· The WGA West elects Patric Verrone president and installs his entire Writers United slate, giving him "a mandate to follow through on the efforts...to organize animation, cable and the reality TV sector." Translation: There will be many more people to hold up picket signs for the strike in 2007. [Variety]
· Fox will donate 10% of the box office proceeds from the opening weekend of Roll Bounce to Katrina victims, and will screen the movie free before opening night at 80 shelters in the gulf coast, assuring that the refugees' basic human need for period rollerskating movies will not go unmet. [THR]
· Harrison Ford will take some time off between helicopter rescues to star in the Civil War drama Manhunt as the leader of search for Lincoln's assassin. For reasons that aren't entirely clear, Ford will play the character of Col. Everton Conger with a poorly practiced Russian accent. [Variety]
· My Name is Earl has a big debut for NBC, temporarily keeping the trap door underneath president Kevin Reilly's desk from opening and dropping him into a pile of the moldering bones of other failed executives. God help us all if Earl's success brings a new wave of even more incredibly annoying advertising. [THR]
· Hollywood Out of Ideas, Germans and CZJ Edition: Catherine Zeta-Jones signs on to star in Mostly Martha, the American remake of the German romantic dramedy Bella Martha. She will play a chef, whom we assume will have her icy heart melted by something or other as she learns the true value of love. [Variety]

America is clearly lagging behind innovative European talk shows, but we're sure this stunt could go over huge on The View. Think about it: Joy Behar shooting up between her toes, Star Jones looping a belt around her arm and yanking it taut with her teeth, Elizabeth Hasselbeck deep in a nod, Meredith Viera cooking up a spoon, and, crucially, Barbara Walters solemnly decrying the dangers of drugs as that day's guest (someone from Dancing with the Stars, probably) disposes of the used needles. Television history awaits our bold ladies of the morning.

It didn't take a psychic to predict that Britney Spears' postpartum adjustment period would be bumpy, but we're still surprised that tales of Britney's wildly fluctuating hormone levels and Kevin Federline's decreasing levels of interest have already hit the glossies. It's all there but the faint sounds of "Everybody Dance Now":

Today's Page Six reports that the beautiful friendship between Tom Cruise and Steven Spielberg may be over, as the director was less than pleased that Cruise used the War of the Worlds publicity tour to evangelize for Scientology and personally—personally! God, that never gets old—launch an invasion against the harmful street drug Ritalin, which Spielberg thinks has helped children he knows. (We shudder to think what would happen to the market for Vicodin should the Scientologists succeed in removing this important gateway drug from Hollywood.) Cruise's lawyer, frequent Defamer penpal Bert Fields, got wind of the story and immediately fired off one of his signature love notes:

· "Got Jeff Zucker fired. I'm sorry. My Name is Earl." TMFTML adds a much needed splash of truth to NBC's Earl-awareness campaign. And while we're on the subject, we heard an Earl radio ad today in which a bunch of friends actually discussed those incredibly annoying talking magazine ads. Advertising about advertising? What. The. Fuck. NBC's brain-damaged promotional team must be stopped.
· Rebecca Romijn decides to make a serious commitment to slumming with Jerry O'Connell.
· Someone really needs to remind Teri Hatcher (and this publicist) that she didn't get that Emmy. Diva bullshit is for winners, babe.
· With so many washed-up pseudocelebrities desperate for attention in this town, The Surreal Life should be able to assemble a much better cast of the damned than Alexis Arquette, CC Deville, and the guy from Smashmouth.

· Time To Hit The Scalpers Music Round-up: Interpol at the Greek Theater; Madness at the Troubadour, Bloc Party at the Palladium.
· The ArcLight hosts a screening of The Player, which we hear has something to with "Hollywood," to celebrate The Hollywood Reporter's 75th anniversary. THR editor-in-chief Robert Dowling and "special surprise guests" will be on hand for the obligatory post-show chitchat. Dowling will not, however, don a bear costume and wrestle Variety's Peter Bart, and the world is worse off for it.
· Writer Jill Soloway, late of Six Feet Under (so to speak) signs her memoirish new book, Tiny Ladies in Shiny Pants, at the Grove's Barnes and Noble. Naturally, because this is showbiz, the book (which, incidentally, we read and enjoyed) is already being turned into a TV show.

Several readers have alerted us to the appearance of AshtonHacked.com, a site claiming to have hacked into Ashton Kutcher's voicemail and posted them on the internets, the world's preferred delivery system for suddenly less-than-private celebrity communications. (A timely stunt for sure, considering that the rascal responsible for unleashing Paris Hilton's Sidekick business on the world was just sentenced to 11 months in juvie.) While we always want to believe that these things are authentic, we're already skeptical—someone in the Fark forum points out that Kutcher's alleged passcode, 7865, spells out PUNK, too obvious even for someone of the Kooch's limited gifts. Real or not, make sure you keep your speakers turned down low if you click through to the message labeled "Hot Chick," which quickly gets so filthy that it could make Demi Moore's gray roots grow out in minutes.

Entourage's Jeremy Piven and Eva Longoria of Desperate Housewives share a tender moment as they arrive at the Emmys: "Listen, baby, I'm a lock for this Emmy. If you know what's good for you, you'll meet me in the men's bathroom in two minutes for a celebration and we'll do some things you'll need to tell your priest about tomorrow. Sound good? No? See these bunny ears? When Marc Cherry gets bored of you banging the gardener and kills off your character, you're going to be wearing a set when you serve me a maitai in the Grotto."

In yet another edition of Tales from the Trop, a Defamer operative files a brief report about last night's Flightplan premiere after-party, held at everyone's favorite celebrity glory-hole, the Tropicana Bar at the Roosevelt Hotel. Spurred by some inconvenient rainfall, our dogged correspondent stepped indoors and coaxed a desk clerk into admitting that once night falls, the hotel's guests have a better chance of hitting the Powerball than cracking Amanda Scheer Demme's guest list:

When a television production tells a woman with painfully acute self-esteem issues that they're going to give her a smile like Cindy Crawford, then backs out of potentially life-changing surgery at the last minute because the "extreme makeover" wouldn't fit their schedule, what's the worst that can happen? For ABC, how about a tragic suicide and a million dollar lawsuit?

The NY Times has some more details the Brad Garrett Everybody Loves Raymond spinoff being planned, hinting at the super-secret, mind-blowing plot twist that may allow Ray's dopey brother to live on for an additional thirteen-episode commitment:

· HBO won't pick up another season of The Comeback, mercifully euthanizing the eternally suffering fictional actress Valerie Cherish and sending real-life counterpart Lisa Kudrow to the unemployment line. Goodbye, Valerie, you're going to a better place, one where Paulie G can't abuse you and you'll no longer have dog poop in your hair. [Variety]
· Shitergy update, pigskin edition: NBC plans to adapt corporate sibling Universal's Friday Night Lights into a television series, planned to arrive at the—here it comes—same time that the NFL returns to their network. [Variety]
· Brad Garrett wasn't talking shit when he joked about a Raymond spinoff at the Emmys, as talks for his own show are underway. [THR]
· The Emmys were up 30 percent in the 18-49 demo over a year ago, which isn't really saying much. The TV Academy should move them to NBC and finally finish them off. [Variety]
· Tom Sizemore signs on to develop a reality show about his life. Expect the Super Sizemore project to fulfill the suicidal promise reneged on by Breaking Bonaduce. [THR]

Some readers noticed this unfortunate eyesore on Melrose during their morning commutes yesterday, and a couple sent in these pictures to document the "edgy" stunt that transformed the exterior of Ashton Kutcher's Dolce restaurant into a cheap set from Breakin' for an Emmy party. Urban blight has never been so stylish! No reports yet from the horrors that may have unfolded inside the building (dirty cardboard for headspins? UTFO soundtrack? Complimentary parachute pants?), but we'll update you if and when they become available.

The LAT went party-hopping after the Emmys, soaking up the celebratory atmosphere, and gathering quotes from a variety of television stars self-consciously defending their consignment to Hollywood's small-screen ghetto. (Don Johnson: "More and more people get their information and entertainment from TV...Film has become a boutique business.") Yes, yes, we get it, you're all absolutely thrilled that you're not movie stars, but WHAT ABOUT THE CHOCOLATE ROOM? It seems like the Roosevelt might've been biting some of the Mondrian's style:

Breaking! The ice around Jennifer Aniston's delicate heart is finally melting! From Oprah.com's account of Aniston's visit to the Winfrey show:

Courtney Love's couch-based assault of a sleeping musician last year has finally made its way to the courts, and as is typical of most Love antics, the reality is more authentically batshit insane than any jokey version we could come up with:

· We take back that spurious "talentless" remark we made earlier about Moonves's beloved Julie Chen. TV Gasm clearly demonstrates that she's really, really good at saying at least two words. Also, don't miss their Golden Gasms (at least three times more exciting than the Emmys!), in which we were invited to offer our useless opinions. Mischa wuz robbed, yo.
· We love it when actresses play humble: "When her name was announced, Huffman said she was so nervous, it felt like 'an out of body experience' and that the Emmy voters 'were going to come in and go "oh, I'm sorry. We didn't mean Felicity Huffman. We meant Shmalicity Guffman."'" Well, they definitely weren't going to call up Schmeva Gongloria or Schmicollete Geridan, were they?
· Hey, unicorns! (We love us some Boing Boing, yes we do.)
· An Agent Dance Blind Item, courtesy of Page Six. Talk amongst yourselves: "WHICH high-powered but hated agent tried to leave Endeavor for rival CAA? The offer was rescinded when two high-level CAA agents said they would quit if he came on board."
· Kate Moss is quickly becoming our Favorite Celebrity Ever.

· Because your thirst for free events knows no bounds, the Monday cover-free music round-up: The Echo hosts The Oohlas and Princess Superstar (free after 10 pm); Dirty Little Secret at Spaceland; Adam "Seth Cohen" Brody's Big Japan (they probably hate the attention) at the Silverlake Lounge.
· Literary superstar and fatwah survivor Salman Rushdie reads from and signs Shalimar the Clown at Dutton's Brentwood. Did we mention that his wife is hot, just in case that greatest-living-writer talk isn't enough?
· KCRW and the Hotel Cafe hook up for a hurricane relief concert, with your suggested $10 cover charge/donation going to the American Red Cross. Kind of makes you feel guilty about choosing the free shows, doesn't it?

More desperate than ever to reach the ever-shrinking and increasingly distracted pool of television viewers, the networks are turning to publicity stunts to generate buzz for their shows. Leading the way is the resurgent ABC; after successfully littering beaches with promotional waste, their marketing braintrust has decided that the best method to reach influential eyeballs is to deface currency, replacing the low-Q-rated guy who currently wastes valuable advertising space on the one-dollar bill with a poutier-lipped, more feminine version. From the LAT:

HotelChatter may have some anecdotal evidence that Amanda Scheer Demme's Tropicana Bar might soon be slipping from the top of the celebrity-fellating nightspot heap: