Who wasn't rooting for Virginia Madsen at last year's Oscars? Long exiled to the basic cable MOW crapheap, Madsen managed to turn all of us into nebbish, paunchy, wannabe writer losers in love with her rhapsodic Sideways monologues on the virtues of good wine. So when she was hand-plucked by Harrison Ford to appear opposite the aging, awards presentation-mangling movie star in his latest "my family's in peril and damn it I'm going to save them!" flick, we were all toasting her rapid gondola-unassisted ascent to the peak of A-list mountain. But then we read reports like this one:

· The Peadpod Foundation, the Black Eyed Peas children's charity, presents a benefit concert at the Henry Fonda featuring themselves, joined by Sergio Mendes, India.Arie, Erykah Badu, Q-Tip, Sleepy Brown, John Legend.
· Am Radio and Black Wire are at the Troubadour, Fall Out Boy is at the House of Blues, and Future Pigeon at the Silverlake Lounge. Or, for those willing to venture out to the Arrowhead Pond of Anaheim, a set of unleashed rage from Fiona Apple, followed by the blissful yang to her angry ying, the soul-soothing strains of headliner Coldplay.
· Bill Moyers speaks at the Walt Disney Concert Hall as part of the Music Center Speaker Series. Concert Hall officials warn that "anyone caught crowd surfing at this event will be immediately ejected."

• Gnarly Drug Problem [Goldenfiddle]

It's been a couple months at least since a cast member of The Sopranos has been implicated in a violent crime, but the thin line separating actors who play sociopathic goombahs from actors who actually are sociopathic goombahs continues to blur with news of this heartwarming celebrity-fan interaction involving Martin Scorsese's kazoo-voiced midget muse, Joe Pesci:

The Anthony Pellicano Wiretapping Trial of the Century has finally put its indictments where its mouth is, charging professional eavesdropper to the stars Pellicano, an ex-LAPD cop, and five others with racketeering (a PDF of the entire document is available here). As was feared by many, and anxiously anticipated by many more, the indictment names a long list of celebrity clients who fell victim to Pellicano's allegedly crooked surveillance services, Sylvester Stallone and Gary Shandling among them:

Reese Witherspoon continues surfing the tube of good fortune: Fresh off wins at the Critics Choice, SAG and Golden Globes awards for her role as June Carter Cash in Walk the Line, not to mention a little Oscar nomination to call her own, comes news that the kiddie-pummeling paparazzo who ambushed her daughter's birthday party at the Happiest Place on Earth was found dead in his Brentwood apartment:

· MGM is close to a deal with the Weinstein Co. to become their exclusive distributor. The pact will be reflected in an update of their classic logo, replacing Leo the Lion with Bob Weinstein lying flat on his belly, roaring ferociously at an assistant who brought him a regular Diet Coke instead of a Diet Coke with Splenda. [Variety]
· The WGA gives its top screenwriting awards to Crash and Brokeback Mountain, for original and adapted screenplays, respectively. Paul Haggis tearfully dedicates the award to "all the carjackers I've known, or know, or will be blessed enough to come to know." Then, kissing his index finger and pointing it to the back of the room, he concluded, "This one's for you guys." [Variety]
· David Cronenberg's next film will be the Bruce Wagner-written Maps to the Stars, in what promises to do for showbiz what Dead Ringers did for gynecology. Hollywood execs with gaping head wounds: a marriage made in heaven! [Variety]
· Joaquin Phoenix and Mark Wahlberg reteam with The Yards director James Gray for We Own the Night, in which the duo play campus feminists who mount a candlelight vigil, that they may fear for their safety no longer. [Variety]
· Sexual Healing, the Marvin Gaye biopic long in turnaround, has finally been greenlit, with Jesse L. Martin in the lead, with the contingency that all the depressing "shot by his father" ending stuff be replaced with an uplifting Rent-inspired finale revolving around the number of seconds in a week. [THR]

Like a Civil War battlefield littered with corpses and moaning, limb-severed casualties, the smoke is still clearing from the events of Black Wednesday, a Paramount lot massacre that culminated in General Brad Grey rearing his steed onto its hind legs, triumphantly holding his sword aloft, and swearing the 'Mount shall rise again. Today, the NY Times interviews Grey, confronting the neophyte studio boss about his various war crimes (ex: firing 33-year distribution vet Wayne Lewellen a few days before Christmas), and industry rumors that Grey-appointment Gail Berman isn't working out:

We recently received an e-mail plea from a New Line staffer begging us to solicit support for beloved local Robertson Blvd. food cart vendor "Antonio the hot dog guy," whom the owner of a newly opened accessories store called Surly Girl is attempting to displace. Knowing every story has two sides, and being fans in equal measure of both fiery sausage and Swarovski-crystal-encrusted calculators alike (see their online catalog: "Very, very trendy and cool purses!" says Ryan Seacrest we shit you not), we stayed safely out of the matter. Today, Page Six stokes the flames:

A Defamer operative sends in this report of what starts out as your standard issue Hollywood brat party jaded hipsters, the cast of The O.C., honorary "cool" party dad Jeremy Piven but thanks to some shoddy workmanship, quickly takes a disastrous turn for the soggy:

As you settle back into your corporate veal stalls for another week of fantasizing about possibly one day sticking it to the Man, we must briefly interrupt your reverie with news that Mark is out on secret assignment (oh, what s the harm he s shooting Fear Factor: Bloggers Edition, sinking his teeth into a steaming plate of Schnauzer ovaries as we speak). It will therefore just be Seth at the helm today, adding his soaring harmonies to the gigantic sucking sound that is Monday morning (rendered all the suckier if you had dough on the Seahawks). To help ease down that bitter pill, have a spoonful of box office numbers:

· Academy Award nominations: Oscar curls up with Brokeback Mountain in a roadside motel for a little post-coital cowboy cuddling. The nominees react, and react some more, with the general consensus being that it's nice to be important, but it's more important to be nice. The best directors bond over Blair Warner. We have an Oscar fever dream.
· Speaking of directors and Oscar fever, we know of one who got a little too carried away with this year's prevalent themes.
· And you shall know Brad Grey by the trail of the dead...
· In other awards news, Crash is the big surprise winner at the SAG awards, while the DGA hearts Brokeback. Tom Cruise is nominated for a Razzie: Audit that, bitch!
· Somehow, someone let this e-mail from Jeff Berg leak: ICM is not buying Endeavor.
· While we were shocked at first that either of these chicks was capable of committing an inner-thought to paper, the ensuing media coverage suddenly made it not all that shocking.
· Marcia Cross narrowly averts tragedy, but ends up having to fly Southwest anyway.
· Britney Spears is looking forward to sampling the legendary Will & Grace craft services, as her episode is protested by a group that stands up for history's long-persecuted, voiceless minority, the Christians.
· Brillstein Grey drops James Frey.
· Moneypenny?...Q?...Where is everybody?!
· "Singin too ra loo ra laddie, fetch me a wee pretty whore..."
· The first thing Joaquin Phoenix heard after his car wreck was Werner Herzog's voice, which he immediately recognized since it occupied nearly every frame of the Grizzly Man soundtrack.
· Katie Holmes exploits the caffeine loophole in her birthing contract.

· Chappelle on Oprah in a nutshell: I'm not wearing a dress for anybody. (For anyone who saw it, this synopsis works on various levels. If you missed it, you're probably terribly confused. Also, he might finish his show if they'll give half the DVD money to charity.)

· Why is this Paris Hilton storage locker nonsense such a big deal? She can always go buy 18 more diaries at any number of quality booksellers.

· There is no news days slow enough for this to make the cut, even if your angle is "incredibly hot chick moves on to second schlumpy comedian conquest": Comic Jay Mohr, Actress Nikki Cox Engaged.

· Is there any amount of slander or emotional distress that Rue McClanahan could inflict on someone that would be worth $60 million? It's not like we're dealing with razor-tongued fellow Golden Girl Bea Arthur here. [fourth item]

At this point on a Friday afternoon, we're willing to turn off the bullshit detector for a moment and wallow around in some street-quality British tabloid dirt. Stop, drop, and roll, sickies:

Friday
· There's almost too much good stuff going on at the UCB Theatre (note: this copy was not written by UCB staff). To pick two: Check out Jill Soloway and pals for Heaping Portion, “A night o' comedy and drama as a few jews have their way with the torah portion for the week." A little later, there's The Friday Forty, a game show where contestants drink a 40 and try to remember what happened this week.
· More funny can be found at Laughing Matters: An Evening of Serious Satire with Marc Maron, Roy Zimmerman and Scott Carter at the Parlor Performances at Steinway Hall.
· Music round-up: The 88 at Spaceland, Dead Meadow and Silversun Pickups at the Troubadour.
Saturday
· Wallis Simpson and Edward, Prince of Wales were the Brad and Angelina of their time… so if you love US Weekly, but would like to keep a few more brain cells, check out the Duke and Duchess exhibition at Sixspace.
· Some more music: Of Montreal at the Echo; Fiona Apple at the Forum; Duncan Sheik at the Troubadour.
Sunday
· Skylight Books hosts a reading by the members of WriteGirl, an organization for teenage girls to learn the craft through mentoring by professionals. Go check them out before you go get obliterated watching the Super Bowl.
· Oh, yeah, the Super Bowl is on. Think of it as the Oscars for people outside of Hollywood.
· Our Musical Consultant guarantees that Damien Jurado and Dolorean, at Spaceland Sunday night, will be fantastic.

It's been too long since last we heard from Ashlee Simpson, who true to form has rebounded with flying colors from her last public humiliation a curious reversal of the traditional pop star/fan relationship at MTV Japan in that it was she who told them "I love you guys!" before promptly passing out. But journey with us for a moment to the humiliation before that (we know, we know, so many), when a soused Simpson was caught on video hijacking a Toronto McDonald's, and in doing so finally giving those "nice" Canadians an in-your-face dose of what makes America great! In her recent Seventeen cover profile, Simpson addresses the incident:

For a mere $250 and the price of an NYU education, you too can party at the mansion of America's Favorite Fauxteur to prematurely celebrate the Oscars. Some amused alumni forwarded us the e-mail announcing this exciting fund-raising event. Here's the part we care about:

The coming days at Paramount are probably going to get a little weird, as staffers from DreamWorks moving onto the lot settle into office chairs still warm from their previous owner's posteriors and suffer the withering glares of the lunch buddies left behind. But in any massive corporate reorganization there are bound to be some employees who fall through the cracks, and an as-yet unshuffled operative asks us the big, post-pinkslip existential question: If no one tells me I'm fired, do I have to leave?

Today, courtesy of America's Great Crusader For Truth and Plugging Burberry Oprah Winfrey we finally get the definitive "so what the f- happened?" Dave Chappelle interview. (And yes, Chappelle did sit down with Inside the Actors Studio, but, c'mon, James Lipton is no Oprah, even if he did have access to her fabulous hair and wardrobe people.) You may recall, the comedian dropped off the side of the Earth at the start of the much-anticipated third season of Chappelle's Show, only to turn up wandering mysteriously around Africa, in a sort of blacker, funnier version of Rachel Weisz's turn in The Constant Gardener. Chappelle tells Winfrey he didn't crack up; he was just feeling the understandable strains of having to justify a $50 million paycheck:

[Ed.note—We've gotten so many e-mails asking if we'd heard about Lee Tamahori that we're bumping this post from yesterday afternoon up to the top of the page. Is it really so hard to scroll down, people? A small update also follows the original item.]