With the recent plagues of fire and ice sent down by annoyed local landowner God utterly failing to dislodge beach-hogging Malibu squatter David Geffen from his oceanside compound (His view was totally fucking ruined by Geffen's place), residents of the sleepy community now find themselves helpless against the whims of the mogul and the ten-figured pals who seek to slowly annex the entirety of The 'Bu. Yesterday's NY Times discussed Geffen and "software giant" Larry Ellison's acquisitions of the Casa Malibu Inn and Malibu Beach Inn, respectively, which they plan on transforming into the kind of places in which the merely wealthy might feel uncomfortable:

The current issue of LA Weekly gets acquainted with a man named Rio, the sole survivor of the infamous Heaven's Gate mass suicide of a decade ago that inspired those macabre "Just Do It" parody Nike ads while forever tainting the public's congenial perception of their neighborhood, sci-fi-based alien-worshipping cult. You'd think ten years without his spaceship friends might have given him some perspective on the matter, but Rio, a Westwood resident, remains confident he will one day join them, just as soon as he finishes some unfinished business for departed leader DO here on Earth: High on his To DO list, selling a studio on his Hollywood passion project, SIRUS FROM SIRIUS, a SCI/FI-ACTION-ADVENTURE-COMEDY, a script in which NBC once reportedly demonstrated some interest:

We knew that it was only a matter of time before a news organization with Us Weekly's vast investigative resources would finally marshal the courage to finally expose Hollywood's Drug Problem, a social scourge that threatens to devour our finest, excess-prone famous people, greedily gnaw at what's left of the meat on their malnourished frames, then vomit back up their coke-bleached bones into the nearest luxury rehabilitation receptacle, preferably one with easy beach access. How bad has the crisis gotten? Says a highly placed Us "scenester" who's obviously been to at least one bar in WeHo in the last two years, "Coke is so not a big deal for young stars in Hollywood. It's like having a drink." Indeed, the public consumption of illegal narcotics is now so accepted that many of the city's finer nightlife establishments will deliver punchbowls brimming with blow (in a variety of flavors) directly to one's VIP booth, where parties can unashamedly blow rails at their leisure, eliminating the onetime annoyance of having one's drug use rushed by a bitch with a shy bladder constantly banging on one's bathroom stall door.

The State Department released their annual global human rights abuses report yesterday, and, somewhat astonishingly, everyone's favorite faux-Kazakh cultural ambassador makes a surprise appearance in a chapter devoted to Kazakhstan's offenses:

Hollywood club attendance monitor TMZ.com has boldly supplemented its exclusive video coverage of Hyde's velvet rope-protected front door with the groundbreaking monitoring of its tragically underwatched rear egress, a secret exit so "ultra-exclusive" that only the town's biggest names are allowed to partake of its paparazzi-bypassing luxury. This increased effort to cover all access points to the establishment paid immediate dividends last night, as TMZ's cameraman caught a visibly ashamed Warren Beatty (those intermittent flashbulbs truly capture his embarassment) trying to discreetly flee the B-lister-infested glory-hole with which he'd rather not be associated. Now that Hyde's Passage of Shame has been compromised, its owners will be forced to come up with new ways to smuggle out its publicity-averse clientele, perhaps by constructing a series of underground tunnels that allow patrons to emerge from more respectable nearby venues, like the Sunset 5 arthouse theater, allowing slumming stars to avoid such humiliating incidents in the future.

According to the Sunday NY Times, nearly every entertainment industry power player with an offspring of diaper-soiling age is currently in the thrall of a tiny cadre of red-hot child-care coaches whose influence over the town is so complete that failure to register a pregnancy with one of its influential members results in the immediate confiscation of the unlicensed newborn, which is then mercifully drowned in the Pacific in an attempt to save it from a lifetime of abuse and neglect. Meet Hollywood's Baby-Rearing Mafia:

With the Oscars less than a week away, there is precious little time remaining for actresses to undergo the kind of physical fine-tuning that will allow them to bypass having the marrow sucked from their bones by red carpet vultures like Joan Rivers and Isaac Mizrahi; at this point, those still requiring cosmetic intervention probably have no choice but to head for a combination donkey show/dermatology clinic in Tijuana and hope that hastily performed procedures will spare them the humiliation of being spotted in the unforgivable act of having a flaw on Hollywood's Biggest Night. The Sunday NY Times surveyed a number of celebrity dermatologists, trying to precisely pinpoint what body parts better-prepared attendees have already had paralyzed in preparation for the ceremony:

Perhaps realizing that talent's access to chances to grudgingly perform fellatio on a casting director or producer in exchange for a walk-on role on Grey's Anatomy is bottlenecked by selfish gatekeepers like agents and power-mad nightclub doormen, the creators of Cast-a-Date offer an innovative way for show business hopefuls to use the internet to free themselves from the inefficiencies of the Hollywood system, giving them a safe online place in which to mingle, pretend to listen to one another blather on and on about the crazy dreams that brought them to L.A., and then arrange for the aforementioned trade of sexual favors for acting gigs—all without having to leave the comfort of their studio apartment! So far, there's only a single casting notice for a host/bikini model job posted, but as the site grows in popularity throughout an industry tired of the needless hassle of having to sit in traffic before getting their shot to be taken advantage of in person, its virtual casting office will be overflowing with higher-profile opportunities for the web-embracing stars of tomorrow.

Just in time for Valentine's day, Maxim Online brings us The Worst Love Scenes. "Worst" in this instance can mean anything from a lack of chemistry (as demonstrated by Jennifer Lopez's topping of a submissive, semi-comatose Ben Affleck in Gigli) to utter nausea-inducement (Rosie O'Donell's Nip/Tuck scene walks away with first place). But for our money, nothing ever quite comes close to approaching the too-perfect wrongness of the runner-up, the infamous James Spader-Rosanna Arquette scar fucking scene from David Cronenberg's Crash, where a pair of black fishnets and some staple sutures are all that stands in the way of the couple's ultimate expression of their extra-orificial passion.

• The Apprentice 6 Tour Bus Challenge [YouTube via FBLA]

Ask anyone in L.A. if they have ever seen the House of Davids, and you're likely to be greeted with an enthusiastic round of nodding heads and disgusted faces familiar with the infamous Hancock Park residence one might describe as an architectural interpretation of the top tier of Siegfried and Roy's fantasy wedding cake. But not much is known about the house's owner—until now, that is, as Losanjealous notes the following cast bio on the site for a new E! reality show already guilty of flagrant false-zip-code-advertising, High Maintenance 90210:

Iconic former gay porn star Jeff Stryker (nee Chuck Peyton) and his North Hollywood neighbor Paul Kulak, described as a "juvenile delinquent-turned-javelin champion," have found themselves embroiled in an ongoing bitter feud over "the Woodshed," which from best as we can surmise is some kind of open mic night for local, folk-music-loving weirdos. Peyton hates the noise and crowds; Kulak just wants to feel the music, dude. It's the quintessential, porn star vs. hippie L.A. story, and according to the Daily News, things have gotten ugly. Disco dancing ugly:

While the above Los Angeles house looks like any other tackily adorned local shrine to all that is commercial about Christmas, it, like a chimney in which the charred remains of an ill-fated burglar dressed as St. Nick are discovered only after an unlucky family returns from an end-of-year vacation, holds a dark holiday secret: it was decorated by Jewish people. Today's NY Times looks at the cultural strife being caused by one defiant woman's decision to erect life-sized Santa Clauses, inflatable Christmas polar bears, and hosts of wire-frame angels in a largely Orthodox Hancock Park Adjacent neighborhood:

In a guest column looking back at the Year in Comedy for MTV News, producing/writing/directing Comedy Mafia kingpin Judd Apatow digressively mentions a recent incident that had him pining for the simpler, less stab-happy days of his Talledega Nights location shoot in Charlotte:

We hardly need to tell you where to obtain your coke: Ever since the passage of the Los Angeles Cocaine Legalization Act of 2004, Hollywood's preferred social lubricant has been readily available at every Starbucks, Ralphs, and CostCo (at deep bulk discounts) in the city. However, we recognize that sometimes you'd like a little company when blowing rails, for while cutting up a couple of lines by yourself and settling in for a night of The Jeffersons reruns has its own rewards, there's really no substitute for crowding into a bathroom stall and enjoying the unique camaraderie of communing with strangers over a shared eight-ball. For those nights when you're craving some companionship, we point you to Gridskipper's guide to the local bars where you might find a new friend with whom to shovel some snow with a tiny spoon. An excerpt:

It seems Christmas parties have finally gone the way of the Bar and Bat Mitzvah, as what were once modest eggnog-and-fruitcake-imbibing gatherings are now over-the-top extravaganzas, desperate to one-up each other with hunky Santa waiters, chestnut-roasting stations, hot-toddy-spewing volcanos, and, for that crowning, seasonal touch, your very own celebrity showing up to mingle with your guests. ABCNews.com explores the increasingly common trend, which will set you back as little as $5,000 for your Potsies or your Klingers, anywhere up to the neighborhood of a cool $100,000 for your marquee names. (That's what they report Drew Carey will be paid to entertain a Houston energy company next week, proving that not even the lessons of Enron can kill that industry's love of a profit-hemmoraghing good time.) But if it's an even bigger star you want, perhaps from a hit TV series still on the air, fret not—even Emmy winners have a price:

For more than two television seasons, Orange County has enjoyed the free publicity (and definite article value-add) provided by relatively low-rated but culturally influential Fox dramedy The O.C., which week after week portrayed the county as an incredibly glamorous teen playground where the spoiled children of successful citizens party by the beach, haunt shopping malls, and listen to arena-headlining indie rock bands in tiny venues friendly to underage music fans. Today's LAT notes that the tourism boost "The" O.C.'s experienced could be imperiled by the cancellation that seems inevitable for the struggling series, as fans like this one may no longer crisscross the globe to briefly live out their TV-inspired dreams:

• Santa Loses It by aweekofkindness.com [YouTube via BestWeekEver.tv]

At yesterday's breakfast and sash-and-tiara fitting to celebrate THR's naming of resilient Sony Pictures co-chairman Amy Pascal as this year's Most Powerful Non-Penised Individual in Show Business, talk quickly turned from grand, mimosa-fueled plans of rising up and slaying the male oppressors who own the multimedia conglomerates for whom they thanklessly toil to a discussion of matters of much greater import to the Hollywood power-gal on the go:

Yahoo has released its annual list of top search terms for this quickly expiring, action-packed 2006, a rundown that should once again prove that the internets, despite their still-untapped capacity for great good, still remain a tool primarily engaged for the productivity-sapping, minute-by-minute tracking of celebutard evil. A press release touting the list's arrival informs us that Britney Spears has been the top search term for five of the last six years, but this year's title should easily be the sweetest, earned as it was on the power of millions upon million of queries as varied as "Britney baby drop," "Britney Spears deadbeat divorce," and the recent, Web-slowing searchalanche, "Britney Spears upskirt vagina pics."