Anyone who's experienced even a single episode of Hey Paula, the Bravo reality show that dared to pull back the beaded curtain and reveal the complex inner-life of soft-focus superstar Paula Abdul, knows that the American Idol judge's fans are like no other. Still, there are lines that dare not be crossed, and swiping Abdul's urine sample from a gynecologist's reception desk seems to us to tread dangerously close to that invasive precipice:

· For heaven's sake, people: Heed Tippi Hedren's warnings about what happens when you bend over in front of a tiger! It could save your lives!
· First impressions of Britney Spears's new video: She's wearing more clothes, she's standing up without the use of steadying device, and several Britney-like extras are on hand to perform choreographed dance moves. Triumph!
· Madonna, Leonard Cohen, John Mellencamp, The Ventures, and The Dave Clark Five will be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, an honor the "Like A Virgin" singer has graciously accepted, so long as they start the ceremony with her, and she isn't expected to stick around for any of the decrepit British Invasion also-rans.
· "Tony Parker says he's not a double dribbler." We think this is about cheating, though he still might want to have a doctor check that out, just for his own peace of mind.
· In case you still haven't seen it, here's the NY Post's tasteful headline commemorating the passing of Ike Turner.

It is with a heavy heart that we note Kid Nation, the bold experiment in utopia-building bravely undertaken by the finest societal engineers the world of network television has ever seen, ended in tragedy, heartache and utter failure. On last night's season finale, host Jonathan Karsh—whom, we feel obligated to point out, we always believed to be a minion of Satan himself sent to tempt the children with community-eroding worldly pleasures—cackled as the town's Job Board, the monument codifying the ever-shifting caste system that kept CBS Bonanza City from descending into total chaos, was consumed in flames, declaring—please brace yourselves—that there would be no more laws.

Growing tired of your bootlegged Betamax copy of The Star Wars Holiday Special, but still looking for some Yuletide Yoda cheer? Here's a gallery of every Star Wars Christmas card sent out by LucasFilm since the '70s, including this year's pop-up edition, featuring a choir of caroling Stormtroopers. Merry Life Day, everyone! [Slash Film]

With not even the prospect of some rousing Christmas-themed pickets (we think that the briefly spitballed "March of 1,000 Angry Santas" in front of the Warner Bros. lot would've been a winner) to look forward to during a planned holiday protesting hiatus, a frustrated WGA has decided to take action to compel the studios to return to the bargaining table they walked away from last Friday. In a just-issued press release, the Guild indicates that it's filed charges with the National Labor Relations Board decrying the "illegal demands" the AMPTP has set as a precondition for resuming talks, and also reveals that it's petitioned the agency for an immediate injunction against studio bogeyman Nick Counter, whom they have good reason to believe has plans to "quietly lower himself down the chimneys of slumbering Guild families, set fire to the lovingly wrapped presents beneath their Christmas trees, and then steal away into the night, greedily gobbling the delicious snacks their children had left for St. Nicholas." The press release follows after the jump:

Come to think of it, what is up with that house at the corner of Fountain and McCadden with all the "No Trespassing" signs and razorwire? Curbed LA's commenters have some very interesting theories: Is it a pot-grow room? A meth lab? Biff's grandma's house in Back to the Future: Part 2? We want answers! (So long as it doesn't involve some toothless guy storming out the front door with a double-barrel shotgun, and a personal credo of "shoot first, ask questions later," which it probably does, so never mind.) [Curbed LA]

· Music round-up: Moving Units at the Echoplex; Twisted Sister at the House of Blues; The Nightwatchman at the Hotel Café.
· The cast and producers of Scrubs will guide fans on a Farewell Tour at the Paley Center as the show prepares to depart the airwaves after a seven-year run. (We assume that means lovably goofy TV doctors Zach Braff and Donald Faison will be on hand to console viewers who lament the death of their sitcom bromance.)
· Over at the New Beverly, Hot Fuzz/Shaun of the Dead director Edgar Wright's Wright Stuff film festival marches on with a double bill of Top Secret! and Woody Allen's Bananas.

At long last, the Most Dramatic Staph-Infection-Related Project Runway Departure Ever aired last night, in which contestant Jack Mackenroth developed a MRSA beneath his mouth (pronounced MER-sa, it stands for Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, and this is a great place to start if you'd like to learn more about antibiotic-resistant bacterial infections and you!), forcing the Dale Levitski-snugglebum to tearfully excuse himself from the competition.

The fun-dampening writers strike has even managed to infiltrate one of Hollywood's most joyous activities—canvassing awards show nominees for their reactions. Gone is the balls-to-the-wind ebullience of past years, with actors hastily pledging to drop to their knees and service every member of their publicity and management teams in gratitude. Instead, any expression of happiness is instantly snuffed by buzz-killing follow-up question, "I see. And will you be attending?" Some are flatly refusing in deference to the Guild, some plan on following the herd, and some—we're looking at you, Borgnine—will let no chicken-armed red-shirts stand between them and a shot at some shiny gold hardware and an open bar. A sample of what they are saying:

From the Who Knew? file: When he's not trying to restrain Jack Bauer from gathering America-saving intelligence by going after a terrorist's genitals with a belt sander, CTU's Bill Buchanan likes to keep his life balanced by teaching yoga class. [CinCity2000.com]

The television and film writers' strike over Internet pay was supposed to be a boon for Internet-only content creators. But according to CollegeHumor cofounder Ricky Van Veen, that's not been the case.

The Sultan of Sleaze David Hans Schmidt may be dead, but his less-than-gentlemanly legacy lives on: Like a sulphur bubble belched to the surface of the swampiest reaches of the internets, nude photos of Desperate Housewives star Marcia Cross, taken by her husband and discovered in the trash by garbage men outside the couple's home, have materialized online.

· On Monday, the studios will start unwrapping the Yuletide gift they've given themselves by halting negotiations until an indeterminate point in the new year and removing the possibility of holiday-saving miracle deal: the activation of the force majeure clauses that will allow them to cancel pricey, unwanted talent contracts. We'll say it again: Merry Strike Christmas! [Variety]
· The always-daring Jackass gang will release the next installment of their incredibly popular adventures in genital mutilation and flatulence inhalation, Jackass 2.5, online. [THR]

Yesterday's "Diversity Day" theme-picket event at Paramount was, by nearly any measure, a huge success. Not only did hundreds of protesters of all colors and creeds turn out in stirring show of solidarity for the white guys who eventually will go back to getting all the writing jobs once the strike is settled, but the undeniable feelings of togetherness that suffused the march may have helped heal some old wounds inflicted by intolerance.

Caroline is an NYU film student currently working on her final project. Her movie is called Phantom Vibrations and Caroline refers to it as "a freestyle mumblecore piece." It seems to be mostly about her roommate drinking beer. All shot on expensive, precious 35mm. Roving videographer Alex Goldberg went over to meet the future of independent film/food service.

(Full disclosure: I actually dropped out of NYU's Tisch School of the Performing Arts, where I was studying playwriting and screenwriting until I realized no one paid for the former and, as pictured above, no one thought they needed the latter. If I'd followed my dreams, though, I might be on strike right now. Sigh...)

Golden Globes Fun Fact: The Hallmark Channel's A Grandpa For Christmas received more nominations than ABC's Lost. (The tally: one to zero.) This, of course, is less a commentary on Lost's quality during the past TV season than it is a much-deserved celebration of Ernest Borgnine's enduring star power. [TV Week]

Without a major publication cover announcing some variation of the sentiment, "I'M GAY," it's sometimes hard to pinpoint the exact moment a celebrity has been outed in the media. Is it when they mention the name of their longtime companion in a humble and moving acceptance speech at an insular industry reception?

[Audible gasp!] Is it possible that MTV documentary series The HIlls, which purports to depict the lives of people who have achieved celebrity through another semi-scripted reality TV program as they navigate the world of Hollywood, might concoct dramatic scenarios into which they can place their thoroughly uninteresting subjects? Read about how producers pimped out their stars to some unknown rock band during a trip to Paris and wait for the basic cable universe to collapse all around you! [Page Six]

But judge for yourselves based on the above video from the press conference: Was the unkempt Tarantino boldly demonstrating to Hollywood that he'll participate in their second-tier orgy of self-congratulation, but only on his own terms? Or did he merely fall asleep in the Pussy Wagon waiting for the crack-of-dawn event to begin, awakening mere moments before he was to appear on camera, leaving him no time for some last-second grooming?

Having given, and given, and given again until she could give no more, Last of the Self-Destructive Showtune Belters Liza Minnelli has collapsed four songs into a performance in Sweden last night: