Entertainment Weekly's PopWatch blog notes that on an improv theater internet message board discussing the merits and missteps of frequent Defaker fodder Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip, an astute Sorkinologist had an acute moment of déjà vu when Sarah Paulson's character storms in on Matthew Perry during a writer's meeting:

Hugh Jackman joins William Baldwin and Henry Winkler in the cast of indie film A Plumm Summer, which as far as we can tell from a very brief blurb contains no musical theater component whatsoever—a nice change of pace for the noted song-and-dance man. [Variety]
Busty period-piece staple Scarlett Johansson continues her quest to spend most of her prime earning years trussed up in a corset, signing on for the title role in Mary Queen of Scots. Not that we're complaining about her predilection for elaborate, cleavage-enhancing costumes. [THR]
Peter Jackson teams up with Microsoft to create Wingnut Interactive, which will produce two video game/interactive projects, including a "Halo" spinoff. [Variety]
Barbara Walters' 20/20 interview with Steve Irwin's widow proves just as popular as CSI: NY with the 18-49 demo, who seem to be morbidly fascinated with both real and fictional deaths. [THR]
...and recognizing that death is red-hot right now, ABC is developing three "murder-themed projects," including Bret Ratner's Women's Murder Club, the story of a quartet of sexy serial killer hunters with an inexplicable sexual attraction to hacky directors. [Variety]

When Jack Nicholson absentmindedly fished out a strap-on from the bowl of sex toys by his door on his way to The Departed set with a vague idea he might be able to incorporate it into that day's performance, he never could have imagined that the prosthetic appendage would eventually become the hottest supporting performer in town. The much-hyped sexual aid has again found its way into the gossip sheets, with Rush & Molloy drilling the actor about future projects he might share with his up-and-coming co-star:

When happily divorced Charlie Sheen isn't hotly anticipating being on the receiving end of one of his basket-tossed, pigtailed companions, he's hard at work raising American morale with his weekly antics on Two And A Half Men. Realizing that his role of Charlie Harper is one of TV's great, iconic comic creations—forged in the grand tradition of Ralph Kramden or Archie Bunker, just without any discernible character traits, idiosyncracies, or gifts for physical comedy—the show's producers are finally compensating Sheen for his creative contribution by making him the highest paid sitcom actor on television:

Like so many struggling actresses seeking parts as "Big Breasted Girl in Elevator" in Adam Sandler comedies, it seems that Comedy Central has finally succumbed to David Spade's floppy-haired charms. They've signed up his Showbiz Show for a third go-around a full two months earlier than its second-season renewal, giving the comedian another 13 weeks to tie Hollywood to his bedpost and tickle it until it threatens to pee all over his silk, tiger-print sheets. A proud network programming executive sings Showbiz's praises on this special day:

Today's Page Six offers congratulations to Hollywood superflack Stephen Huvane, the dissembler-on-retainer the tabloids have on speed dial to satisfy all of their weekly Jennifer Aniston engagement denial needs, on his recent marriage to his longtime partner. And in what is certainly just a sincerely proferred wedding gift and not a kickback for tips about his stable of celebrity clients, the Sixies slip in a plug for the always-hustling publicist's blushing new brusband's artistic endeavors:

Wanting to cultivate the kind of obsessive devotion that drives fans of Lost to scrutinize the possibly anachronistic inclusion of home appliances in The Hatch, Fox's publicity department decided to promote fledgling drama Vanished by embedding "enigmatic clues about a larger sinister conspiracy" in the show's press materials, hoping that members of the media would pick up their breadcrumb trail and lead their readers on a symbolic scavenger hunt to the ultimate prize: Nielsens good enough to avoid a hasty cancellation. Unfortunately, writers seem to have better things to do than hunch over a publicity photo with a magnifying glass and wonder if the plunging neckline of Rebecca Gayheart's blouse is a symbolic representation of a "V" or just a run-of-the-mill Fox attempt to spotlight a star's rack. Reports the LAT:

Los Angeles, you've been put on notice. And there's no way you're going to be able to adequately explain either Lauren Sanchez or this untoward H&M obsession.
· Traffic charges against Mr. Eko were dropped, perhaps signalling an end to the Honolulu Police Department's unfair persecution of any Lost cast member bold enough to drive on their island's quiet streets. Don't they know they're safe now that Michelle Rodriguez is off the show?
· Comedy writer Ken Levine kind of hits the nail right on the head, doesn't he? "Notice when people talk about STUDIO 60 they don't start the conversation by saying, 'I really liked it' or 'I hated it'? Instead it's always, 'What did you think?' I suspect no one really knows what to make of it."
Us finally cracks the McDreamy Code.
With the help of joint therapy, Tobey Maguire and his pregnant, loud wife are doing just fine, thank you. [third item]
Don't worry, the real "Itsy Bitsy Bikini" guy is still alive, despite some earlier confusion about the situation.

Clay Aiken may not have toppled Justin Timberlake from the number one spot on the charts with yesterday's release of his new CD, but you'd hardly know it from the swarms of Claymates who showed up to his in-store signing at the Virgin Megastore in West Hollywood: The only LoveSounds these horny ladies were interested in were of the twangy, high-pitched, and exceedingly fey variety. When a nervous fanatic in her prime baby-making years approached her idol (pictured), so atwitter were her twin reproductive organs that they literally shook themselves loose and fell to the floor, sending her sheepishly scrambling to collect them before they could roll into the Jazz section.

TMZ.com has obtained (read: been given a copy of by the celebrity porn broker who's trying to sell it, and who's interviewed alongside the clip) a preview of the Screech sex tape, featuring 42 seconds of star Dustin Diamond soaking in a bathtub and then describing one of the video's featured sex acts to the camera. (Yeah, probably the Dirty Sanchez one.) For now, we can deal with the mildly scarring sight of Screech reclining in the tub, possibly in the early stages of sexual arousal. But we know that we'll eventually be required to watch the full video when it's eventually "leaked," a psychically scarring ordeal that will almost certainly permanently replace our happy, innocent memories of the Saved by the Bell gang sharing plates of French fries at The Max with nightmarish images of an imposingly bedonged Screech sodomizing a Jessie/Lisa tag-team as a self-gratifying Zach cheers them on.

In a world exclusive that must have led to plenty of hushed, solemn high-fiving and low-key fist-pumping around the People magazine editorial offices, the celebrity weekly is claiming dibs on the results of the toxicology report from a private autopsy performed on Anna Nicole Smith's son. The results indicated the boy had a fatal cocktail of methadone and anti-depressants coursing through his veins:

· KCRW DJ Thomas Golubic is rescoring Logan's Run with songs from the Mylo, Ulrich Schnauss, Air, Royksopp and Orbital for his latest Synchronize project tonight at Cinespace. And after that's done, he's springing another synchronization-related surprise on the audience, which may or may not involve a postapocalyptic Mel Gibson flick.
· Music round-up: Medeski Martin & Wood at the Henry Fonda; Snow Patrol at the Wiltern (again); Gliss at Spaceland.
· CollegeHumor Night at the Hollywood Improv draws extremely famous person Drew Carey for tonight's show, as well as less-famous Celebrity Fit Clubber Ant and a variety of comics whose names you may or may not recognize, depending on your level of stand-up groupiedom.

We don't know how many of you showed up for yesterday's CourtTV.com chat with alleged Colin Farrell reverse-stalking victim Dessarae Bradford. We were there, however, and after hearing what Ms. Bradford had to say in her defense—which was a great deal, spread over the course of a marathon, two-and-a-half conversation—we must admit that everything we thought we knew about phone sex workers who interrupt the taping of late night talk shows to threaten world famous movie stars has been turned on its head. Only now do we have the complete picture: Farrell, titillated by well-publicized reports of Bradford's strap-on taming of a wild, bucking Baldwin, found her ad promoting the novelization of the encounter in a New York newspaper. At first, their telephone affair was a fun and flirty courtship; but soon, an increasingly wasted Farrell began to phone her obsessively:

Last weekend, troubled Malibu feudal lord Mel Gibson took a well-documented break from the onerous demands of his outpatient alcohol addiction recovery program, temporarily substituting his therapeutic poolside meditation sessions with a serenity-promoting jaunt to Oklahoma and Austin for screenings of Apocalypto, his upcoming film. But now that Gibson's proven a willingness to appear outside the house, the people to whom the star long ago promised all manner of public displays of contrition in his second apology are wondering when he's going to get around to showing up at those Bar Mitzvahs:

Once again, technology has defeated an actress's principled commitment to never-nude virtue, as the combination of an HDTV broadcast and a blogger's pause button seems to have revealed a flash of nipple in Natalie Portman's portrayal of a resolutely clothed stripper in Closer. Those of you who'd like to honor Portman's wishes to leave her goodies unogled (at least until a role more nudity-appropriate than that of a conspicuously modest exotic dancer presents itself) should ignore this post and open a spreadsheet until new content appears, while the sickies who find that even the blurriest hint of an unintentionally bared areola inspires a bout of Pavlovian tumescence can move on to the NSFW version of the image after the jump, or to the full gallery at Egotastic.

The MPAA introduces its latest agents of movie pirate doom: Lucky and Flo, the two cutest, DVD-sniffing black Labs you've ever seen! The pups can't distinguish between pirated and legitimate disks, and can also be thrown off the trail by traffickers clever enough to pack dummy boxes full of frisbees in the same shipment as their contraband product. [Variety]
Certified series-killer Rena Sofer gets recurring roles on both 24 and Heroes, but we imagine the cancellation curse that accompanies her casting will only be strong enough to take down Heroes, the newer, weaker show. [THR]
Dreamy-eyed hunkbot Jake Gyllenhaal will join pointy-chinned ingenue Reese Witherspoon in New Line's Middle East political thriller Rendition, which we fully hope will evolve into a romantic comedy so as not to waste the crippling adoreableness of its leads on weighty matters. [Variety]
Rob Cohen cleverly deleted Stealth from his resume before going in for a meeting about helming the prison movie Scared Straight, tricking New Line into giving him another opportunity to direct. [THR]
FX's relentless pursuit of the self-consciously edgy leads it into a deal with Nip/Tuck creator Ryan Murphy for 4 oz., a drama about the "metamorphosis of a married sportswriter who is a transsexual." [Variety]

TVPredictions.com annual Swanni Awards are a purely aesthetic competition, fêting the best and worst in celebrities' complexions when viewed through the unforgiving filter of a high-definition broadcast. As with any Hollywood trophy ceremony, there are bound to be blatant oversights: Passed over for an HD Horrible this year is Battlestar Galactica's Cmdr. William Adama—aka Edward James Olmos—edged out once again in the Best Male Craggly Facial Terrain category by perennial favorite Ray Liotta. This year's top eyesore and eye candy awards went to:

A Defamer operative on vacation in Australia sent us this camera-phone dispatch from a local newsstand, which once again demonstrates how far American tabloids are lagging behind their overseas competitors in gossip-disseminating technology. Us Weekly, People, and In Touch should be scrambling to replicate whatever advances the Aussie rag Famous have already achieved, which seem to include the ability to fetch stories of celebrity tragedy from the future for present-day reporting.

This week's installment of the LAT's Scriptland feature, the paper's weekly attempt at chronicling the hopes, dreams, and fears of the industry's institutionally disrespected, keyboard-pounding underclass, shares the uplifting story of Things We Lost in the Fire, Soon To Be A DreamWorks SKG Motion Picture With Academy Award™ Winners Benicio Del Toro and Halle Berry screenwriter Alan Loeb, who heroically paddled away from a precarious position between the Scylla of gambling addiction and the Charybdis of a painful dumping by his agent to achieve industry "It Boy" status:

Lingering Anna Nicole Smith confidante/protector /hourly-legal-fee-charger Howard K. Stern was interviewed by Larry King last night, during which the veteran broadcaster launched some confusingly worded softballs related to Smith's son's sudden death. (eg: "KING: You know, a lot of parents go through a lot of things when a child dies, including guilt. Is she feeling any of that this was my fault?"). Several new pieces of the puzzle emerged, most notable among them that Stern is claiming to be the father of Smith's baby daughter: