Metroblogging Montreal and Boing Boing have compiled information about the shooter responsible for yesterday's horrific violence at a Montreal college—25-year-old Kimveer Gill—including links to his VampireFreaks.com web pages, which approximate the effect of 10,000 goths vomiting simultaneously on an NRA rally. It's almost too great a tragedy to make sense of. Luckily, however, we don't need to, as Sharon Stone was more than willing to offer the Canadian Press newswire her meandering, lunatic thoughts on the matter at a Toronto Film Festival press conference today:

· Music round-up: Hem plays the Troubadour, Silversun Pickups play a free show at Amoeba, Soulwax's Night Versions Live with 2 Many DJs are at the Vanguard, and a Doghouse Records showcase is at the Knitting Factory, featuring sisters Meg & Dia, Weatherbox, and Push to Talk.
· The deadly specter of speeding milk trucks looms over Expiration Date, a film premiering tonight at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery.
· Naomi Gurian and Irma Kalish, writing together under the hybrid pseudonym of Cady Kalian, read from their book As Dead As It Gets, about a fictional screenwriter named Maggie Mars whose "piece for Vanity Fair catapulted her to Los Angeles." It's the perfect Indian summer beach read if you like light fare about people whose careers are going much better than yours is. At Dutton's Brentwood.

Of the many physiological impressions Kevin Costner left in wet cement at his recent Chinese Theater sidewalk induction ceremony, he omitted arguably his most potent appendage for obvious reasons of public decorum, thereby robbing generations of starstruck tourists the thrill of pawing at the cylindrical divot it would have left in the pavement. And though previous attempts have been made to capture the everyman's manhood through a curtain of pleated chinos, only now can we say that the mission has been fully accomplished. Rejoice: You now know what Kevin Costner looks like sporting a semi-chubby in a crisp white suit.

The shadowy figure known only as Big Red, who claims to have spent a sweaty evening entwined in a figure four leglock with Tom Cruise, was unmasked by Hollywood Interrupted as gay porn actor Nathan Hamilton, seen here (pictures NSFW and NSFAEL*) in a 2001 interview and pictorial with Gay-News.com. Based on a purely superficial assessment of the photos provided, plus figuring in what meager knowledge we have of five-year-old trends in the gay escorting sector, we're going to go out on a limb and assume any wealthy megastar willing to risk it all on one night of man-to-man passion would probably opt not to kiss a little longer, hold tight a little longer with this particular Big Red. Instead, let's continue to keep the Greco-Roman fantasy alive, with the above, reader-submitted mock-up of Tom looking at peace as he tenderly overpowers a lover/opponent named purely for singlet color, and not any firecrotched attributes currently seared into our minds.

We were so dazzled by Gawker Media spanking new music industry blog Idolator's logo—it's exactly what we picture Lindsay Lohan's cigarette case looks like moments after she leans over to blow a rail off its cover—that we almost forgot to devour the delicious groupie-candy content and savvy industry analysis within. The official blurb: "When the internet came, we overthrew the pasty white tastemakers, the duplicitous music marketers and the manufactured pop idols. And then they all came back. This is Idolator. We're so disappointed." (The full manifesto is here.) Frequent Spin and Blender contributor Brian Raftery is your editor, Maura Johnston is your associate editor, and both are out to overhaul that oft-quoted Zappa notion that "rock journalism is people who can't write interviewing people who can't talk for people who can't read." Rock blogging may be all that too, but at least you can participate in the proceedings naked and from the comfort of your own home.

· Survivor: Race Wars producer Mark Burnett options the rights to a series of children's fantasy books similar in tone to Harry Potter, but instead of the children assigned to Gryffindor and Slytherin houses, they're segregated accorded to—on second thought, we can't bring ourselves to finish this joke. [Variety]
· As we mentioned before, Jim Carrey kissed UTA goodbye, and is pointing himself towards a CAA tomorrow. [Variety]
· Fox head Tom Rothman brags to the Merrill Lynch Media and Entertainment Conference about his company's "fiscal discipline," except where "creative ambition" is concerned. To illustrate his point, he then runs a 27-minute, behind-the-scenes featurette entitled, "'Garfield: A Tail of Two Kitties': From Dream To Screen Reality." [Variety]
· The creator of Medium sells a pilot to CBS called The Meant to Be's, about a dead woman who, "in order to 'pass over,' ... must return to Earth and help people improve their lives." No word yet on which generously beracked actresses are on the shortlist to star. [THR]
· The producers of Invincible, a movie about football, and The Rock, star of football movie Gridiron Gang, are collaborating on The Game Plan, Hollywood's first major attempt at dramatizing the competitive world of professional miniature golf. Just kidding—it's another football movie. [THR]

Hollywood Interrupted recently published a chapter from a "book-in-progress" by Anthony Pellicano-heavy/gay porn producer/general skeazebag-about-town Paul Barresi. In it, Barresi writes of the time a gay hustler known as Big Red approached him between takes on a porn set, offering up many anecdotes of lusty, same-sex encounters with paying celebrities, most notably among them a detailed account of a wrestling mat tryst with Tom Cruise. (The chapter is here, though you'll find yourself rummaging under the kitchen sink for industrial solvents and SOS pads to scrub yourself with once you're done.) The Scoop approached Scary Hollywood Lawyer Bertram "Bert" Fields for his response:

When Kate Bosworth, star of Superman Returns and glamorous thinspiration to millions of fanorexics worldwide, was snapped at a recent New York Fashion Week appearance, not only was one of her succulent convexities visible (follow the arrow, or for the fully uncensored, NSFW experience, go here), so was a toned, sexy six-pack of xiphisternum protrusions. It's enough to make you pity the eavesdropping male nearby, using every probably-gay-bone in his body to keep his view trained on her dazzling, two-tone eyes instead of traveling just twenty degrees south to the smorgasbord of spare goodies on glorious display.

Jim Carrey has been noticing a troubling, recurring motif emerging throughout his career lately, wherein studio executives have realized that paying the actor tens of millions of dollars to terrorize a movie set and ultimately deliver a box office stinker was perhaps not the most cost efficient strategy. They then decide to "put a pin" in the projects, as the Hollywood parlance goes, much as you would do to a balloon. Carrey is still getting work, just not the kind of $150 million-in-chewable-CGI-scenery roles to which the actor is accustomed. He has now taken the only logical recourse: firing the agency that built him from an unknown Canadian comic into the megastar he is.

By now we think you may be onto our little associate editor's note shenanigans, in which we inform you of our whip-cracking boss from hell's esteemed masthead companion's absentia due to humiliating, albeit completely fabricated, circumstances. Having cried wolf in the past on everything from gender reassignment surgery to Miata owner's conventions, we'd completely understand if you raise an incredulous eyebrow when we now tell you that Mark is currently on leave for a 48-hour, intensive training seminar at the John Travolta Flight Academy. This time, sadly, it's no joke: Your Defamer editor is at this moment logging thousands of miles and getting the kind of one-on-one, hands-on mentorship for which the JTFA is famous. He'll be back Monday, radiant and gushing about his sky-high adventures. Until then, however, we go it alone.

· Publicity-loving online gambling concern Golden Palace shells out ten grand for Suri Cruise's bronzed baby poop, which can now take its rightful place among the site's other pop curios, like the Britney Spears Pregnancy Test, William Shatner's Kidney Stone, and the Virgin Mary Grilled Cheese Sandwich.
Utter Wonder doodles a dramatic reenactment of Britney Spears' recent childbirth.
Everyone keeps fixating on the talking vagina sketch, but Damon Wayans' new show is about so much more than that.
Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's boundless love inspires some of the most touching cybersquatting we've ever seen.
Lonelygirl's creators are unmasked, and surprise! They're aspiring filmmaker types. We love twist endings like that.

Continuing with our running coverage this week of the Toronto International Film Festival, and, by extension, the adorable, if somewhat cockeyed, customs of its Canadian hosts, we now turn our attentions to this story about Sean Penn, who has raised the ire of local politicians after allowing his anti-Bush sentiments to get the better of him, and lighting up during a press conference:

Today the LAT introduced Scriptland, a weekly love note to the Hollywood writing underclass so persecuted by the industry that they can be shot on sight if caught wandering a movie set without proper Directors Guild supervision. The new feature wastes no time messing around with well-paid, uncredited-rewrite hacks, and instead strips out the brass fasteners from universally admired screenwriter Charlie Kaufman's latest opus, Synecdoche, New York, and gets to work thrusting itself into the script's quivering brad-holes with papercuts-be-damned vigor:

· Music round-up: Golden Smog at Avalon; The Black Keys at the Troubadour; The Tyde at Spaceland.
· Dipiazza's Lava Lounge in Long Beach hosts the latest Writers Garage event, where Neal Pollack will read from his upcoming book on the joys of Gen X parenting, Alternadad, and former Minuteman Mike Watt will perform with new band Dos. Slightly closer to home, comedy folk hero, Cabin Boy survivor, and author Chris Elliott reads from The Shroud of the Thwacker at the Santa Monica Barnes & Noble.
· And at the Encino-Tarzana branch of the L.A. Public Library, legendary author Ray Bradbury will speak, and possibly be coaxed into reading from his work.

Not long after an anonymous, possibly condo-promoting tipster accused the shadowy, alleged media manipulators behind CSI: NY of conveniently-stumbled-upon-corpse-fraud , another reader, claiming to be a resident of the very downtown building in which the show is filming, offers this argument for the body's possible authenticity:

All you slavishly devoted husbands out there currently digging petrified doodie bubbles out of your crack-addled spouses' butts (and yet somehow managing to simultaneously read this post), we suggest you stop what you're doing and extract your probing digits immediately: No, not even that level of impaction-loosening servitude guarantees that your wife won't eventually leave you.

Production on an episode of CSI: New York was halted yesterday when a building engineer discovered an actual mummified corpse near the shooting locale. The CSI set was on the seventh floor of a downtown Los Angeles building; the body was found on the fifth floor after the engineer checked on an incommunicado tenant. Neither Gary Sinise nor any of his unfeasibly snacky assistant necrophiliacs were on hand at the time (or so they claim), but the message is clear: Film a NYC show in LA, and people are going to get hurt, capice?

As we read People's story about how CSI: New York crew members stumbled upon an actual corpse at a downtown L.A. location shoot, we secretly feared that a mysterious dead body turning up near the set of a show about uncovering the stories behind mysterious dead bodies might prove a little too elegant a coincidence to be true. A Defamer operative is already claiming that "discovery" is nothing but a cynical PR stunt meant to take advantage of the too-trusting public's love of a good, accidentally-discovered-mummified-corpse story:

As anticipation for Sacha Baron Cohen's cinematic ode to recreational dog shooting and sister-pimping builds steadily, the Kazakh government is showing no signs of backing down in their PR-reparative counter campaign. Realizing that abducting Borat's website in the middle of the night and subjecting it to a series of pillow-case-hooded humiliations was perhaps not the most mature way of handling things, Kazakh president Nursultan Nazarbayev is now using more diplomatic means to promote his country as a kinder, more humorless place than Cohen's buffoonery portrays:

At yesterday's big, overblown Apple press conference, Steve Jobs unveiled a magical box that allows people to stream their iTunes purchases from their computer to their television. [Variety]
Producers of the CGI-animated version of Horton Hears a Who will lock Jim Carrey in a sound booth, press record on the console, and return three days later to see what improvisational magic he's added to the shredded script pages littering the floor of the studio. [THR]
At a Hollywood Radio & TV Society luncheon, an atypically diplomatic Les Moonves reserved judgment on ABC's decision to air its controversial Path to 9/11 miniseries, and declined to publicly gloat over Tom Freston's firing from Viacom, "because I'll only get myself in trouble." We're sure he's just feeling a little bit under the weather and will return to his old, rival-taunting self at the next media conference. [Variety]
America still hasn't satisfied its appetite for washed-up celebrities tripping over professional dancers, as the season premiere of Dancing with the Stars leads ABC to an overall ratings victory. [THR]
Perhaps feeling that the unbearably perky Katie Couric is not suited to the task of delivering them sad news, channel-switching viewers drop her CBS telecast to third place on 9/11. [Variety]