That's going to do it for me; if you need me I'll be drowning my sorrows in the well-mixed Old Fashioneds at East Side Company Bar. And my sorrows are legion. In the brief five days I've spent here I've come to realize how Choire Sicha went from barefoot boy with cheek of 29 to wizened old crone of 33 in the space of year. The swift transformation of Jess Coen's apartment from charming LES walkup to makeshift meth lab (well, swift for that neighborhood) also suddenly makes sense. They couldn't pay you to do this job on a regular basis (that is, in fact, the business plan). Anyway, thanks for putting up with me, thanks to all three of my co-editors, and thank you for the tips and e-mail abuse (memo to the guy who wrote that the New York Press' "Taibbi & Zaitchik could write better copy in the snow with their dicks than you can with a laptop": I use a desktop.). Finally, thanks to Nikki Finke for keeping things interesting; next time you're in town the club sodas are on me. Okay, there's wallets to dent and livers to damage. Catch you around. AB

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An earnest thanks to this week's sponsors, who keep our fluoxetine and Provigil supply well-stocked. Interested in helping us self-medicate? More info here.

· Scarlett Johansson says she's not Woody Allen's new muse. Perhaps she's afraid that Allen will steal away their adopted daughter and enter into a taboo sexual relationship with her. Hey, there are crazier things to be afraid of.
· Renny Harlin, by the numbers. And the numbers ain't pretty.
· Brad Pitt totally says stuff about women whom have had his penis inside them.
· Crash, Crash, Kicking and Screaming, and Kicking & Screaming: it only seems like there are only two movie titles left.

· 826LA presents Anna Deavere Smith in conversation with Arianna Huffington. Go ahead, we dare you—show up ($25 at the door, but RSVP first) and try not to mention the Huffington Post.
· Walking! Art! Downtown! It doesn't take a genius to put together those clues (we had help) and figure out it's once again time for the Downtown Art Walk.
· Music for those who aren't staying in to see who's on tonight's OC soundtrack: The Eels at the Roxy; the Naked Trucker at Largo.

Hollywood PrivacyWatch celebrity sightings are sent in by our readers. Send yours to tips@defamer.com and let The Rock know that you think his hair came from a can.

· Music on top today: Spoon does what will certainly be an insanely crowded in-store show at Amoeba, while Spoon sound-alikes (but still very good) Robbers on High Street play across town at the Troubadour.
· The Egyptian Theatre screens Saving Face tonight, "the story of unspoken loves, contemporary and cultural taboos and the journey of two women towards living their lives honestly." You know what that means...hot lesbian action! Jesus, what are we, 14?
· You've worn the flannel, you've lipsynced to "Jeremy" more times than you care to admit, and you long ago wore out your Temple of the Dog CD. Now see Malfunkshun, the documentary about Andrew Wood, deceased Mother Love Bone member and the man partly responsible for the grunge takeover of the 90s.

· Today on the Ariannaville Times-Picayune: Adam McKay (you know him as Will Ferrell's personal writer) on Talladega, subtly plugging Talladega Nights but never outright saying the title, David Rees cheekily wonders when he gets to meet Gwyneth and slip Larry David his screenplay, and King Tut looks alarmingly like a bald version of Jaye Davidson in Stargate.
· Bloggers: The Sitcom: Naturally,"No pay, but DVD provided."
· Morgan Freeman wins the rights to morganfreeman.com, thus freeing him from the inevitable indignity of having his identity hijacked by Golden Palace
· Scientology Losing Ground to New Fictionology
· Ben Stiller: "the best-looking Jew in showbiz." Oh, don't worry, the guy who said this was just kidding.

· Writers Bloc presents an interesting pairing of journalists at the Skirball, as Linda Ellerbee joins in conversation with Skeletor. Oops, we mean Maria Shriver. Sorry! We looked at a picture before we read the copy.
· Author Steven Johnson reads from Everything Bad Is Good for You, in which he argues that pop culture is not necessarily responsible for the loss of IQ points, at Vroman’s.
· Comedy Death Ray returns to Mbar with The Fake Fake Show, this time featuring Zach "What's hiding in my beard this week?" Galifianakis and Brody Stevens.
· Concert Round-Up,Attack of the The Definite Articles Edition: The Ponys at the Echo, The Comas at the Troubadour.

A reader spots actor Joaquin Phoenix, last seen checking into rehab about four weeks ago, out for a reasonably-priced meal with a gang of guys he either met "on the inside" or who badly need better agents and a fashion consultant:

Welcome to day two of your Jessless journey through Gawker. Big thanks to Lindsay Robertson for all her help yesterday. Additional thanks to Jesse Oxfeld, who has continued to contribute his wit and wisdom well after we've required it. Jesse's like the guest who stays too long at the end of the party; you'd like to ask him to leave, but he's just so much help in cleaning up the empty glasses.

· "As the minstrel-accented pixie, he kept busting up the crew with his profane ad-libs over footage of Woods attempting a putt. ('Show 'em how n——r you are! Stick your d—k in the hole!')" Newsweek attempts to find out what's wrong with Dave Chappelle (pressure? drugs?), but only succeeds in making us miss his show even more than we already do.
· The LA Weekly's Nikki Finke pens a love note to the Huffington Post...if your idea of a love note involves having the recipient's heart ripped from their body and mailed to them in a box with a note that says, "Fuck you."
· Steven Spielberg weeps at a Star Wars screening, probably because he wished his summer blockbuster had docile actors and CGI characters instead of a star that's trying to convert his crew to Scientology.
· Doing voiceover in The Incredibles: just like fighting apartheid, but with better craft service!
· Angelina Jolie is headed back to Africa. This time, however, she's on a mission of peace, not a mission of noisy sex-making. [second item]

· AFI's Director’s Workshop for Women screens last year's thesis films at the ArcLight, followed by a Q&A session with the budding auteurs. Women directors: They're not all Nora Ephron!
· Steve Callahan signs his book Family Guy: Stewie’s Guide to World Domination at Borders Westwood. Make sure and call ahead; the reading could be delayed, put on hold for a year, and then finally rescheduled at a larger Barnes and Noble up the street.
· The Marijuana Policy Project hosts a 10th anniversary gala at the Sheraton Delfina Hotel, where stoner deity Tommy Chong will accept a Courage Under Fire award. And as far as we know, it's entirely coincidental this event is held the same day as the Huffington Post launch.

Because we'll never settle for just one lover, the Gawker Gangbang continues this week with guest editor Alex Balk, aka The Minor Fall, The Major Lift. So long as we keep him doused in Wild Turkey, you shouldn't find him too corrosive.

· OC Idiots catches Nick Carter in some drunken Cinco de Mayo antics. A Mexican wrestling mask is involved.
· If these celebrity Scientologist types spent half as much time getting deprogrammed as they do defending Scientology, well, they'd probably be disappeared before any real progress was made. Nevermind.
· Ring-a-ding-ding, a woman accuses Sinatra of being a rapist.
· Paula Abdul drops in on SNL tomorrow night, will probably make out with Fred Armisen in a bad Corey Clark wig.
· Of course, it was only a matter of time before former lovers Abdul and Clark miraculously manifested themselves on food.

Friday
· John Puglisi’s “The Garden State” exhibit shows off the wonders of Northern NJ at the La Luz De Jesus Gallery in Los Feliz. NJ!! WHUT WHUT! Warning: There is no guarantee that Zach Braff will attend. Adjust expectations accordingly.
· Hot Friday night concert action: Thievery Corporation at the Wiltern; Aimee Man at HOB Sunset; The Muffs at Spaceland; Radar Bros. at the Echo; Ben Lee (hit the scalpers) at the Troubadour.
Saturday
· You've heard about the threats of violence, now check out the play: Killing Russell Crowe hits the stage at the Lonny Chapman Group Reperatory Theater.
· David Rambo, CSI staff writer and owner of the coolest name we've heard in a decade, speaks at the Alameda Writers Group meeting at the Glendale Central Library. Bring your CSI spec scripts, as we hear that writers love to get story ideas that way!
· See what happens years after you've sold dozens of songs to ad agencies: Moby plays the Wiltern. Bring steaks. We hear he loves that.
Sunday:
· Mother’s Day. Do something for her (like finally move out of the basement), or hear about it for the rest of her life.
· But what would Mother's Day be without the Oedpial overtones? To wit, Erotic Night Mother's Day at the Hammer Museum.

Before I head back to the salt mines of Editor & Publisher, I want to toss a quick but heartfelt todah rabah to Denton and Steele, for offering this gig, and Coen, for putting up with my IM'd neuroses. (I know, I know: bad idea to skip therapy this week.) Jess promised this would get me laid, which it didn't. And Maer may well not speak to me again. But, otherwise, it's been a blast. An exhausting blast. I'm gonna go get a drink to decompressand, having learned my lesson last time, everyone's invited. See you at the Peach Pit. JO

Join us in the enthusiastic granting of "the props" to this week's sponsors, whose generous support temporarily keeps us from slinging rock on the Strip. If you'd like to advertise on Defamer (hint: you do, unless you want to go bankrupt) and make your product or service visible to the most affluent, demographically desirable readership imaginable, see this page.

Thanks to this week's advertisers, who paid for last night's tequila bath and this morning's stomach pump. Interested in the party? More info here.

Invigliator: yesterday, there was the most hilarious thing on gawker in the last 2 years.
Gawker: oh?
Invigliator: the picture of Rick Marin. are you kidding me?
Invigliator: he's a TOXIC CAD?
Invigliator: in what world?
Gawker: sigh.