When Gawker mascot Andrew Krucoff came to us and asked if he could launch a blog book tour here for his "punk rock hero," we shrugged and scratched our heads and attempted to ignore him. (But, then, that's our regular reaction to Krucoff.) Apparently this hero of Kruc's, Frank Portman, has written the MySpace generation's Catcher in the Rye, and because we're intrigued by anyone Kruc has maintained an asexual crush on since he just was a little Kruci, we thought it wouldn't hurt to grant the request. After the jump, the two talk abut the book, King Dork, their long-unrequited love, about lots of other things about rock journalism. Future Lester Bangs — or even Chuck Klostermans — of America, take note!

Another day, another unfortunately named celebrity baby, as actress Gwyneth Paltrow has given birth to her second child with Coldplay singer Chris Martin. While the newborn does not have an edible name like that of his big sister Apple, the couple has done their best to ensure their child a life full of misery — the baby has been named Moses Martin. You might think this is an homage to the Old Testament, but remember: these are celebrities, and famous people just don't think like that. We suspect the Moses choice has more to do with a popular song of the same name from Coldplay's Live 2003 album. If so, Babies Proof and Yellow can't be far behind.

• One night after she was seen having Guinness with dinner, pregnant Gwyneth Paltrow is spotted downing glasses of wine at Lupa. Here's hoping she names the kid Franzia. [Gatecrasher (2nd item)]
• Cindy Adams gives an inexplicable shout-out to Lindsay Lohan, who has a dog that "may be having mental problems." Oh, Cindy — quit projecting. [Cindy Adams]
• Loudmouthed hookerpants Anna Benson files for divorce from former Mets pitcher Kris Benson, claiming that he's cheated on her. Benson, we suspect, is relieved. [Deadspin]
• Even if he's a longshot, should Vanity Fair editor Graydon Carter replace Brad Grey as head of Paramount, we'll fly to Los Angeles just so we can slit our wrists in Hollywood. [Page Six]
• Beyoncé's father challenges American Idol creator Simon Cowell to a pre-fabricated musical duel. Slow news day. [Lowdown]

Apple Computer is defending its logo against Apple Corps, the recording label owned by the Beatles. The latter claims that the Apple logo in the iTunes store dilutes Apple Corps' trademark. There's law involved, and serious IP issues and blah blah blah. But here are the good parts:

Paper magazine threw their 9th annual "Beautiful People" party at Hiro last night, where they celebrated their issue by the same name. As we understand it, this is the issue that's unofficially devoted to the children of celebrities (Stella Keitel, Jodi Guber, Julia Restoin Roitfeld, Sophie Auster, amongst others), because only rich kids grown in bubbles are beautiful. To break up the genetically famousness of it all is coverboy Antony Hegarty, of the critically acclaimed Antony and the Johnsons, who was scheduled to play a set for the invite-only crowd.

Click to enlarge.

Not that a single one of you should be surprised, but the UK's Sun has declared that Whitney Houston is a bona fide crackhead by publishing pictures of the singer's bathroom after a bender. Why is it that the British publications always score the best controlled substance pics?

• Finally, the first not-squishy photos of little Violet Garner-Affleck have emerged. Aw, how cute — it's baby's first real invasion of privacy. Welcome to the world, little one! [The Cooler]
• Katie Holmes receives her 6-foot cue cards reminding her to not make a noise while her forthcoming baby rips through her vagina and out into the world. [Sun UK]
• BlackBook goes to SXSW with a whole roster of questions pulled from vintage copies of Tiger Beat. The result? Lots of uncomfortable indie boys. [BlackBook]
• Mr. Belding, just because we can. [The Apiary]
• We've received a press release announcing that houseboy Kevin Federline has finally come up with a title for his debut album: Playing With Fire. It's OK to get a little excited — we won't tell.
• Joseph Gordon Levitt attempts to understand the paparazzi, bless his little heart. [You Tube]

After a few years of letting us have some semblance of tween-free happiness, MTV's president Christina Norman announced today that the 2006 Video Music Awards would return to Manhattan. The shitstorm goes down August 31 at Radio City, a safe distance from the tragic and ill-timed hurricanes of last year's debacle in Miami. Norman praised this year's potential for "insanity," to which Mayor Bloomberg responded:

We read with interest the lead story in yesterday's Metro section, "Hell's Kitchen, Swept Out and Remodeled." We're always intrigued by the changing face of the city, we're recently frustrated by the disappearance of neighborhood quirks and characters, and we're saddened by the increasing unlikelihood of ever again finding rival dancing gangs on the West Side. And while the article touched on all those points, we were most intrigued by this one:

Bay Area writer Curt Hopkins and his friend Eric Moore, both veterans of one-a those dot-coms, penned an ode to the poor Valley workin' man. Best sung to the tune of "Luckenbach, Texas" by Waylon Jennings; best taken with a Red Bull and vodka.

Bagpipers spotted warming up on West 45th Street. Sure, their Danny Boy is good. But their Hava Nagilah is better.

We're trying to decide if we think the Times website is showing us Bowie's left nut today. We think it is. Your call?

So we went up to midtown last night for Showtime's big premiere of Liza With a Z, the 1972 television special that hasn't been seen in more than three decades. It was — how to describe? — an experience. Some thoughts, in more or less the order they occurred to us:

Liquid Generation's James Kleckner has a scoop on MC Hammer's dot-com — a bigger deal than his blog. The humor site founder says that Hammer's insisting on using his old slogans on all the branding and ads — which, if he's fine with being Mr. Ironicpants, would kick ass.

We've just been told about this: Channel 1017 is on-demand karaoke. We might never leave the house again.

MC Hammer has a blog.

• Finally, an explanation as to why Brad Pitt left Jennifer Aniston: She was an underminer ("the best friend who casually destroys your life," as per the book of the same name). As her former roommate Nancy Balbirer reveals, Aniston advised her to be "more fuckable" and buy chicken cutlets to stuff her bra. In Aniston's defense, only a true friend would tell you to be a better whore. [Lowdown]
• An associate of LA nightlife's grand dame Amanda Scheer-Demme accuses rival promoter Brent Bolthouse of "selling out to the Jew." Well, that is the only way to get ahead in Hollywood. [Page Six]
• Clint Eastwood's son may be a real-life Gay Cowboy. [R&M]
• Clay Aiken fans file a formal complaint with the FTC after realizing that the American Idol runner-up was falsely marketed as anything but a big 'mo. [Page Six]
• Don't believe the Brangelina gift registry at Tiffany's — there's no way they'd have you spend your money when you could be using it to feed a one-legged Haitian orphan. [Jossip]
• NB to all gossips: chubby doesn't mean pregnant. [Scoop]

Exactly what you want to look at while you eat.
We don't do restaurant reviews — unless it's a celebrity restaurant (oh, NYLA, we miss you so!). So last night we decided to don our crazypants and hit Destino, the new Italian restaurant at 50th and 1st Avenue. No, we didn't go for the food, even though Rao's Mario Curko is in the kitchen — we went because Justin Timberlake is a minority investor, and we were really curious as to whether or not Destino would be half as sleek and glitzy as his Los Angeles venture, Chi. Plus, we heard that Timberlake was required to make something like 2 appearances every 5 years (or some such silliness), and what if — what if — he was hanging at his new place that night? Then we could finally challenge him to a dance-off.

It will be the most extraordinary collection of homosexuality to have ever been gathered in Carnegie Hall — with the possible exception of when Liberace rehearsed alone.