It seems the golf course in St. Andrews, Scotland, is turning into an unlikely Booty Central for older male actors with thinning hair. First, Kevin Costner took his wife to the Old Course Hotel on their honeymoon and wound up being accused of soliciting some slap-and-tickle from a masseuse; now, The Sunday Telegraph — well on top of what may become known as the "In The Hole!" beat — reports that Bill Murray, ganking a move from his Lost In Translation alter ego, met 22-year old Lykke Stavnef at a bar and accompanied the Scandinavian lass to a party overflowing with nubile young blondes. But that's where the similarities with the film end, unless Sofia Coppola cut out the stirring, emotionally pivotal scene where Murray gazes deeply into Johansson's eyes and then tenderly plunges his hands elbow-deep into her wet, long-ignored sink:

Gawker points us to this fan edit of The Office, in which the lovelorn Jim, obviously taken aback by frustratingly coy Pam's sudden, explicit come-ons, foolishly turns down the filthy supply closet romp he not-so-secretly pined for over the show's first two seasons. [Warning: Audio very NSFW, unless you work in a sitcom writers' room.] Enjoy.

This is probably more BWE territory, but hey, we found it and it's ours. If you loved The Office cast and crew reading Jenna Fischer's Esquire piece, you'll probably splooge over this one.

Yesterday's NY Times looked at the next-generation motion capture technology developed by a company called Image Metrics, which promises to make the creepy, dead-eyed animation of films like The Polar Express obsolete by allowing an actor's performance, right down to the subtlest facial tic, to be mapped directly onto "any character virtual or human, living or dead." Beyond making children's entertainments somewhat less nightmarish, the potential applications of the technology seem endlessly terrifying:

In a shocking, dispiriting twist that will tear all our romantic hearts asunder, Page Six reports that the current Bachelor, Prince Lorenzo Borghese, may be more committed to upholding the show's proud tradition of aborted relationships than he is to the One True Love he was supposedly seeking. At an ASPCA event honoring Maria Menounos, which Borghese allegedly attended to promote a line of socially vital pet cosmetics that are guaranteed to make whores of your animals and turn him into at least a hundredaire, the Prince apparently couldn't keep his paws to himself.

After the roughly $27 million opening of The Departed marked his best U.S. film opening to date, director Martin Scorsese is finally figuring out how make sure people start panting over his whereabouts so much that they offer him carte blanche on his next movie: announce that you're avoiding studio pictures in favor of a passion project, throw around the word "risk," and then immediately back off your statement just in case anyone takes it too seriously.

NBC continues to be the dark spot in GE's otherwise cheery quarterly reports, but the company remains publicly optimistic about the fall schedule, which they can easily use to promote their better-performing divisions to make up for an financial shortfall associated with poor ratings. [Variety]
Universal picks up the comedy Shy Guy for Jay Roach to produce, hoping that the Meet the Fockers director can assist in teasing out the subtleties of the relationship between a "retiring bookbinder" and the "impulsive, hard-partying brother" hoping to "blast him out of his shell." [THR]
After his tame treatment of 9/11 in World Trade Center, Oliver Stone stone is ready to stir some shit up with Jawbreaker, a movie about the invasion of Afghanistan and hunt for bin Laden. The script's new draft will be written by the guy who made the fact-challenged The Path to 9/11 such a hit with the Clinton Adminstration. [Variety]
· The CW's pilot Ghosts is described as "a young Grey's Anatomy in the FBI." Are we already supposed to feel like Grey's horny doctors are too old? [THR]
The unexpected success of new NBC game show 1 vs. 100 may herald a long-delayed Bob Saget renaissance. [Variety]
· We should probably note that Variety's web site just got a nice makeover, but the speed of the rotating images at the upper left has made us too queasy to spend much time lingering on the front page. Then again, maybe we just had too much to drink with breakfast. [Variety]

That hissing sound you hear is the razor-sharp talon of Anna Nicole Smith, which has just punctured our hopes that she would take her finger off the morphine IV long enough to reconsider sticking her baby daughter with the name "Dannielynn."

In our haste to congratulate the producers of Marvel's planned Iron Man movie on the inspired casting of oft-troubled, now-sober Robert Downey, Jr, as their project's titular, boozy superhero, we may have missed an important milestone in the actor's long journey from being tweaked in a Culver City alley to being a viable, above-the-title star in a big-budget production. The Hot Blog explains, wondering aloud:

We're not sure if it's her recent penchant for flaunting the quality of her bikini wax in unitards and fishnet tights, or the people of Malawi's collective disapproval of the way her name and Guy Ritchie's can't be adorably bastardized into a single noun. (Maguy? Gadonna? Madochie? No.) Either way, though, the denizens of the African nation still have their knickers in a toddler-sized wad over the Material Girl's so-far successful attempts to thwart local laws and adopt a one-year old — a fiery panty-fervor that's been exacerbated by news that Baby David's departure from Malawi coincided with a conveniently timed $3 million donation to help HIV-infected kids:

Each time we petition our TiVo to record Sunday Morning Shootout, in which Variety's Peter Bart and producer Peter Guber loudly discuss matters of incredible, industry-centric import, we are met with the same error message, sweetly delivered by the machine's adorably homuncular, bipedal-TV mascot: "Why not watch some football, pussy?" Inevitably, we succumb to the taunt, and miss out on worthwhile exchanges like the one from yesterday's show involving Universal nice-guy potentate Ron Meyer's evaluation of Sumner Redstone's recent, pinkslip-happy reign of terror at Viacom. The Corsair blog summarizes:

Very late on Saturday night, I received a frantic phone call from Seth, Defamer's tireless, semilegal alien associate editor (we're not sure what a "fuchsia card,' is, but he promises us he has one), in which he babbled something about receiving a "really hot tip" that Angelina Jolie, newly bored with exotic, Third World orphans, was headed to Paris to explore the possibility of purchasing a French baby, and how he felt compelled to hop on the next plane to Charles de Gaulle International Airport to see what he could personally turn up on the developing story. He promised to report his findings when he returns next Monday, then abruptly hung up. He may have been laughing, but I've written that off to the giddiness associated with undertaking such a crucial journalistic mission. God speed, Seth. Leave no black market baby stall unexplored.

Mondays mornings are Pain. But the Monday morning box office numbers are Relief.

· Mel Speaks: In Part One, we learn of his affection for water fountains and deep-seated hatred of toasters. In Part Two, we learn that the Jews really had it coming.
· Keanu Reeves wouldn't have eaten the fly.
· Dr. McChokey a distant last place on Grey's Anatomy's McHunky charts.
· Angelina Jolie's blackface-lite in A Mighty Heart a mighty stupid idea.
· Even God himself couldn't get in the whole Noah thing for under $200 mil. What made Universal thing they could get away with less on Evan Almighty?
· "Am I pregnant? Yeah, here's my baby—it looks a lot like my outstretched middle finger, but it's my baby, you just gotta trust me on this one."
· The Bride of Reidenstein shows up sloshed at the wrong wedding.
· Anna Nicole Smith's Bahamian lawyer quits.
· Tom Cruise's headlights are on, and these suckers can cut glass.
· All the money in the world can't seem to find poor little rich girl Paris Hilton some decent weed that isn't full of twigs and seeds.
· Now that we've seen K-Fed's acting debut on CSI, we are relieved to report that the man has no talent. In any form. Whatsoever.
· We wish someone would crash a small plane into Trump. Not the tower. The guy.
· Madonna gets what she thinks she wants.
· A Week of Plushie Bait: Tickle Me Porno. Big Bird asks to "watch your teeth." Disney Frog Orgy.

· A freelance photographer claims that two Indian security guards protecting Angelina Jolie on the Pune location shoot of A Mighty Heart punched and threatened him with a gun when he approached the actress. A third, American guard was also present, but apparently didn't take part in the assault or threat, demonstrating that we still have a lot to learn from our foreign counterparts about how to keep our celebrities safe from people wielding cameras.
We really don't have any idea who Sara Evans is, but apparently her husband's naked pictures and trolling of Craigslist "casual encounters" ads upset her so much that she quit Dancing with the Stars. What kind of personal mortification would it take to get Mario Lopez to withdraw?
This might have been our favorite sentence of the day: "A vice president at Core Group Marketing, Eklund, 29, has made six films under the nom de porn "Tag Eriksson," including Training Camp I and II, Desert Pick-Up 2, American Porn Star and The Hole—which is more or less like 2004's The Ring, except the voice on the other end of the phone informs you that you're gay."
Tara Reid was a particularly inspired choice for Secretary of State in Hollywood Heat's "Celebrity Cabinet from Hell."
We bid a fond farewell to friend, co-worker, and Fox assistant desk survivor Jessica Coen on her last day in the Empire. And these two posts are pretty good examples of why we're going to miss her.

Friday
· Friday night music: Professional Athletes hit the Hotel Cafe stage at 11 p.m., local sons The 88 perform at The Getty Center, and Electric Six, the "Danger! High Voltage!" guys, command you to dance at the Key Club.
· Barnes & Noble Santa Monica hosts a party celebrating the release of the final Lemony Snicket novel, Book the Thirteenth: The End. Chances are slim that Jim Carrey will show up in Count Olaf drag and steal focus with a series of insufferable improvisations, thereby ruining the entire experience—but not completely out of the realm of possibility.
· Former MTV VJ Dave Holmes and former toddler Scott Gimple host The Friday 40 at Improv Olympic, a "live game show combining sketch, improv, and current events," and a magical secret ingredient that makes it all entertaining: 40s. Lots and lots of 40s. ($2 16 oz. Schlitzes also available.)
Saturday
· Saturday night music: Lily Allen plays the Troubadour, Royce Hall hosts John Scofield playing the music of Ray Charles at Royce Hall, and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, with opening band Takka Takka, are at the Henry Fonda, with the sex, and the drugs, and the rock and rock and rock and rock and roll. Hey!
· Aphrodisiac restaurant in Culver City hosts A Celebration of 30 Years of Pushcart Prize-Winning Stories, where you can see Christopher McDonald (the best thing about short-lived and extremely weird Fox sitcom Cracking Up) perform a reading, along with Samantha Mathis, Lorraine Toussaint, and several other people you will be reacquainted with after a quick trip to IMdB.
· If Disney Frog Orgy left you wanting, perhaps you can scratch that orgy itch at a midnight screening of Blood Orgy of the She-Devils, part of Adam Trash's Countdown to Halloween series at the Regent Showcase.
Sunday
· Writers Bloc hosts Harry Shearer in conversation with Steve Martin at the Temple Emanuel in Beverly Hills, where guests will kindly be asked to refrain from shouting out requests of the "'Hell Hole!!!'" or "C'mon, give us a little Lovejoy!" variety.
· Sunday night music: The Section Quartet perform the "OK Computer" suite at Spaceland, and Part Time Punks are at the Echo.

The WGA has tried a variety of unorthodox protest methods during its recent campaign to unionize reality TV writers: guerilla attacks of network executive breakfast panels, recruiting models to strut the picket line alongside strikers, and gathering in intimidating, red-shirted mobs in public parks. Now a tipster (and a completely disinterested one, we're sure) has alerted us to the Guild's latest strategy*: papering "every door, car, gate,
newspaper and cat" in The CW president Dawn Ofstroff's Brentwood neighborhood with fliers like the one pictured here (click here to see a larger version), a tactic that only carries the slightest hint of concerned parents trying to scare a convicted sex offender out of their neighborhood, and which was chosen after a proposed plan to leave a flaming brown paper bag full of dog excrement on her doorstep each day until the writers of America's Next Top Model are allowed to join the WGA was deemed "a little too childish."

The Franklin Avenue blog awards their Press Release of the Day to an e-mail blast from the producers of Hottest Mom in America, a reality competition that does away the boring talent and interview segments of the Mrs. America Pageant, and gets right to the down and dirty business of throwing a meat-parade of stroller-pushing foxes, fueling the fantasies of millions of MILF-loving American males who long to have their faces gently wiped off with a spit-covered handkerchief:

Late yesterday, we noted that Disney had "taken appropriate action" (read: shot in the back of the head with a functional Pirates of the Caribbean blunderbuss) against the EuroDisney employees who thought it would be funny to make a video of them simulating various sex acts while in full character costume. The Dirty World News blog has posted the grainy video, allowing us all the chance to see how our long-held Goofy-on-Minnie fantasies play out when depicted by horny French theme park employees.

We suppose we should have seen this coming: Andy Cohen, Bravo programming exec and sassy blogger extraordinaire, interviews himself in today's post, thereby bringing to a natural conclusion the molting cycle that began with an anonymous network suit larva, and now ends with a glorious celebrity butterfly, furry antennae atwitter in a constant search for fellow, fabulous Lepidoptera with which to flap his colorful and expensive wings. But what should have been a cakewalk Q & A regarding Cohen's current visit to L.A. quickly turned ugly, with the Two Faces of Andy having a Gollum-vs.-his-reflection-style moment of antagonistic inner-turmoil: