We don't know who found this first or how old it is, nor do we particularly care. Someone sent us the link a few moments ago, and given our commitment to chronicling the Olsen Twins' every move, we feel it's our responsibility to bring your attention to Liquid Generation's Mary-Kate's Crack-Man game. It's even better than a hit of the rock on a breezy summer day. Enjoy.
Today John August, online dispenser of Delphic Oracle-quality feature-writing wisdom, tackles perhaps the toughest challenge ever posed to the Q&A section of his website. A humble reader is bedeviled by an issue that has flummoxed writers in Hollywood for centuries: screenwriter fashion. Unfazed, the Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle scribe disappears into his sanctuary, eviscerates an associate producer, and reads the steaming entrails to emerge with this nugget of sartorial insight:
After recently putting some of their evil millions into a 5,725 square foot dorm/vomitorium in NYC, the Olsen Twins have thrown down for a cozy, 4,000 square foot, $4 million crash pad on the Westside, where they'll stay during breaks from NYU. (The scheduled, between-semester kind, not the breaks that require constant publicist equivocations and a brief tenancy at Cirque Lodge.) Don't go looking for this latest Olsen Lair expecting a 24-7 party; Mary-Kate is in recovery, and the refurbished master bedroom suite has a steam shower where she will scald anyone who accuses her of being a buzzkill since finishing rehab.
The NYT spends "A Night Out With" Ellen DeGeneres and her partner, Alexandra Hedison, and discovers that Hollywood Power Lesbians Are Just Like Us! Being gay doesn't necessarily free DeGeneres from the problems of her straight, mansion-dwelling neighbors in the Hollywood Hills, such as having a trophy girlfriend that "dabbles" in acting/directing/photography to give the appearance that she's not sitting back on her rich meal-ticket's huge piles of cash, wasting her days tanning by the pool:
Defamer continues its mission to bring together Hollywood's hottest stars and their most ardent Craigslist-posting fans. Today, we spotlight a Missed Connection authored by a former booster of goofy TV doctor/budding indie auteur Zach Braff in hopes that a reconciliation can be worked out. Allow Zach to play you "The New Slang" on some big headphones, Anonymous, and let the healing begin.
Because it's Friday and a liquid lunch tends to loosen the sediment around our black heart, we feel it would be nice to do a little public service work and print a reader's letter to a well-known eating establishment complaining about the preferential treatment of celebrities while loyal customers are left to pine hungrily for the spinach dip. We're not recommending that the restaurant in question change their policies, as this would precipitate an instant, bloody anarchy and a likely hail of locusts, but it's fun to hear someone fart into the hurricane of the local social order now and again. Next time, Owen Wilson, why don't you just turn down the quick table and set the Apocalypse in motion? The letter follows after the jump.
1. Check out PJ Harvey's free in-store show at Amoeba to jump-start the Don't Knock The Rock film and music festival. Harvey's scheduled to start at 6 p.m., so you'd better leave right now if you don't want to claw your way through vinyl collectors who have been fingering records since early this morning. After you've been rocked by Harvey and are satisfied by your "inadvertent" groping by a guy in an ironic Rick Springfield t-shirt, head over to the festival's opening night party at Club Lingerie, where there's probably enough room to avoid your fellow handsy rock fans.
2. The Egyptian hosts the sneak preview of Bush's Brain, a movie that "explores the remarkable political journey of the man who is running the United States of America – a ruthless political mastermind whose name is not George W. Bush." They're talking about Karl Rove, but we're pretty sure George is taking orders from Barbara and Jenna after they've finished a tag-team keg stand.
A reader tips us to an eBay auction offering box-office superstar/breeder icon Tom Cruise's "Original Artwork." The description is as understated as the piece itself: "Artwork signed ("Tom Cruise"), 11 1/2 by 8 inches, no place, no date, overall excellent condition. The famed actor's signature appears near the bottom right of this simple drawing of a car. Tom Cruise has appeared in 26 films to date." No doubt the sketch was inspired by his role as hot-shot, womanizing driver Cole Trickle in Days of Thunder, or at the very least, his days eating paste in kindergarten. We'll leave it to the critics and auction bidders to determine the artistic and monetary values of the work, which seems to hint at an artist who's struggling with his identity while coping with the costs of fame.
The Smoking Gun has a copy of a pre-trial deposition in which notoriously cheap Clippers owner Donald Sterling brags about paying for sex with the woman he's suing, rocketing the Clips to the top of the LA-area sex-scandal standings. Just in case we'd be disposed to write off his affair as one of those "mutually beneficial arrangements" where a wrinkly millionaire spoils a pretty young thing with gifts, Sterling makes it all very clear: "It was purely sex for money, money for sex, sex for money, money for sex," and the "money for sex" was "all over my building, in my bathroom, upstairs, in the corner, in the elevator." We think it was legendary sports philosopher Yogi Berra who said, "If you can't land Kobe Bryant in his free agent year, fuck a hooker." Way to go, Mr. Sterling.
Some of you have written in to inform us that Defamer has recently been littered with advertisements hawking the very object of our most fiery, recent scorn, Ugg boots. (Yes, we've seen them.) The day that Google's ad-bot understands the context of our frequent mentions of the furry fashion-don'ts will likely be the same day that robots write this website, while a completely different set of robots handles various "other needs" of ours as we drunkenly recline on a lounge chair in the backyard. Ah, the whispered promises of technology!
It seems that each time we bring up the human rights violation known as "Ugg boots," we're shortly after informed of a new strain of Ugg-related evil. Moments after our earlier Ugg-post went up, a link to the Ugg poncho (as featured in People magazine, as sure a tipoff to infernal origins as a tattoo of Mephistopheles diddling himself) landed in our inbox. Indeed, the online store crows that the likes of Kate Hudson, Uma Thurman, and Hilary Duff have already added them to their personal wardrobes, but this is no reason for you to fork over 250 bucks; the actresses just use them as blood-repelling aprons while they disembowel babies in the basement of Fred Segal.
The Defamer correspondent on Barely Pubescent Real Estate Buys weighs in on our earlier mention of Frankie Muniz's recent adventures in escrow. It should be noted that a) driving while intoxicated is illegal, if occasionally a surprisingly fun diversion from being young and rich enough to buy off the cop with the Breathalyzer, and b) Agent Cody Car Collector is a mere 18 years old and unable to legally purchase alcohol in any of Los Angeles's fine drinking establishments, even the ones that let him in the back door and pretend there's such a thing as a "virgin" bottle of Cristal.
Hollywood's wrists are so tangled up in Kabbalah's red strings and Lance Armstrong's yellow rubber bands that we asked resident statistician Andrew Krucoff and graphics savant Chris Gage to try and make some sense of who's interested in repelling the evil-eye and who's opted for a sartorially savvy anti-cancer stance. The results of their project is after the jump. (Click to enlarge.)
Recently pube-sprouting superspy Agent Cody Banks is hawking his "Westside" house for $6 million and buying a nearby place for another four mil, according to the LAT Hot Property column. Frankie Muniz is 18 [Ed. note—18? Is he missing a kidney?] and already on his second home (at least).
We're not exactly sure what this Craigslist post says about the sizzle on Nelly's career, but an online ad for party-pals doesn't sound good. The ad's headline identifying the rapper as "Hip Hops [sic] very own Nelly" also sounds a little too much like a sandwich board outside of the Golden Nugget telling gamblers Nelly's inside handing out free drink tickets. Hey, this is the internet age and rolling up outside Joseph's or White Lotus in a stretch H2 and loading up on ass may well be the "old n' busted" approach, what do we know? We think The Eminem invented rappity-hop.
It was F. Scott Fitzgerald who memorably claimed that "there are no second acts in American lives." But Bill Kirchenbauer, who memorably portrayed Mike Seaver mentor Coach Lubbock on Growing Pains (a character spun off into his own sitcom, Just the Ten of Us), knows that Hollywood lives require second acts. You can't jam your head through sanitary toilet-seat covers on the stage at the Comedy Store forever. Click the picture to see the full ad, found by a reader in Wednesday's Tolucan Times.
