being indoors right now. [NYT]
· You didn't expect Matthew Barney and Bjork to sleep on a Serta, did you? [Kapow Design]
· Today's cross-blogination comes at the behest of our dark master, who's currently enjoying the wonders of actual blogging. And since one writes what one knows, we're none too surprised to see an analysis of skinny dipping at Soho House. [Gridskipper]

We just don't get it. This Saturday, Backstreet Boy Nick Carter was arrested in Huntington Beach, California, on drunk driving charges (it's the family way). We understand why he was drunk — you'd probably drowning yourself in moonshine, too, if you dated Paris Hilton and only had an abusive reputation to show for it. What leaves us concerned and ultimately befuddled is why, God, why would Nick Carter endanger himself and the hearts of all seven of his fans? The Backstreet Boys are touring later this month, and we just can't imagine how Carter would be so reckless as to risk the hundreds of dollars of revenue he stands to make. Something must be done before this gets out of control... Ooooh, can we put him on A&E's Intervention? We'd love to see little brother Aaron read aloud some heartfelt letter about his pain. It'd make their pop music so real, y'know?

· Go ask Jonathan Demme why Stop Making Sense was so damn awesome and why Silence of the Lambs was so damn creepy at the Steinhardt Building tonight, where he speaks with NY Press film critic Armond White. [92Y]
· Whatever "burlesque slowcore" is, Edison Woods plays it. The music apparently involves violins, synthesizers, and more moodiness than David Lynch on PMS. Head to Joe's Pub and see if this is as odd if it sounds. [flavorpill]
· Hear Lit-friendly band One Ring Zero potentially suck (their words, not ours) at Barbes in Brooklyn, or try to finagle a ticket for Ambulance, LTD and VHS or Beta at Bowery. Either way, you'll be hipper than an Olsen at a thrift store. [One Ring Zero and BB]

On Saturday evening, we briefly stopped by El Guapo to watch the next generation of Hollywood power players throw ping pong balls at each other, guzzle beer, and generally beat the shit out of their peers in the name of good, clean, intermural bloodsport. We didn't stick around too long, for the action had reached such a fever pitch that we feared we'd be forced into a naked pyramid by a serious-looking team wearing military fatigues. Reports from the tourney have trickled in, and this is what we've heard: Rich Demato's Endeavor team captured the trophy (Ari Emanuel must be tickled with delight), three different fights broke out, and Benderspink's JC Spink got in a punch-up with an assistant (from another company, uckily) that spilled onto the sidewalk. That feisty go-getter will probably be running a studio by close of business today.

Just now on CNN, Martha Stewart gave a speech to her employees about how lovely it is to have the whip returned to her nicely moisturized hand. She's learned a lot and is blathering in measured tones (almost as if she were doing an impression of Ana Gasteyer doing an impression of Stewart) about preserving values — this probably has something to do with prisoners' right to bake fig pies or something. Meanwhile, the cameraman attempts a desperate zoom on the ankles of Martha Stewart. The CNN commentator notes:

Before you start pawning all of your possession to rent a Hollywood-endorsed "dip n' dunk" photo booth, consider that Sunday's NYT piece contains numerous indications that the trend is already colder than a Republican in Carrie Fisher's guest room:

Following in the pointed, plastic footsteps of Lindsay Lohan and Ann Coulter, Gawker Media, in conjunction with Lucky Magazine, is proud to present: Wonkette, the doll.

Sightings are sent in by readers; send yours to tips@gawker.com.

If the Times identifies a trend, you know it s already over. Sadly, this is bad news for our precious little Mary-Kate Olsen, who was dubbed by this weekend s Styles section as a fashion star. If it were coming from any other source, this might be interpreted as a compliment, but instead the Times praises Olsen s style of Dumpster dressing:

The range of emotions at the event: serious, sexy, serious. That's about all them there foreign people do.

· Lizzie Grubman continues to drum up buzz for her upcoming MTV reality show, Power Girls, by disparaging practically everyone and revealing that she is little more than a "professional ass-kisser." We couldn't have said it better ourselves. [ELK]
· Our perma-tan brother to the left is desperately trying to sell out. Should anyone be interested in his "talents" and "services," we here at Gawker would like to attest to his complete inability to bathe. [Lowdown (2nd item)]
· Bad news for all you strange Gates-ophiles: Christo and Jeanne-Claude will not sell off parts of their project, which means you'll have to go back to planning your yard around a gazebo instead. [Page Six]
· More speculation on the closeted sexuality of Anderson Cooper — this time, he's pissed off Michael Musto, who just wants Andy to come out and play. [Gatecrasher]
· There's something about John Randolph Hearst's divorce and his fondness for his nurse, but we can't read anything that involves using "Bunky" as a proper noun. [R&M]
· Because the Hilton sisters are completely retarded, Nicky Hilton lost her cell phone at the Vanity Fair Oscar party. Never, ever give these girls your number. [Page Six]

Another week, another New York Times story that would be perfect for a Hollywood adaptation: To the Ramparts, Hipsters, and Hold the Latte, from this weekend's 'City' section.

Dear Fred Durst,