· Disney Danger Day continues as the Mouse House recalls its signature line of exploding DVD players. Who could've foreseen a problem with them?
· Octopus Grigori offers a review of Justin Timberlake's basketball skills after a pick-up game at the Hollywood Y. According to the blogger, Timberlake's got some game, but our sources at the Y have told us he's got no outside shot.
· Come to think of it, yeah, we haven't seen Sean Penn burn down any sweatshops or pick up any hedgeclippers in protest yet. We're sure he's working on it.
· Nerve.com capitalizes on the Payola Six/Jared Paul Stern scandal by asking a variety of gossip columnists for sex advice.

There's huge cachet to be mined in the netting of a high-profile celebrity to speak at your institution of higher learning, and so the DaVinci Academy in Ogden, Utah could hardly have been blamed for shooting high: Comedy Central golden boy Jon Stewart, still shimmering from glittery Oscar-hosting residue. What they can be blamed for, however, is booking the wrong guy.

· Music round-up: The 88 at the Troubadour; Helen Stellar at the Viper Room; Martin Atkins (of Pigface) does a DJ set at Spaceland.
· The LA Press Club presents "Watching the Watchdogs," featuring a panel of local media bloggers Kevin "LA Observed" Roderick, Ron "RonFineman.com" Fineman, and Don "LA Radio" Barrett, directed by the LAT's Matt Welch.
· Akeelah and the Bee jumps right off your promotional Starbucks cup and onto the big screen at the ArcLight, where AFI hosts a screening and Q&A with director Doug Atchison.

Breaking news from the Sony lot, where an operative reports that employees are being terrorized by a cloud of tiny, yellow killers:

Emboldened by his highly successful publicity stunt to solidify rumors of his heterosexuality by being photographed unconvincingly kissing Teri Hatcher near a Malibu biker bar, a cocky Ryan Seacrest posed uncomfortably with two Playmates at Hugh Hefner's recent 80th birthday party. His overconfidence would backfire, however, as the Idol host collapsed from the strain of too much feigned attraction moments after the picture was shot. Mansion personnel quickly revived him by passing a bowl of potpourri under his nose and allowing him a free, restorative session at Playboy's on-site Mystique tanning booth, inside which Seacrest rested until all pneumatic, body-painted females were safely out of his view.

Peabody Award-winning animated series (we're still trying to wrap our minds around that one) South Park faces an interesting artistic dilemma: Namely, for a show whose main raison d'etre is to poke massive, battering ram-sized holes into society's last remaining taboos, where do you go after a tour-de-force, pedophilia-themed season premiere? Well, if your network refuses to allow you to incite an anti-US jihad by broadcasting cartoon images of Mohammed, you simply do the next best thing: Turn the disagreement into an episode, and throw in Jesus shitting on Bush and the flag for good measure.

Tomorrow night on Primetime (kids, check your local listings), Diane Sawyer attempts to draw mediaphobic megastar Tom Cruise out of his shell by inviting him to speak about the heretofore unexplored areas of his personal life, his religion and relationship with actress Kate Holmes. ABC teases the broadcast with a write-up of topics covered on the program, including this primer on the practice of "silent birth," which, according to the actor, does not include pacifiers, surgically attached oral zippers, or futuristic vacuum-like devices capable of sucking all sound from the birthing chamber. Explains Cruise:

At Tuesday's premiere of American Dreamz, the team behind the film tried to give a sense of what to expect from their upcoming incompetent-President-decides-to-judge-American-Idol flick:

Frankie Muniz can now add another impressive line to his resume, right beneath "starred in Malcolm in the Middle" and "single-handedly convinced Playboy Mansion to abolish their minimum height requirement." Muniz has announced he'll be giving up acting to become a full-time race car driver:

· The Tribeca Film Festival sells what's left of its soul to Hollywood, landing the premiere of Mission: Impossible III, complete with a promotional stunt in which Tom Cruise will race across the city by "'motorcycle, speedboat, taxi, helicopter, sports car and subway' over six hours as he makes his way to other Mission screenings around Manhattan before the fest's official fest preem at the Ziegfeld Theater." After the movie ends, he will throw pregnant fiancee Katie Holmes over his shoulder and scale the Empire State Building, where she will spectacularly expel the couple's child from her womb as he harmlessly bats away disapproving biplanes. [Variety]
· Apple proves that you don't have to pay for product placement if Hollywood already thinks your product is cool. [THR]
· China's commies establish rules forbidding its TV networks from featuring "indecent content" and "forbidden subjects," regulations that seem aimed directly at halting the dangerous ideas that Desperate Housewives injects into their culture. [Variety]
· Columbia bumps up All the King's Men (which was previously pushed off its original Dec. 2005 release date) from a December to late September premiere. The studio further reserves its right to bury the movie in a time capsule below the Sony lot should the film's Oscar prospects erode even further. [THR]
· American Idol draws a season-low 21.8 million viewers, prompting Fox to order a weeklong shutoff of the show's production office Cristal fountain. [Variety]

Disney World's "Mission: SPACE" ride, otherwise known by its unofficial nickname, "Mickey's Killer Spinning Vortex of Death," has claimed yet another victim:

The LAT pays tribute to venerated industry power-eatery The Palm, where agents, executives, and celebrity mascots old and new (Larry King goes there "two or three times a week" to obtain the protein-heavy sustenance that keeps him from not looking a day over 138 years young) gather to pretend to enjoy one another's company while dining on steaks and gawking at the trademark caricatures adorning the restaurant's walls. The Palm is moving up the block and taking its famous walls with it, and the Times gives a hint about which of the current generation of stars awaiting immortality might make the cut in the new digs:

Keeping Neverland Ranch equipped and running was never a modest financial proposition—lemurs, Tilt-A-Whirls, and child-sized tanning beds cost, after all— and now Michael Jackson is feeling the strain from years of indulging his enchanted lifestyle. After turning off the Neverland carnival lights for good last month, the $300 million-in-the-hole King of Debt must finally put up his cherished song catalog (including over 200 Beatles tunes) to avoid filing Chapter 11:

The phrase "self-published book" is usually poorly concealed code for "stuff I made up to pay the rent this month" (the celebrity-ass-fucking oeuvre of a certain author comes to mind), but we're more optimistic about the upcoming opus from West Wing creator Aaron Sorkin's former call girl, which details the celebrated showrunner's crack-propelled, for-pay erotic adventures. Sorkin admitted to Page Six in January that "I knew Dimitra for a short time a long time ago," and the Sixies finally unload on him today:

The above photo, part of the forthcoming GQ article in which Tom Cruise will once again do his best to convince us that he's just your average, $40-million-per-picture guy who's crazy in love with his preggers soulmate, doesn't really need any deconstructive Photoshopping. The purity of their classic, black-and-white fake love is clear, and they're so mesmerized by their contractual connection that they've suddenly wandered into the middle of the desert, where they can finally paw each other without the presence of a red carpet, dozens of photographers (one will do, thank you very much), or a stadium full of screaming fans. Cruise is lost in the moment, unsure of whether to uncomfortably mash his pursed lips against earlobe, mouth, or eyebrow, settling finally on a cheek, where's he's unlikely to encounter any unexpected moistness. His left hand, finding no motorcycle handlebar or prop-plane cockpit apparatus to occupy it, settles on the fiancee's swollen belly with a grip that says, "Whatever is in here is mine." Holmes, finally something less than a wholly passive presence, closes her eyes, smiles wanly, and temporarily reclaims the top half of her body with crisscrossed arms. This moment will be over soon, she seems to whisper, but fake-married is forever.

· We feel kind of bad. When Brando died, we didn't overturn so much as a Hyundai.
· No Jewish Mafia member in good standing would be caught dead anywhere tonight but at a Power Seder.
· No, the tattoos on Jessica Alba aren't real, but, um, who the hell cares? [via CityRag]
· Sadly, we're pretty sure no one rioted over the death of the Pointer Sister, either.
· Breaking Superman re-casting news! Evan Handler takes over as Lex Luthor.

Disappearing comedian Dave Chappelle has turned explaining his decision to leave his Comedy Central series into something of a second career, first on Inside the Actor's Studio, then Oprah, and now in a 10-page spread in an upcoming issue of Esquire:

The LA Weekly's Nikki Finke devotes this week's column to analyzing CAA's sudden move into the athlete-repping business, a strategy kick-started by this week's reported snatching of pretty-boy USC quarterback Matt Leinart from superagent Leigh Steinberg. It seems that CAA is already applying its trademark poach-first-and-ask-questions-later approach to their new endeavor:

Something in Deal Or No Deal's recipe of big dollar amounts and smoking-hot, mute models arranged in pyramid formation has connected with America, as it has been racking up decent ratings and multiplying all over the NBC schedule faster than you can say "Who Wants To Be An Oversaturated Game Show?" Part of its success can be attributed to the air of mystery surrounding the proceedings: Just who are these suitcase-wielding sexpots setting back the women's movement five decades? And who is this "Banker," besides a shadowy outline who keeps drunk-dialing every five minutes with a monetary—and who knows what else—offer for Howie Mandel? The show's website offers answers. The models have their own page, although under the heading of less is more, we can't say we recommend it. ("My name is Janelle Lafreniere. Along with modeling, I teach dance and work part time at a local gym.") Even more amazingly, the Banker finally speaks, in the guise of the sparsely updated Banker's Blog:

· Time for metalheads to pop a hard-as-steel chubby: Lemmy and Slayer will be on hand at AFI's screening for the documentary Metal: A Headbanger's Journey at the ArcLight, with a party to follow at an undisclosed location.
·: The Not Quite Metal, But Still Worth It Music Round-Up: Fruit Bats at the Troubadour and Aimee Man at Largo.
· Eternal damnation awaits you at Mr. T's Bowl in Highland Park, where The Discount Cruise to Hell, a "good old-fashioned acid burlesque horror show/choir cabaret extravaganza from hell" (naturally) pushes out into the devil's sea.