While the DNC suctioned all of Hollywood's star power to Boston for a week, leaving us to flail in a void of Ben Affleck bleeding-heart sound bites and overheated reports on which actor was possibly bedding which Kerry daughter, the RNC should leave the local celebrity population largely intact. Page Six reports that third-tier Baldwin brother (and born-again Christian) Stephen has converted to the Bush/Cheney camp. That's a start, right? Of course, they've always got Vincent Gallo and his peculiar genius for drawing media attention. He's also proven that he's a student of film, so let's hope he grabs his camcorder and the Bush twins for a pretentious homage to Rob Lowe's groundbreaking documentary of the 1988 DNC.

Based on a flood of immediate reader feedback, we've been compelled to rethink our grade for Paris Hilton's logo. We've annotated the logo according to this new interpretation of what is obviously a design masterwork.

The Smoking Gun digs up Paris Hilton's trademark application to register this incredibly disappointing "tiara" icon for the various consumer products she'll soon be launching. Really, this design has to be seen as an aesthetic failure. Isn't a logo supposed to evoke something essential about the thing it's signifying? Nothing about this suggests "celebutante skank sucking a cock in night-vision." Not even if you turn it upside down.

Blogger D-Nasty hypothesizes that Tara Reid is kindly mentoring fellow jiggly starlet Lindsay Lohan in the ways of young, wild, tipsy Hollywood: After all, the two share a host of interests, ranging from an affection for distilled spirits to a passion for displaying their cleavage in the presence of flashbulbs. We join D-nasty's imagined meeting of the really big...minds in medias res and we entreat you to click through, and enjoy the entire exchange.

The Mystery Dawg blog has pictures from last night's Jenna Jameson book signing for her literary opus How to Make Love Like a Porn Star. The event looked pretty tame. We know Book Soup really isn't that kind of place, but we had envisioned Jameson doing the signing from inside a shark cage, which would harmlessly deflect fans' Pavlovian erections into the poetry section.

LAist's Paul Davidson overhears some struggling actors engaging in near-identical conversations "at Swingers, a Beverly Drive newsstand, and Urth Cafe."

Defamer is committed to bringing together Los Angeles area residents with potential companions. Today, we spotlight this Craiglist apartment listing to do our part in matching a lonely roommate-with-benefits seeker with his ideal, cash-strapped snuggle buddy.

We've all made passing references to Disney as "evil" or Michael Eisner as "sprung from the salty, infernal seed of Beelzebub." But in today's LAT, a visiting law professor from D.C. drags his family to Disneyland to uncover the Satanic underpinnings behind every carefully fabricated encounter within the Magic Kingdom.

From today's Daily Candy: Personal trainer or male escort ad from the back pages of L.A. Weekly? You decide!

Filmmaker (and Pulp Fiction co-writer) Roger Avary calls bullshit on QT's Diary, the supposed Quentin Tarantino blog that everyone's been so hot for the last few days.

What's it going to take finally to convince L.A.'s most fashion-damaged residents to cast their Ugg boots into the streets and free themselves of their ridiculous, furry shackles? How about the trend trickling down to a pro-wrestling event...in Anaheim!

A reader passes on a bit of terminology that probably escaped the brand research of the marketing geniuses behind Hummer cologne:

We originally saw this auction for a piece of Britney Spears' disgarded chewing gum on Friday, but were disturbed to discover that the bidding has gone up to $460. Given recent revelations about the pop-stars hygiene practices, we'll officially recommend that you pass on the gum bidding war unless you own a radiation suit and access to a pair of robotic arms. It would be more sanitary to spend your free time rummaging through Santa Monica's trash cans hunting for Spears' bite patterns on some Cheetos, but really, you're about as likely to find a unicorn as a cheese doodle that's survived her wrath.

>We realize that many of you can't read this Variety story on how L.A.'s fleetingly hot clubs compete for our (read: your, or people that actually leave the house) fickle nightlife dollars, so here's a summary for all aspiring club owners and promoters:

We were having great time at the Sunset Junction festival, at least until Fred Durst started following us around with a large, hairy individual who was either a) superproducer Rick Rubin or b) a Hell's Angel who drew the worst possible security detail. To be fair, we were sufficiently cracked out on free cans of Sparks (think orange Zima mixed with over-the-counter Tijuana amphetamines) from the Vice store to have hallucinated the Durst sighting or our repeated encounters with Kiefer Sutherland or Rae Dawn Chong. Not everyone is a fan of the festival, however. Seasoned miscreant Richard Rushfield went hatin' on Friday, and reports from some underwhelmed readers are starting to roll in.

The Hilton sisters certainly put their skinny, publicity-mongering stamp on the quickly-expiring week. It started with news that Nicky had married some nerd in Vegas, saw the safe return of Paris' prodigal lapdog, and ended with her posters winding up for auction on eBay . As the pre-game drink special at the Short Stop beckons, we officially close "Hilton Week" with a thought by a reader, writing in (fittingly) from Paris:

The newly-appointed Defamer correspondent on Profoundly Evil Mutations In Already Nauseating Fashion Trends gives us a ten-day warning about the impending fashion doom that are Mukluk boots. Think Ugg boots but worse in every conceivable way: hairier, uglier, and nonsensically adorned with pom poms. With this ten-day lead, there might be enough time to stop them, but we fear we're already too late. Let's just pray that the menace can be contained to Beverly Hills, where a strategic tear-gassing of Rodeo Drive might keep the fashion-damaged to a minimum.

Hummer, the company that produces the Los Angeles area's most accurate indicator of male genital-inadequacy, is lending the powerful brand identification of its oversized SUVs to a men's cologne.

Commerce Friday continues as yet another celebrity curio finds its way to the internet for sale. The last time we saw Chris Noth, he was floating in the Dead Sea. Now the actor's LA-based, former couch can float right into your living home for a mere $300, if lipstick-red furniture doesn't violently clash with your living room's color scheme. We imagine that Noth kept the spinning, tiger-print, disco-playing waterbed (i.e., "where the magic happens," in the parlance of Cribs) for himself.

Someone claiming to be "Zack" Braff offers an explanation for the behavior that offended the disgruntled Craigslist poster who penned an open letter to the Scrubs star last week. Perhaps this writer doesn't mean to mislead us and has just spent so much time "medicating his glaucoma" that he actually believes he's Zach Braff? We'd buy that. We once did so much coke in a 24-hour period that we thought we were both Olsen Twins running a three-legged race. But that's a story for another time.