L.A. Innuendo editor/amateur stuntman Richard Rushfield indulges his taste for Mountain Dew-style extreme risks and courts grievous bodily injury for Slate, donning the t-shirts of both political campaigns and plunging headlong into the city's most partisan neighborhoods. Amazingly, he survives the ordeal in this charged climate without so much as a bite mark or kicked shin, though he is called an "asshole" by a Silverlake hipster. He does, however, manage to spook a toddler with the spectre of Dick Cheney:

As sadly reported by E! Online, the wonderful, unhinged Nick Nolte Diary is a fake. A couple of screenwriters were behind the blog, which now is littered with disclaimers about its parodical intentions, changes no doubt fueled by a friendly note from Nolte's lawyers. The pranksters explain:

An O.C. resident who was the lucky recipient of MTV's Pimp My Ride shitcan restoration largesse is now turning out the rebuilt car on eBay. She's looking for a starting bid of $18,000 to get the ball rolling, but so far has no takers (with only 4 hours left!). Oh, the ingratitude. We hope that the profit motive doesn't overtake some of MTV's other on-screen charity cases; we shudder to think what might wind up for auction should that tranny from I Want a Famous Face (who wanted to look like J. Lo) need to make a quick buck.

Variety's report of Hunter S. Thompson's book party at Taschen on Tuesday night (the night after his storied Book Soup event) contains no references to vomiting, Chivas, or signing books while prostrate. Maybe he was on his best behavior to confound the celebrities assembled (Sean Penn, Anjelica Huston, Hef and the Bunnies) to kiss his Gonzo ring. This time, though, it looks like Benicio del Toro came prepared by wearing some gloves, just in case things got messy again.

Sweet Baby Jesus on a bed of lettuce, there are two of them. (Or, depending on your perspective, four of them.) Are we seeing double, or are we merely gripped in the bony hand of existential dread? There is indeed good reason to panic: The appearance of another Reid (the one on the left is called Colleen) could signal the collapse of the entire Los Angeles nightlife industry, as there is no guarantee that our city's alcohol delivery systems are adequate to handle such a spike in demand. Pray for us. We're so disturbed we're not even going to mention the nipple slip.

Yet another report from the now-legendary Hunter S. Thompson book signing rolls in, cementing its place in literary promotional history alongside F. Scott Fitzgerald's notorious public masturbation during a reading from Tender is the Night at Samuel French. We'd make that lazy Rashomon reference that journalists are so enamored of to describe our multiple reader reports, but a) we've never actually seen Rashomon, and b) everyone pretty much agrees that Thompson was obliterated. Goddamn, he's still our hero. Enjoy Book the Third of Dr. Gonzo's Wild Signing:

The Defamer correspondent on autumn melanin levels spots the beginnings of what might soon become a full-blown epidemic: overtan C-list celebrities in October. Why do these people insist on looking like the bastard hybrid of basted turkeys and Wilson footballs when Halloween approaches? We think that the status explanation no longer holds, since anyone with a handful of coupons can stand in a booth for five minutes and get their "island vacation" spray-painted on to golden-brown order. Our correspondent reports:

A reader offers another view of Hunter S. Thompson's Monday night signing at Book Soup. This version is disappointingly devoid of the HST-vomiting-as-Benicio-del-Toro-watches tableaux, but leaves a number people standing on the sidewalk with unsigned books. The booze-induced puking strikes us as decidely more gonzo than skipping out on his fans.

This morning, Tara Reid's publicist opened her e-mail expecting to see happy news about the must-have spa treatment or today's hottest shoe sale. Instead, her Daily Candy taunts her with this, and her latte probably wound up tossed against the nearest assistant:

Last night's Book Soup signing with unregenerate Gonzo godfather Hunter S. Thompson seems to have lived up to the hype, as 300 people lined up to get HST's scrawled inscription on their copies of his new book. An attendee sends us this report of the proceedings, which featured Benicio del Toro holding Thompson's hair back (he has hair?) as he vomited behind the store, and a "semi-coherent" Thompson signing books on the floor. Hopefully, this chronicle of Thompson's vintage Fear and Loathing antics isn't just an attempt at Gonzo-flavored reportage by our operative. The report follows after the jump.

Defamer is committed to connecting our readers with job opportunities utilizing skill sets unique to the Hollywood experience. Promises Malibu, the upscale rehabilitation center for actors seeking the street cred that only a hard-fought battle with the demons of substance abuse in a luxury beach resort can afford, is seeking a Director of Marketing in this Craigslist ad:

Sometime after we wrongheadedly and selfishly put our laptop away on Friday afternoon to attend to some piddling personal matters, Britney Spears posted her long-awaited "Letter of Truth" on her official website. And: She made us wait for this? It's been weeks since the Letter was announced, and we'd spent the idle time utilizing the evidence at hand to develop this hypothesis of the Truth: Kevin Federline is actually a white-trash vampire, and his bites transformed the once-attractive Spears into an atrophying creature of the night dependent on a cursed diet of Red Bull, convenience store junk food, and paper hand towels from public restrooms. The flashbulbs of paparazzi weaken the vampire life force, and so the photographers must be repelled with cups of sugary, liquid, hand-launched ballistics. Unfortunately, the Letter of Truth doesn't seem to bear out our theory.

It's been a while since we've heard any Courtney Love stories, and, frankly, we kind of missed her adorable drug-addled, microphone-bonking, contempt-of-court antics. LA.comfidential's Laurie Pike finally has some Love news, but being strapped down at rehab must have mellowed her, as she showed up for her new radio gig at Indie 103.1 a day early. What's this world coming to, where Martha Stewart is America's favorite new prison bitch and Courtney Love is practically baking cookies for her new boss? Now that she's acting puzzlingly normal, the next relapse should be truly spectacular. We're thinking a oxycontin-fueled sniper rifle attack from the top of the Santa Monica Pier ferris wheel.

We're well aware that Uggs are painfully over and that there are fresher evils to be combatted, but the idea of celebrity babies in tiny Ugg boots (as illustrated in this picture of the woman who has brought forth Charlie Sheen's progeny happily displaying a new, bite-sized malevolence) certainly merits a mention. Indeed, no one invited a hater to the A-list baby shower, but we feel compelled to let the world know that all celebrity baby Ugg boots are lovingly fashioned from the skin of less fortunate infants of civilian parentage. But we hope little Sam Sheen's tootsies stay extra warm in those adorable widdle Uggies!

If you asked us which celebrity we most fervently wish kept an online diary, we would quickly reply, "Melanie Griffith." Oh, wait a minute. We're changing our answer! We are proud to (belatedly, we know) present the free-associational prose stylings of Oscar-nominated legend Nick Nolte. Here, Nolte recounts the type of madcap "only in Hollywood incident" that happens to us at least three times a week:

The L.A. Weekly's Nikki Finke, who broke the news of Christopher Reeve's death on Sunday, has more Reeve-related news in her column this week. Finke reports that at least one Republican senator has put a hold on the Christopher Reeve Paralysis Act after it had sailed through the House, presumably because the wheelchair-bound actor was too mouthy in his unsurprising support for stem-cell research.

Since this morning's news is already feeling a little cult-y, we offer up this reader-submitted photo of the long-awaited Kabbalah Centre "Red String" billboard. We're more than a bit disappointed in its reality. It looks like it was merely propped up in an empty parking lot! Faux-religion has never seemed seemed more earthbound. Where are the cherubim lofting the Centre's message of bookselling hope 50 feet above the boulevard? And where is Madonna, atop her velvet-upholstered throne, tossing red string bracelets and half-off coupons for Kabbalah water to a hungry throng of spiritual seekers? It's our own fault for building it up to be so much grander in our imagination.

On Friday, an L.A. jury cleared a dermatologist and a pharmaceutical company of responsibility for an illness that Irena Medavoy (the wife of former TriStar chairman/current Phoenix Pictures head Mike Medavoy) suffered from a Botox injection. Our legal background is admittedly thin, but the jury probably found that injuries suffered from cosmetic operations are assumed "occupational hazards" for the wives of Hollywood moguls. Whew. It's a good thing the jury had the foresight to preserve the system. If they ruled for Medavoy and spooked the locals into thinking that injecting muscle-paralyzing toxins mere inches from the brain is anything less than 100 percent safe, we could have seen panicking actresses, trophy wives, and Garry Shandling age 20 years overnight after knee-jerk cancellations of Botox parties. But no worries, the court said to keep on paralyzin'!

Because the celebrity-related fun on eBay never ends, we bring your attention to a disturbing online auction of "Alicia Silverstone life masks" sure to catch the eye of the world's Miss Match and Batman and Robin fans. In case you can't imagine what you'd use such a latex mask for, the seller helpfully offers suggestions such as "making your sales of your clothing line, sunglasses, etc," as the item is "thin enough for yourself or retail mannequin display to wear." Even after we throw out all of the horrifying, Silence of the Lambs-style permutations that spring to mind involving the mask/mannequin combo and stick to the retail-related uses, it still doesn't seem like that great a value. For the $45 or so bucks the mask costs, one could probably get Alicia Silverstone to stand around in a store window and look reasonably lifeless.

Before we tear our hair out staring at this horrifying tableaux submitted by an alert, camera-wielding reader, we're moved to pity the skittish accessory-dog fleeing in horror from the two fluffy monsters chasing it up Melrose. And despite our vocal distaste for all things nonsensically furry, we're not exactly an expert in boot taxonomy, we'll just brand these abominations mukluks, climb under our desk to marinate in the urine of existential fear, and be done with it. And if the boots/purse-dog combo isn't enough to piss on the front lawn of your sensibilities, it gets worse. Click on "more" to see exactly how much worse.