All of this recent talk of Pamela Anderson's anti-KFC campaign for PETA is having some fairly foreseeable, yet obviously unintended, consequences, as a reader finds that the publicity has reactivated her jones for the Colonel's torture victims:

The Jewlicious blog reports a Madonna sighting...in Jerusalem. Looks like she's making good on her promise to spend the coming Rosh Hashanah holiday in Israel, selling magical bottles of water and red string bracelets (and probably some incense to balance her inventory) from a dirty blanket on the sidewalk.

We still haven't received any photos or phone-cam shots of Pamela Anderson's anti-KFC PETA billboards from around town (have none of you been to Inglewood today?), but we do have a special treat: a rejected, early draft of the billboard's design that would have better utilized Anderson's spokesperson assets. Click on the thumbnail at left to see how PETA might have offered a fitting challenge to Vincent Gallo's publicity antics. (You can see the actual ad here.)

In an interview with British talk show host Michael Parkinson, Tom Cruise once again proves that asking him questions about Scientology will trigger the "study tech" that involuntarily makes him deny that there's anything untoward about his devotion to all things L. Ron Hubbard. In fact, the very idea that people think there's anything weird about Scientology is completely ludicrous:

In what is sure to result in a string of obvious breast jokes in the monologues of Jay Leno and Jimmy Kimmel, celebrity novelist/extreme silicone enthusiast Pamela Anderson has lent her image to a PETA-sponsored, anti-KFC billboard to be displayed in various major cities. Anderson and the PETA gang are four kinds of whooped up about KFC's treatment of chickens, which the fast-food chain insists on killing and converting into the crispy delights that we can only bring ourselves to eat when grievously drunk. The billboards are supposedly going up today in L.A., so if you happen to pass by one and have your digital camera handy, we'd love to see some pictures. It's unlikely to be the monument that the "Blowjob Over Sunset" was, but then again, there's a chance that Pam might fellate a rooster if it was for the greater animal good.

In a letter to the editor in Variety, [Ed.note—Variety prints those? Who knew?] an "aspiring writer" responds to a Brian Lowry column about a Bravo show searching for undiscovered sitcom writers and defends his right to be humiliated on reality television if the payoff is a writing gig:

While Madonna overturns tables during her audit of the London Kabbalah Centre, let us do our part to affect the bottom line of the Centre's gift shop. The Centre offers the sacred text of the Zohar (pictured at left with Kabbalah scholar Britney Spears) for a cool $415, with a generous payment plan available for actors between gigs. But now, through the life-extending and mystical qualities of the internet, you can obtain a copy of the Zohar for the low, low cost of...free! Of course, as in all things Kabbalah, there's a catch: The texts are in Aramaic. In lieu of some very expensive Aramaic lessons, you can save the Zohar text to your computer and let the immortality begin. Keep it close by long enough and maybe you'll outlast everyone on Earth and get the opportunity to repopulate the Earth with Madonna, Britney, Paris, Demi, and, um, Ashton Kutcher. On second thought, maybe ritualistic suicide is a more appealing option.

Following this morning's eye-opening Vincent Gallo news, here's another reader report about being surprised that a celebrity didn't punch someone in the face and run out on his bar tab exclaiming, "Don't you people know who I am?" A post Late Late Show Craig Kilborn puts his trademark smarmy smirk away for a contemplative, solitary drink not far his old offices at CBS Television City:

A reader reports from last night's Vincent Gallo signing for his book of still photos from The Brown Bunny, sounding surprised (and somewhat upset) that Gallo wasn't a total asshole. We don't see why erecting a billboard celebrating your graphic, "in the name of art" blowjob has to be preclude someone from being a nice guy. He just might love himself a little bit too much for our tastes.

Confession: We've been missing Ben Affleck a little bit. When a tabloid favorite like 'Ffleck drops out of the headlines for a while, we always jump to the worst conclusions: some kind of disastrous backyard whirlpool accident that will only be discovered by the pool boy days later, a three-week bender at the Palms, or a secret location shoot for Gigli 2 with the entire original cast. Luckily, a reader spotted him this morning at a WeHo Coffee Bean, just bein' Affleck. We just wish that our spotter's Hollywood training hadn't prevented us from finding out what had Ben so excited. Sobriety? The recent Red Sox resurgence? A big victory on his "Eating Babies for Kerry" tour? We suppose we'll never know.

Hollywood writer/producer (and as his byline proudly explains, "onetime executive producer of Cheers") Rob Long assesses the State of the GOP goodie bag for the LAT. Let it never be said that Hollywood's "delegates" on the loose at political conventions don't have their priorities straight.

The Paris Hilton Collection on Amazon.com looks to fill all of your tacky jewelry needs and brand your earlobes, neck, and ankles with a telltale rash of quality that tells the world, "Paris was here." Perhaps most intriguing among the baubles is the "Sterling Silver and Swarovski Crystal Multi-Cross Necklace" (pictured at left), subtly evoking Jesus and his companions on Calvary Hill (The Passion is hott right now), with plenty of extra room for Paris, Nicky, and Tara Reid.

Defamer asked intrepid, fearless Intern Y to spend some quality time at the Scientology Celebrity Centre in Hollywood. She gamely accepted the potentially dangerous assignment, knowing full well that she may have been returned to Defamer HQ "clear," self-actualized, and no longer cheerily willing to freshen up our morning latte with a shot of Jagermeister or accept the ritualistic beratings brought on by a slow Lindsay Lohan news day. Her brief experience with the Church of Cruise, Travolta, and Ribisi follows after the jump.

A quick note on yesterday's reader report, in which we used the omnipresence of Uggs in Chicago to shame L.A.'s boot-whores into giving up their furry pimps: While we now have enough material to compose the treatise In Defense Of The Very Fashionable City of Chicago's Early Adoption Of Hideous Trends, such matters do not concern us. If our correspondent was indeed describing the scene in the suburbs (as many of you theorized), it should give even the staunchest Los Angeles Ugg-lover pause.

Arnold Schwarzenegger took the podium at the RNC yesterday, charged with the delicate task of energizing the Republican delegates with carefully-calibrated references to his acting career while not stealing the convention's focus from George W. Bush. Schwarzenegger worked in his catchphrases ("Don't be economic girlie men"), his resume (saying the DNC should have been titled "True Lies"), and self-deprecating commentary on his acting ability (the ovation from the delegates was "like getting and Oscar. Like I would know."). Hey, did you know people call him the Governator? Variety does (3 mentions), as does THR (a lone reference). We're especially disappointed he didn't fire off any bon mots from Commando, probably the most quotable work in his oeuvre. He either hasn't yet found the opportunity to tauntingly query someone "Remember when I said I'd kill you last?" or he's saving that for when they "find" bin Laden.

1. Reminisce about the days before AHWOSG made Dave Eggers the unstoppable publishing juggernaut/ubiquitous literary mega-celeb he is today, as Eggers presents and signs Created in Darkness by Troubled Americans: The Best of McSweeney’s Humor Category 1998–2003 tonight at Book Soup. Maybe you can even ask him what it was like to sit by as a genuinely offended Janeane Garofalo tried to explain the Eggers legacy to decidedly less ironic fellow autobiographer Joe "Joey Pants" Pantoliano on Dinner for Five.
2. Phil Collins is the next ironic guilty pleasure just waiting to be ruined by The O.C. No? The Postal Service recently covered “Against All Odds.” Why not go hear the original live and watch as Phil rocks some serious "Sussudio" at the Staples Center tonight? Jacket totally fucking required!
3. Grab one of those rave kids and threaten to withhold their X and lollipops unless they can tell you the difference between techno and house music at the BPM Magazine release party at Pearl (and featuring Photek).

Did you find yourself somewhat unsettled that you didn't hear about the recent deaths of Laura Branigan, Fay Wray, or (God rest his soul) Rick James until perhaps an entire day after the fact? The Celebrity Death Beeper allows you to cultivate your obsession with Hollywood morbidity and instantly taunt friends each time you rack up some new points in your celebrity death pool. Be the first on your block to know about the coming tragedies of Tara Reid or Andy Dick! (Hey, we're just playing the odds. We hope they live long, healthy, skanktastic lives.)

Whew! For a minute there, we thought that the Republican's own "big tent" party full of celebrities was going to be a lonely affair, with Stephen Baldwin quietly sipping a cup of punch and nervously watching the door for a Schwarzenegger sighting. But yesterday, the GOP unholstered a big gun and took aim at Hollywood:

For those of you just joining us, we've been dedicating our free time this summer to stamping out the furry, absurd, fashion-damaged menace that is the Ugg boot. It's been a bloody struggle marked by incremental victories and soul-crushing losses, but the fight continues. This missive from the Defamer correspondent on misguided trends adopted in flyover country gives us some new hope that the Ugg problem can finally be killed off. L.A.'s fashion victims: You wouldn't want to look like some trophy wife from Winnetka out on a shopping binge on the Magnificent Mile, would you? Maybe it's finally time to drop your Uggs off at Goodwill and invest some of your hard-earned tip money on the new, shaggy hottness before they wind up in Cleveland.

LA.comfidential's Laurie Pike notices this interesting marketing ploy in the September issue of Los Angeles magazine: