We're pretty sure that this eBay sale isn't going to stand up to a rigorous forensic evaluation, but a eBay auctioneer is offering a lucky Britney Spears fan the chance to own a coveted piece of memorabilia: her Cheetos bag.

The Defamer correspondent on restricted-access areas at seminal alterntaive-rocker reunion shows submits a report on the VIP lounge at last night's Pixies show at the Greek. We sincerely hope that Keanu didn't ask to jam with the band to show off his bass chops; hopefully Becky is enough of a musical outlet to keep him from embarrassing himself in front of Frank Black.

Lindsay Lohan must have the smartest publicist in the world. It seems that all of the Lohan-centered chatter of late has surrounded her career-endangering, (ostensibly) underage cocktail-pounding, so the focus has been brought back to a much more PR-friendly subject. With the heat off her rack for months, she "complains" to GQ about the attention paid to her breasts and then spreads cleavage all over the magazine's cover and accompanying photo spread. Classic move, but much less visually arresting than a more topical cover depicting her sucking a tequila shot out of Fez's navel.

LA.comfidential's insidery-monikered the Insider notes that David Geffen's Gay Mafia stronghold in Beverly Hills was "the place to be last night," as liberal Hollywood joined in pagan celebration of Maureen Dowd's new book, Bushworld: Enter At Your Own Risk. We'll assume that our invitation was dispatched to the same incorrect P.O. box where all of our Playboy Mansion invites are accumulating. Maybe we'll make the list for the next power-lefty soiree if we subtly note that we have nearly unlimited access to Republican babies, guaranteeing that hors d'ouvres trays stay deliciously full throughout any event graced by our presence.

When the Olsen twins' lawyers did some preliminary saber-rattling about their displeasure over the Save Mary-Kate t-shirts bearing a cartoonishly skeletal likeness of half of their meal ticket, they weren't fucking around. Dualstar Entertainment, the twins' corporate empire built on the back of the world's brainwashed tweens, has fired off a cease-and-desist letter to the t-shirt's makers. (The legal love-note is nobly reproduced at The Smoking Gun.) We wish entrepreneurs Randy and Moss the best of luck in their dealings with The Empire, and breathe a sigh of relief that we never put those "She's a Cokehead, Bitch!" lobster bibs into production.

OK, we admit that when we joked about Paris Hilton playing the first female president, we'd already seen this picture. We like their chances, pesky election laws notwithstanding: They're a balanced team, with the Teflon Hilton ripe for a figurehead position at the top of the ticket, while Lohan steps in as behind-the-scenes mastermind. With Tara Reid ably performing campaign manager duties, nothing can stop their relentless write-in campaign except watered down drinks or cheap blow cut with baby laxatives.

When we first heard about the coming vehicular evil that is the CXT, we thought that ignoring it might make it go away. But, alas, it seems our roads will soon be clogged by a ridiculous truck niche-marketed to men with genitalia-inadequacy issues so severe they can't even be salved by driving a Hummer—call them the "innie crowd." A reader spots a CXT in the most conspicuous of locations, The Grove:

An attendee of Madonna's Kabballah Kiddiepalooza gala dinner in Tel Aviv writes to The View From Here blog about the experience of being in the presence of Queen Esther and her glassy-eyed, red-stringed subjects:

Velvet Revolver singer and always-recovering superjunkie Scott Weiland savvily suggested that Coke sign him up for an endorsement deal at the World Music Awards in Vegas. Not a bad idea. Coke would get some cred at rehab centers, and Weiland would have someone to pick up the bills the next time he O.D.'s. But Coke's obviously a gateway endorsement, and within a month, Weiland would be signing up with the Kentucky Derby to score a deal to be the face of horse.

LA.comfidential's Laurie Pike commits a blogger no-no and actually ventures outside the house to attend a party for a Sass & Bide fashion event in Hancock Park. Luckily, it seems she returned home relatively unscathed and with a bunch of pictures. While Pike says "Bijou Phillips danced the entire evening like wind-up toy that never wound down," it was Jewel who was self-conscious about seeming like she had a snoutful of booger sugar, telling her, "A lot of times people don't think I'm me. They say, 'You look like Jewel, but prettier. I heard she's coked out.'"

Ramones guitarist Johnny Ramone's taking his two minutes of power chords and going home. Ramone died of prostate cancer yesterday at his home here in L.A. We could talk about how the Ramones were so great that we're not even annoyed when we see a 15-year-old walking out of Urban Outfitters in their iconic t-shirt, but LAVoice's Mack Reed, writing about a planned Johnny memorial statue, says it better than we can:

The L.A.Weekly's Nikki Finke scores a long sit-down interview with the congenitally unfunny Jay Leno in the Tonight Show's green room and makes him talk politics. In trying to prove his liberal bonafides (which one would have as hard a time divining from his monologues as laughs) to the um, aggressively lefty Finke, he assures us that Karl Rove isn't leaking him material:

Malis in Wonderland takes a dinner on 3rd Street, where the row of celebrity-frequented restaurants are apparently trying to trick their clientele into some Fear Factor-style gag responses:

We thought that the Kabbalah Centre's declaration that they were going to make the Israelis and Palestinian spontaneously engage in a group hug was easily going to be the most egregiously unhinged press release we'd encounter today. When are we going to learn? The Columbus Citizens Foundation, an organization committed to "preserving the rich Italian-American heritage," calls out Steven Spielberg and DreamWorks because the animated fishies in Shark Tale will brainwash kids into thinking all Italians are like the gesticulating, stab-happy Joe Pesci of GoodFellas.

Bruce Willis' loud-talking, offspring-neglecting cellphone antics of last week seem to have continued unabated up La Brea Boulevard, even after his high-decibel conversation ruptured the eardrums of our eavesdropping spy. Another reader follows up on the original story, leaving us to wonder if there's a mobile phone salesman in Beverly Hills promising celebrities that their phones emit a special jamming ray, making their inane conversations inaudible to anyone who's never been invited to the Vanity Fair Oscar party.

The LAT stops just short of calling Hollywood a ghost town as industry players try to extend their summer "vacations," leisurely close deals at the Toronto Film Festival, or blithely evade a new cycle of hard work. But it sounds like a post-apocalyptic wasteland to us, where even the unwashed masses can snag a "nice" booth at the Grill and slack-faced zombies like Larry King aimlessly shuffle through our city's power corridors:

The View From Here blog finds a Kabbalah Centre press release revealing that not only does the Centre have a thriving magical water and red string retailing business and an uncanny knack for drawing hollow-eyed celebrity followers, they've got designs on solving the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. TVFH chides the Israeli politicians who are participating in the event and notes that their publicist could have used a proofreader: "I understand that Ehud Olmert's and Tzachi Hanegbi's names might be a bit difficult to spell, but they could have at least spelled Donna Karan's name correctly. Great spelling on Druze and Sufi as well."

The Defamer correspondent for ironic celebrity endorsements on the Continent sends in this dispatch about an ill-advised marketing opportunity that the French division of McDonald's apparently couldn't pass up. It's a good thing that the metric system renders "Quarter Pounder" nonsensical, because the twins posing on a poster suggesting their cumulative weight is probably the only thing that could have been funnier than their schilling for fast food after Mary-Kate's quickie graduation from eating disorder camp.

Courtesy of the Data Lounge's sophisticated theater enthusiasts, we've been treated to these photos of Matt Damon getting a lapful of Hugh Jackman at the final show of The Boy From Oz. These ought to help Jackman finally shake those rumors about his "enthusiasm for Broadway."

A reader submits this report of the "anti-piracy protest" from all the way in Toronto. We imagine that the audience was largely Canadian (despite the many Hollywood functionaries covering the festival), and given that our neighbors to the north are bred to be reflexively, painfully polite, we consider this mini-protest a major coup. Unfortunately, there was no "Manny Perry Makes Movies" propaganda PSA to ridicule, but we learned long ago we can't have everything we want: