Today's LAT story on The Descent, the new horror movie that hopes to distinguish itself from the glut of recent splatter flicks by being incrementally more shocking and violent than the last one to pass through the multiplex, offers a crash course in how to market a cinematic product that doesn't have the benefit of bankable stars or a big-name director as a built-in selling point, courtesy of Lionsgate: 1) Play up any connection between the new movie and the wildly successful movies your studio has released in the past, even if that connection is that the same set of people signed the paychecks, and 2) feel free to borrow ideas from other revered horror movies for your advertising campaign, even if those ideas don't really have anything to do with your product. Writes the Times:

For Project Runway watchers, last night was the moment of truth (spoiler ahead): It was indeed shifty judge-favorite Keith Michael who was pre-emptively ejected from the competition, not for, as eagle-eyed watchers deduced, copying designs in his portfolio, but for the far more brazen offense of keeping fashion how-to books lying around. Tim Gunn got so choked up making the announcement to the remaining contestants the following day, he could only manage a barely coherent sentiment consisting entirely of his own, strung-together catchphrases. ("So carry on, and, as we say, 'make it work.' Where's Andrae? I'm concerned...")

Anyone cynical enough to believe that Mel Gibson's second apology was more of a desperation PR move than a sincere expression of regret to offended members of the Jewish faith should be instantly heartened by the actor's early attempt at reparations made in front of the Chinese Theatre on Tuesday, the most sacred location in Hollywood for all genuine acts of contrition. Gibson's obviously too busy with rehab to man the table himself, but he's made sure that Tickle Me Elmo, Distressingly Skinny Spider-Man, and the handsomer Captain Jack Sparrow are standing sentry over his peace offerings, guaranteeing that no greedy tourist can hog all the everything bagels.

Macauley Culkin will star with Eliza Dushku in the dark comedy Sex and
Breakfast, which will attempt to coax edgy laughter from the disconnect of watching the Home Alone kid engage in group sex. [Variety]
Be prepared to excuse yourselves for some alone time after getting all worked up by these two sexy trade paper stories about multimedia conglomerate profit reports. [THR, THR ]
Seeking new and exciting ways of delivering episodes of The Hills to a cherished demographic, MTV is buying Y2M, the nation's largest network of online college newspapers. [Variety]
Sony and MGM move ahead with their Pink Panther sequel by hiring a writing team of "newcomers" whose work will eventually be undone by scores of uncredited rewrites. [THR]
Conservative CBS eschews the willy-nilly fall TV season premiere strategy of its crazy whippsnapper competitors, and will instead roll out new episodes of its various series in a single week. [Variety]

In today's Variety, celebrity penpal Rob Schneider has finally followed up* his infamous open letter promising a post-lunch beating to LAT reporter Patrick Goldstein over some unflattering remarks about manwhore masterwork Deuce Bigalow with a full-page, self-promotional, jokey pledge never to work with embattled anti-Semite Mel Gibson. (Excerpt shown, larger, full version here.) As expected from a follow-up project conceived for the sake of commerce rather than art, the sequel lacks the unhinged inspiration of the original, and ends with a disappointing, obligatory third act resolution plugging Schneider's next project, Big Stan, rather than offering an appropriately escalated act of threatened violence against the disgraced star. We suppose we'll just have to wait for next year's vanity ad to see if Schneider will ever recover the open-letter-writing magic of last February, but we fear his best days working in the form are long behind him.

There comes a moment in every aging pop icon's life when, amidst one of their more spectacularly mounted bids to remain relevant, they look out among a sea of worshippers as they hang from a giant, mirror-encrusted cross, and think to themselves: "Is this it?" For Madonna, that moment is now, as she tells Time magazine that she has finally found a "big, big project" through which to focus all the strange, foreign impulses she's had over the past couple decades to, like, do something for someone besides herself:

After four empty, unsatisfying months cruising Hollywood's swinging hotspots that were occasionally punctuated by romantic, old-timey bicycle rides by the Malibu shore, superproducer Brian Grazer has taken out a reconciliation notice in Page Six to let the town know that he's officially off the market again:

It's always exciting when a hammered Steve-O starts to run off at the mouth in the vicinity of a recording device, such as the time he announced on Jimmy Kimmel Live that he provided Paris Hilton with balloons full of nitrous oxide moments before she crashed her Bentley. The celebrity stunt-retard has cleaned up his act somewhat, however, as he recently told DailyCeleb.com (audio available here) that the only thing he's been putting up his nose lately is the barrel of a pneumatic nail gun. And who does he have to thank for helping him break free of cocaine's powdery siren song? None other than Nicole Richie—or to be more specific, Nicole Richie's celebrity:

It's already been a big day for erstwhile international megastar Bruce Willis, as Fox has announced that the fourth installment of the long-dormant Die Hard franchise, Live Free or Die Hard, will open over the Fourth of July holiday weekend in 2007, momentarily releasing Willis from his recent career purgatory of endlessly circling the globe and pretending to enjoy hugging sweaty men in rented raccoon suits. But in less happy news, TMZ.com reports that Willis has filed suit against a childhood friend whom he had hired as a full-time scrapbooker (come on, anyone who's anyone in Hollywood has one), but whom allegedly repaid the actor's generosity by absconding with some of Willis' photographed and videotaped memories, peddling an unflattering book full of "falsehoods and lies" about Willis to publishers, and extorting him with his cynical aspirations of being a tell-all author. The story offers no hint as to what these lies might be, but one can only hope they contain clues to unlocking the mystery of why Willis bought boybandish singer Aaron Carter $1 million in gifts, or, at the very least, where he had Cybill Shepherd's body buried after the wrap party for Moonlighting. We are genuinely sad for Willis, for no faded star should have to have the happy occasion of the announcement of his desperation comeback vehicle marred by the ugliness of a personal lawsuit made public.

The guidelines for outdoor advertising on Hollywood's legendary Sunset Strip are becoming clearer now: If you're a megalomaniac actor/director who'd like to erect a billboard over the boulevard depicting yourself getting a pretty sweet hummer, fine, let's see that check. But if you'd like to put one up protesting the anti-Semitic comments of a megalomaniac actor/director with whom studios might like to work with once the whole "fucking Jews start all the wars" business blows over: Perhaps we can show you something in some blurry, Xeroxed handbills to pass out in front of the Chinese Theatre? The Scoop reports on one group's difficulty in securing some billboard space to symbolically declare Hollywood a "No Mel" zone:

· Well, at least no one's going to accuse Maggie Gyllenhaal of faking her pregnancy. Is that mean? Maybe we've still got unresolved betrayal issues about her carrying another man's seed.
· Compared to the chick who got too friendly with the serial killer, the one who thinks she's the reincarnation of Marilyn Monroe seems like the definition of sanity itself.
· Lost's Naveen Andrew takes the crucial, early steps toward fathering another bastard.
Get ready, because here comes the end-of-day Mel Gibson link dump: The Mel Gibson sheriff video; the Mel Gibson disturbing face morph; Mel Gibson: another t-shirt; Mel Gibson: the bumper sticker; Mel Gibson: the homophobic comments of 1993; Mel Gibson's upcoming contrition tour; Mel Gibson: the naughty dog who ate Elvis' teddy bear. Wait, what?

Star Jones' "people" (at this point, we imagine she's just making the calls herself using a really fake sounding British accent) have issued an angry statement in response to Page Six's lengthy item today reporting that Jones appears to have finally woken up, smelled the "I married a Gay" coffee, and has been telling friends in the Hamptons that the marriage is over. From the Us Weekly blog:

Tax-evading reality TV star Richard Hatch has finally made it to his new prison home for the next 51 months, give or take a few for good behavior. And while his temporary internment facility, the Federal Transfer Center in Oklahoma, was nothing like they advertised in the brochures, we imagine the Federal Correctional Instutions at Morgantown will provide for a much more pleasant incarceration experience:

· Freelance local kamikaze journalist Mark Ebner will read at the kick-off of the now-weekly Writers Garage events at Dipiazzas Lava Lounge in Long Beach. Tonight will also feature Mike Martt (formerly of Thelonious Monster) and bands The Things and Nothing Lost playing along.
· If you're a self-described "big fat banana slut for karaoke" like LAist blogger Jana Pants, you will probably achieve spontaneous orgasm at El Cid's live band karaoke night.
· Music round-up: The Rev. Al Green at the Hollywood Bowl; Hot Chip at the Troubadour; Panic! At the Disco at the Wiltern.

Bored and exhausted from days of repeatedly violating every orifice of the Mel Gibson story with its throbbing member of round-the-clock coverage, the news media now pauses for a moment on a well-traveled stretch of road in Malibu, contemplates a particularly inviting crack in its asphalt surface, hurls itself upon the ground, and begins anew its vigorous pounding of this Gibson-related opening. Enjoy this excerpt of the AP's brief profile of the Pacific Coast Highway, the serpentine street that has devoured whole some of Hollywood's most accomplished celebrity substance abusers:

The Life Regurgitated blog may have inadvertently stumbled upon a huge clue regarding the L.A. County Sheriff's Department's investigation of why Malibu cops initially tried to bury the report of Mel Gibson's drunken, anti-Semitic outburst following his DUI arrest. We're not sure what unconventional theories the Sheriff's Department is currently exploring in its Gibson probe, but Life Regurgitated's referrer logs reveal that they apparently involve trying to obtain pictures of Ashlee Simpson's nose-job from blogs. The investigators had better think twice before allowing themselves to be drawn any deeper into the dangerous, morally ambiguous world of celebrity rhinoplasty, because this shit could go all the way to the top.

Since we pointed out that Paramount has posted a MySpace profile for World Trade Center as part of its much-publicized efforts to target the underexploited youth market, WTC has jumped from 40 to 139 friends. But not in the 'Mount's wildest dreams could they have imagined they'd so quickly receive endorsements as enthusiastic and instantly cred-conferring as the ones already being left in the comments section, like "thys movie l0oks pimp. ima definitely see it!! =]," left by influential tastemaker "mmmBUTTER =]" (and later echoed by "Philly Foghorn/The Magic Shvonzie"). Or one as unapologetically optimistic as the remarks of The NY Guardian, who's ready to preemptively call off the Oscar race based on the page's clip of the film:

So that you wouldn't have to, Wired.com's Lore Sj berg sampled this summer's crop of breakfast cereal movie tie-ins, those boxed, promotional confections aimed at ensuring that the public is either breathing, eating, or excreting the studio's summer blockbusters at all times. Some of his findings:

An operative on the Sunset-Gower lot, where the dehydration-plagued shoot of Lindsay Lohan's Georgia Rule is taking place, sent us this photo of some jokester's alteration of the plaque commemorating the fine work that's been produced at that facility. It's not as inventive a prank as, say, the craft services people oversalting her meals to the point that Lohan experiences some genuine dehydration, but it's still pretty good. And if they get lucky, the actress might mistake the plaque for a call sheet and return home for another unexcused day off, prompting more wildly entertaining public humiliations from her producer.

Yesterday's bombshell announcement from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy's Jai Rodriguez that the series had not been "asked back for 2007" had so shaken TMZ.com with visions of a planet being hurled headlong into canape-less, white-socks-with-black-dress-shoes anarchy, that they went directly to Bravo for confirmation: