This week's Modern Love, the column in the NYT's Sunday Style section, bucked a trend. It's supposed to be about modern love, duh, but it's usually about adopting babies and cancer. This week, it actually was about modern (text-messaging) luv, with an essay by a young woman about her awkward flirtation with a frustratingly immature but totally cute indie-rocker boy in Brooklyn. Title of essay: "Was I On a Date or Baby Sitting?" HEY OH! "I asked my musician friends what they knew about him. Joanna, a singer, summed him up: 'He's an indie rock dreamboat. His voice is transcendent and he writes lovely lyrics. He has a nice face, he has a kid and he tours a lot. He's a star in his world.'" Oh, perfect: the conveniently unavailable guy who "goes on tour" a lot. Of course, we'd all love to know who the dude is and what band he is in. Thanks to a tipster, now we know!

Why all the poverty in America? Vimeo-founding Julia Allison-ex and tedious fameball douche Jakob Lodwick thinks it's because all those poor, poor corporations are forced to pay a minimum wage that many prospective workers are simply not qualified for. In a rhetorical interview with himself (Oh, what a device!) Lodwick sure does make some convincing arguments.

Want to support pig-faced scumbag "Girls Gone Wild" producer Joe Francis, who recently got out of jail and is awaiting his trial on tax evasion charges? Then go buy your copy of Girls Gone Wild Magazine-it's hot off the presses and stinks of ammonia! "The magazine comes packaged with part one of the 'Hooker Gone Wild' DVD series, starring Eliot Spitzer's infamous call-girl, Ashley Dupré, as well as an additional full-length Girls Gone Wild DVD," the press release boasts.

Lawmakers in Boston just banned bottle service, the preferred method by which douchebags imbibe their shitty vodka. Have we been wrong about Boston this whole time? Wait, Happy Hour is illegal there too. So no, we were never wrong. Phew! [Daily Swarm]

Maybe it's just the effect of repeated, unending exposure, but Dov Charney, the self-described "Jewish hustler" and lech behind American Apparel, seems to get cuter every week. This weekend, the WSJ intoned about the company recently going public: "American Apparel is opening the kimono — and it's not necessarily a pretty sight." A totally fun WSJ video of Dov follows.

It's totally fun to point and laugh at Williamsburg as a post-collegiate paradise that takes kickball and Japanese sneakers way too seriously. However, keep in mind: when looking through these photos of last year's Brooklyn Kickball Dance, you may have the same realization I did: Damn, used to date that guy. Related: is the "Brooklyn Kickball" ankle tatto real?

Last week, we published the longest rant about hipster kickball in Brooklyn in the history of hipster kickball. It turns out that there's more to the story: BKKB co-founder Kevin Dailey, 38, has written a somehow more outrageous letter. This time it's a list of demands to Williamsburg dive bar Turkey's Nest, the closest bar to McCarren Park. (He was referred to as "Kev" in the previous screed.) Highlights and allegations? "What I make in one week of kickball is less than the margarita machine generates in one hour." Also, "Over those four years, kickball has made the Nest hundreds of thousands of dollars."

• Actor/NRA man Charlton Heston's hands grew cold, dead.

Last week, we discussed the shittiest comedians in America, and consulted a handy bracketing system provided by WBCN's "Toucher & Rich." Well, the voting has continued and presents us with a dilemma so weighty it may well swing this little planet off its very axis.

Ex-Glamour dudeblogger Mike Cherico, fired for commenter revolt against his braggy-yet-unstable, womanizing ways, might have been a douche in other ways, shockingly: the PR firm representing JE Englebert, owner of Manhattan clubs Suzie Wong's and Prime, says that Cherico was "using Glamour's name and trading his blog articles for personal hook-ups," such as trying to get into a Playboy Mansion party in L.A. and "demanding bottle service" at one of his clubs in Manhattan. True, false, or strategic PR name-placement? We're not sure. The rep says that "the reason we put this out was we seen (sic) all the news and all the media about how he was treating women very wrong." Word!

Radar has hired Spencer Pratt, the blond, cherubic Hills star with a heart of darkness, as their new advice columnist. "Yo Spencer!," which will tackle "problems from hot girls to family affairs," will debut in the next issue. (A sneak preview of the first column, which answers questions about smelly co-workers, girls who like threesomes, and whether one should discourage one's brother from enlisting in the army, is after the jump.) "Spencer is never afraid to speak his mind," Radar editor-in-chief Maer Roshan says in the press release. "When asking for advice, it's good to have someone who will be brutally honest with you, and tell it like it is." Sure, because that worked out really well for Heidi. You can e-mail Spencer, or whoever's writing his column, about your problems at spencer@radaronline.com, though it might take him a while to get back to you, since we predict that mailbox will be full of "You're a douche bag" messages in, oh, ten to twenty minutes.

"I am ashamed of myself but in JA's absence, I have become obsessed with her 'friend' [Mary Rambin]," writes in a tipster. "Sixteen blog posts today!! do with this what you will ... and send someone here to kill me. I can't believe I've been sucked into caring about these people. But I care! Oh how I care!!!" Do not fret! Because you are not the first person to start sending in tips about Julia Allison's handbag-designer-or-whatever friend Mary since Julia stopped blogging. It's normal. It only proves researchers right: chimps have long enjoyed looking at photographs of the dominant chimps in their tribe. "I know it seems like I'm [Julia's] lady in waiting," Mary blogs. No, it seems like you are the appointed beta female. Why can't we look away? Because we're all just chattering monkeys, and recognizing hubris is good for group dynamics.

Glamour, that bastion of informed debate about "men, sex, love and dating," had their very own dudeblogger, named Mike (aka the Edgy English Teacher, barf), installed after the demise of the oft-mocked Alyssa Shelasky. Mike is (was?) "32, single, living and teaching in LA and looking for love in all the wrong places..." Like the internet! Today, Glamour had to fire him: "We've read your comments, every single one. Our ultimate goal here is to open a productive conversation... clearly, that can't happen when the majority of readers would like to pulverize the blogger. And so, we've decided it's time to move on; as of today, Mike is no longer blogging for us." It's a old story with a bloggy twist: Mike's readers got fed up with his womanizing ways, and lashed out in the comments section. (Does one of the girls he "dated" respond with gritty details in the comments? Yeah. Yeah she totally does.)

On that bastion of important community issues known as the Brooklynian messageboard, a user named BrownStoneOwner has a question about taking her doggie to Prospect Park: "I noticed recently that whenever I take my frenchie and poodle off the leash in Prospect Park, I get screamed at by people playing soccer or cricket to put them back on the leash. These people are usually very rude and agresssive." But wait, there's more! (As if advertising your brownstone-owning status isn't annoying enough.) Not only are these people rude, but they're also black and Mexican.

A tipster tells us that he received a withering reception from the "suburban yeti" and "cookie cutter gay with a faux vintage beer shirt that he must have got at urban outfitters" who interviewed him this morning at Clandestine Industries, the fun little fashion club started by musician and anthropomorphized douchebag Pete Wentz. The applicant, hoping for a design internship, had his portfolio dismissed because his work was "too sophisticated" for the little be-studded cottage industry, which is simply looking for someone who can deftly create "a hoodie with bug eyes on it" (so sayeth the suburban yeti). Ooh, that sounds so cool (or whatever new word for "cool" our young are using)! I love things with bug eyes on them. Except for Pete Wentz's face. After the jump, the little rock star raccoon at the grand opening of his Chicago store. And then a fashion show!

Mutual fund firm Fidelity Investments has to pay $3.75 million in fines because 13 of its brokers accepted many expensive presents from clients, reports the NYT. Things like free concert and Superbowl tickets and a wild 2003 bachelor party, paid for by clients, that featured a superstar dwarf that people eventually tossed! (He was consenting; must be an unapologetically mercenary son of a bitch!) It's true, little people are all the rage these days! They're the new strippers: paid to perform vaguely humiliating stunts as the the latest makes-you-feel-superior accessory for your bachelor's, office, or holiday party! To that end, Here is the City offers a history on "dwarf-tossing."

"Do you want to experience life in New York City with the class, comfort and style (not to mention social network) you were raised with in the South?" asks the young belle behind Southern In The City. Why, yes we sure do, sugar! The website offers Southerners moving to the city a chance to network, learn about neighborhoods, and find an apartment. Because "Daddy was right when he told me everything in NYC is either a hassle or a hustle."

"For Manish Vora, then 26, a salary package around $500,000 wasn't enough," Portfolio reports in an article about Millennial Generation. They're the "80 million or so workers born after 1980 who researchers say tend to place job satisfaction and lifestyle concerns ahead of their desire to simply move up the corporate ladder." Clearly, Mr. Vora has not once spent one iota of life broke off his ass, or he wouldn't be talking crazy about giving up a fat paycheck to start a dot-com. But that's what all the hedge-funders and finance types are doing lately, in their search for "meaning" in their jobs. What kinds of meaningful, low-paying work are these kids engaging in?

When he was editor in chief of Star magazine, Joe Dolce would let nothing, not even a wedding, or journalistic ethics, keep him from telling a tawdry story. At least that was the idea, until Dolce found himself looking for a new job. A year later, Dolce has dusted himself off and taken the first critical step toward rehabilitating his image: becoming Facebook friends and, no doubt, lifetime soulmates with writer James Frey, another fallen purveyor of overaggressive, ethically-challenged "nonfiction." Dolce added the lying author of a Million Little Pieces to his friends list on Valentine's Day, which is just really sweet. Maybe he can convince Frey to accompany him on one of his travel-writing assignments — it's ethically challenged and everything, James! — and then learn the secret to profiting fabulously from infamy, as Frey did with the $2 million advance on his forthcoming novel.

Ew! New York mag's Sex Diaries, their attempt at edgy subversiveness (or maybe just pageviews?), is the grossest yet this week. We have the pleasure of meeting a 27-year-old comedian who's into S&M—and his large, unwieldy ego. He lets us know that the booker's wife at the LES comedy club he's performed at "is pretty hot but seems like white trash. Though I would have sex with a girl that is white trash if it came down to it." Careful, dude—there are actually not that many comedy clubs on the LES, making it easy to guess which booker you're thinking of cuckholding. Laugh Lounge, I'm thinking.