Film producer/manager Arnold Steifel flipped through his cellphone recently and discovered it was full of names he hadn't entered himself: Tom Cruise. Harrison Ford. Benicio Del Toro. Julia Ormond, Peter Bogdanovich, Lena Olin, Michael Caine, Bob Zemeckis, Robert Towne, Anthony Edwards, Arnie Morgan, Cameron Crowe, Michael Ovitz .It was almost as if God had planted his own contacts list in the phone, if God didn't hate celebrities.

It only took shooing Shaquille O'Neal out of town with a red-hot poker and a $136 million, seven-year contract, but Kobe Bryant is staying with the Lakers. Area police can now rest a little easier; for the time being they won't be calling on the information in their recently-issued crisis pamphlet, What To Do If You Should Come Upon Jack Nicholson's Three-Day Old Corpse Swinging From a Chandelier in a Beverly Hills Mansion.

BoingBoing points us to this Joi Ito phonecam shot of Disney CEO/Mickey Mouse activewear mannequin Michael Eisner at the Fortune magazine Brainstorm 2004 conference. Ito blogs that Eisner admits to liking Fahrenheit 9/11, despite blocking its release by Disney. We're more interested in what he's doing (with what looks like a cellphone) instead of paying attention. Defamer's digital descramblers intercepted his chat session:

The Baldwinization Centers of America offer a surgical procedure "which results in the patient's perfect resemblance of the Baldwin brother of their choice" A great idea, if part of their R&D process included the development of a time machine to return their altered clients to the height of the Baldwin clan's power, circa 1993. Who would shell out for a series of invasive surgeries to look like Alec Baldwin's current, doughy character-actor incarnation? Even if you went for the Hunt for Red October Alec, you'd still eventually have to suffer through the pain of unrealized box office potential. And let's be realistic: A recipient of the Stephen procedure couldn't get to the front of the line at the Trader Joe's on La Brea.

After reading yesterday's examination of the ESPY Awards gift bag, an operative monitors the pre-ceremony action on the red carpet in front of the Kodak Theatre. You'd think that with the constant, panicked traffic reports we've heard on the radio telling us to avoid the area at all costs due to sure ESPY-induced anarchy, there would be a little more action than this:

Like cred-seeking actors invading the east side enclaves of hipster cool, Hollywood's lesser lights are storming the area's real estate open houses. This dispatch from our just-appointed Special Correspondent on B-List Celebrity Property-Browsing Habits catches a few in the act; we hope that an agent was on hand to prevent any open-house fellatio from devaluing property values. Report after the jump.

Readers instantly and vociferously call bullshit on the MySpace profiles of alleged dreamy-eyed hacker Jake Gyllenhaal and cybering gal pal Kirsten Dunst. Among the couple's meat-space giveaways are being "pretentious" (Jake) and short (Kirsten). Comments like these are precisely why we gave up our million-dollar film career for the perfection of cyberspace.

ESPN.com pulls back the curtain—slightly—to give the sport-lovin' plebe a "limited opportunity to go behind the scenes" to see what they're giving the rich and famous in their ESPY Awards gift bags tomorrow night at the Kodak Theatre. [Defamer traffic warning: Avoid Hollywood Boulevard at all costs. Just abandon your car anywhere on Highland and Hollywood traffic officials will return it to you Wednesday.] Among the gift bag highlights: Something called Players Extreme liquor (for all of your pre-game, tremens-reducing needs), a premium soy wax candle, and a dozen Premium Salad Gift Cards from Mickey D's. Oh, how the vegan candle-burning, McDonald's salad-munching crowd lives! So very premium indeed.

It was only a matter of time before someone gave the troubled half of the Olsen Twins the t-shirt treatment. Not bad. But we hereby donate the following for t-shirt immortalization: twin "I'm with Cokehead" and "I'm With Fatty" shirts. Feel free to send us royalty checks when you're millionaires.

Hipsters, say goodbye to your East Side Fortresses of Indie Rock Solitude. Spaceland, The Echo, Silverlake Lounge: They're all targets of a coming invasion of celebrities looking to colonize your empire of thrift-store t-shirts, faux-hawks, and sweatbands. Lock up your babies! Hollywood is hungry for your blood! Blogger aj4a sees it coming. He'll be saved:

You've perpetrated a historic fashion crime when Lindsay Lohan's ludicrously prominent cleavage is the only thing that could possibly distract attention from your blazer. In any case, we're starting to think that the Disney Photoshop Team is taking on freelance work.

When you wind up with Chris Rock's old cellphone number, life becomes a series of adorable encounters that will make a great story for your children. Unfortunately, the lesser lights of Hollywood sometimes change their numbers without notifying everyone in their address book. A Defamer reader sends us her considerably less magical "adventures" from receiving a cellphone with the number of Roseanne Barr's (Arnold/just plain Roseanne/Barr again, whatever) assistant Becky. (Fun fact: Becky is also the wife of Roseanne's ex-husband, who also is employed by Roseanne. Wrap your mind around that family/business dynamic.)

Defamer doesn't have 25 bucks to throw around in support of any "political causes" that don't involve certain illegitimate aspects of the Colombian economy, but at least one of his readers allocated his money differently at last Wednesday's comedy Concert For Kerry at the Hollywood Knitting Factory:

Every word in this exclusive News of the World interview with Jason Alexander, Britney's husband of approximately fifteen vodka-drenched minutes in Las Vegas, is gold. We feel we'd be doing the world a disservice if we did much more than chip off a piece of this ingot describing their quickie marriage and send you on your way. Remember: the sex wasn't cheap. She's saving the cheap stuff for Kevin Federline.

Blog American Idle thinks our charity dollars might be better spent cramming sandwiches into celebrity mouths. (Click on the picture to see the full version on his site.) But if you're going to send Mary-Kate Olsen a care package to give her a little relief from the depravation of rehab, you might want to hire a private courier. The postal service has dogs that sniff out the stuff she probably wants.

Ben Affleck illustrates why those in Hollywood feel compelled to share their political opinions. OK, that really isn't fair; it's also the reason they demand top billing, the biggest trailer on the set, and a shorter actor with which to pal around and win Oscars.

Variety's wedding announcement, with the economical elegance of its prose, nearly gets it right. Our brief note is in italics:

Paris Hilton's new Guess ads seem to recreate that magic moment just after a white-clad hunk happens across a spread-eagled, skanky celebutante and just before she suggests they retire inside for a little camcorder sex in front of a loud Chris Rock concert. We must say, it's really an effective evocation.

Something about being saddled with an utterly retarded name seems to make celebrity offspring a little precocious. Infant Apple Martin, the progeny of Gwyneth Paltrow and Coldplay singer Chris Martin is already cruising Friendster in search of online companionship. She's still growing her personal network—right now only Daddy and Madonna are her friendsters (is there something we should know about?), but it can't be long before young Apple's plea is answered and Coco Arquette seeks refuge online from her, like, totally embarrassing parents.

Blog photoTopia has pictures from last night's fundraiser at the Henry Fonda Theater for John Kerry and John Edwards, whom we hear are running for political offices of some kind. The event was hosted by his daughters, and it seems that Alexandra Kerry managed to keep her breasts safely under opaque fabric despite the presence of a red carpet and celebrities.