· The dazzling Neko Case fights off lovestruck fans and creepy marriage proposals (maybe they'll just be ours?) at Amoeba Records; Ben Lee in a late show at The Silent Movie Theater; Kris Kristofferson at the Troubadour.
· Gustavo Santaolalla, the now Oscar-winning composer whose delicate guitar chords now instantly recall the heartache of gay cowboy love, will sign copies of the Brokeback soundtrack at the Virgin Megastore on Sunset.
· AFI screens Scarface at the ArcLight: Yes, Virigina, the man from Two for the Money was once an amazing badass.

Your guesses (which include some bonus speculation about a possible outing of blind item legend Toothy Tile) are in. But first, take one more twirl around the May pole with One Fellah-Flirting-in-Public Blind Vice?:

ToGawp's boasting an exclusive with all the classic tabloid ingredients: Tara Reid, Dennis Rodman's house, a secretive payoff, and a fender bender. Explains ToGawp:

We feel your pain: Sure, you're completely comfortable with your body, but maybe you haven't quite been staying in shape lately, depressed that all the good vagina-focused roles are going to younger, hungrier women. Take heart; the anonymous virtual casting office of Craigslist proves that Hollywood still has a place for you:

A judge with the wisdom of a latter-day King Solomon has come up with an ingenious solution in the complicated matter of enforcing a restraining order meant to keep Paris Hilton from a party promoter who runs in her circles:

Normally we hate to bother you with the mundane details of our behind-the-scenes difficulties, but a number of you have e-mailed us to let us know that you think our new design (now with a 400% larger and creepier Mr. Defamer!) somehow "broke" your computers, or is otherwise malfunctioning. Let us assure you: It's us, not you. We're having some server problems (when you forget to feed a steady diet of leprechauns to the unicorn on the treadmill, it quickly dies, and the union is a real pain in the ass about sending a replacement) which is responsible for a) the extremely slow load times you may be experiencing and b) the failure of the site's images to properly load.

MGM is inviting the press to its "lavish" Century City offices to unveil up to an 18 picture distribution slate from various indie studios, such as Weinstein Co., Bauer Martinez, and Lakeshore. Junket whores, get ready to get your minds blown by the Sony-powered MGM! [Variety]
Anyone who's spent more than a few minutes watching the Nickelodeon family of channels knows that what their networks really need is some adorable thugging up by the Wayans brothers. [THR]
Crash sells 17,500 DVDs the day after the Oscars. Sure, it's a spike, but is that a lot? We honestly have no idea, and we want to know whether we're supposed to be upset or not. [Variety]
They're just going to keep casting pilots until they run out of actors: John Lithgow goes to the NBC pilot Twenty Good Years, Jay Mohr joins NBC's Community Service, and Justine Bateman signs on with ABC's untitled Patricia Heaton project, which to the best of our knowledge is not about how tasty the steaks at Albertson's are. Yet, anyway—we'll see how the network notes go after the table read. [THR]
It took approximately a decade of regular cellphone use for Stephen King to finally embrace the technology as a murderous plot device in one of his novels, and Dimension far less time to commission a movie version of the idea. But do we really need them to tell us that cellphones turn people into zombies? [Variety]

Wherein we invite our readers to step up to humpy E! gossipist Ted Casablanca's awards podium and forget to thank their life partner for all of the support they've lent in solving his linguistically impenetrable blind items. This week, Ted's grown tired with longtime blind item rentboy Toothy Tile and is hungry for some fresh, closeted blood. Behold One Fellah-Flirting-in-Public Blind Vice?:

For once in our lives, we're not going to be cynical and accuse Teri Hatcher of revealing that she was a victim of sexual abuse for career reasons; it seems clear that's not what she's up to, and, frankly, that's much more of a Paris Hilton move for a slow week. Kudos, however, to Vanity Fair for not letting their exclusive slip by without maximum exploitation, splashing Hatcher on the cover in white (think: pure) panties while drawing her sweater (or is that a straight jacket?) around her, as if to retreat from the Desperate Secret that she'd "tried to hide my whole life." Nice work, VF, and thanks for not using the shots of a sobbing Hatcher clutching a tattered rag doll wearing a skirt with "innocence" stitched onto it in bright, red letters. That might have been a little much.

Boy George has finally freed himself from the clutches of the Dark Side. You may recall, last October George practically ordered up his own drug arrest as if it were a Domino's pizza, calling cops to his apartment in New York to investigate a burglary. They quickly discovered upon their arrival 13 bags of coke sitting by his computer, which he insisted belonged to one of his many party guests. A plea bargain deal at a Manhattan criminal court yesterday got him out of doing any hard time:

Of all the conspiracy theories half-whispered around town about how Crash managed to win Best Picture over Brokeback Mountain (Jack Nicholson didn't read the correct name, Paul Haggis' buddies at the Scientology mothership put the fix in, etc etc) this might be our favorite.* But as long as we're all still willing to cling to the idea something more sinister than simple, honest bad taste delivered Crash the victory, we submit a new crackpot theory: Tom Hanks wasn't cursing as he took the stage, he was actually casting a spell that changed the winner in the biggest awards race because he was angry with Brokeback screenwriter Larry McMurtry for wearing jeans to the ceremony.

· If you're going to show up shitfaced to your flight at LAX, for the love of Knoxville, leave the brass knuckles in the car, jackass. Even Stapp knows that.
· Heroic Envelope kudos crasher Richard Rushfield survives the Oscars, even after a terrifying backstage encounter with drunk Frenchmen wielding stuffed penguins: "In contrast to the stunned and dizzy smiles the rest of the winners wear, the Gallic corner whoops with abandon. 'Look, we put our ties on the Penguins!' one of them points out to me, showing the bow ties now bound around the stuffed dolls' throats."
· Cat n' monkey pics, because there needs to be some kind of cute-plasma state beyond mere cute overload.
· Yeah, we think we can see why a certain corrective fluid company might not be crazy about being associated with these fake ads.
· The Celebrity DeathBeeper notes the death of Shaft director Gordon Parks, but somehow misses the sad passing of Dana Reeve.
· We have no idea what to make of this: CliveOwenSpeaks.com, other than it now seems like drunk people can produce a professional-looking website before the buzz wears off.

The ongoing X-Men saga has basically been one long, overreaching superhero allegory for growing up gay in an unwelcoming world: Imagine Brokeback Mountain, but replace Jack and Ennis' forbidden love with the mutant ability to singe sheep with their eye-lasers. With Hollywood's hottest new web presence Brett Ratner's third installment, X-Men: The Last Stand (you can view the trailer here), the metaphor reaches its natural conclusion: the "curing" of these mutant teens of what makes them different. In a roundtable discussion on SciFi.com featuring the film's leads, things got rather heated between Ian McKellen and co-star Hugh Jackman when Jackman argued that perhaps curing one's self of mutation isn't necessarily such a bad thing:

· You don't deserve this kind of choice on a Tuesday night: Isobel Campbel (formally of Belle and Sebastian) at the Troubadour; Rancid at the Echo; Motorhead at the House of Blues.
· Jack Klugman signs Tony and Me: A Story of Friendship at Book Soup. Relive the early 70s innocence of two divorced men sharing an apartment in NY without having to endure the clucking tongues of their television neighbors.
· The Hammer hosts a screening of musician Michael Franti's documentary about the war overseas, I Know I'm Not Alone, followed by a Q&A and solo concert by Franti.

With the Oscars occupying most of our attention the last few days, we somehow forgot to recognize the launch of Brett Ratner Dot Com, the official online presence of the beloved fauxteur. Clicking through to the site's main page brings you to a black-and-white slideshow of Ratner in various directorly poses (note: the picture above is actually from the bio page, not an early storyboard for Rush Hour 3): Ratner with his arm around sour-looking After the Sunset star Woody Harrelson, Ratner and Diddy behind a monitor, Ratner standing near a camera and gesturing to something outside the frame that he will capture in forty takes and then turn over to his editors for salvage. On the whole, however, we have to admit that we're a little surprised at the site's classy minimalism; we expected something that more accurately represented his cinematic gifts, like a five-minute Flash montage of Chris Tucker screaming at the top of his lungs and firing guns in the air.

Reports from the Oscar after-parties are still trickling in (we'd never begrudge our spies a day to nurse their hangovers), with dispatches from a reader who found herself in the middle of George Clooney's post-ceremony celebration at Dan Tana's and another from an attendee of Rolling Stone/Us Weekly bash at the Pacific Design Center:

The world's next Superman, Brandon Routh, paid a recent visit to a young leukemia victim at a Des Moines children's hospital, according to the Des Moines Register. Refreshingly, no mention of the actor's ample package is referenced in the report, though they do note that he brought his girlfriend along, throwing some Kryptonite on the gay super-rumors that have plagued the unknown actor since he landed the role:

In a sound-bite that will gleefully be stripped of context and run up the blog-pole for ridicule thousands of times over, Donald Trump told the cackling hens of The View that if he hadn't donated 50 percent of his DNA to daughter Ivanka and thus risked violating the most sacrosanct of all taboos, yeah, he'd hit that:

Kurt Loder had a chance to talk to Paul Haggis shortly before the Oscars about his favorite film of the year, Crash, not a surprising choice for the MTV personality considering the Best Picture winner in many ways echoes that other classic urban cautionary tale, the "Papa Don't Preach" video. Looking ahead, Loder questions Haggis on what we can expect from Casino Royale, the upcoming James Bond installment for which the writer/director did a script rewrite:

A little tour through the wire photos from the Vanity Fair party turned up some pictures of D-list interloper Sean Young from the "flashbulb distraction" phase of her largely unsuccessful ploy to crash the highly secure affair. Earlier, we noted that publicists needed a description of her outfit to summarily eject her from the event, but now we realize why—a first order to grab the "androgynous pixie creature" that penetrated their perimeter defenses resulted in Elijah Wood being roughly apprehended and tossed in a dumpster behind Morton's, and the party's hosts wanted to make sure not to make the same gaffe twice.