The folks on the Gawker Media mothership came up with a brilliant solution to the problem of Original Wonkette Ana Marie Cox's graduation to the world of full-time book-writing: Hire two dudes to take her place. That's right, Wonkette now features two decidedly non-ette editors, David "Underneath Their Robes" Lat, and Alex "In Case Of Gawker Hangover Emergency, Break Glass" Pareene, both of whom you may already be familiar with if you're as blog-crazed as we think you are. We welcome them into the family with open arms, and look forward to having some new people with whom to share the awkward silences at Gawker Media Thanksgiving dinners. (Note to the boys: If you don't let Denton cut the turkey, he'll pout all night and intentionally burn the yams.) Stop by and say hello to the new politics-obsessed regime; if their first day is anything like ours was, they're already drunk on Wild Turkey and cruising Craigslist in search of temporary companionship.

Kathleen Turner may no longer be the sex symbol she was back in her Body Heat days, having turned vaguely mannish over the years, and inexplicably picking up a husky, Eastern European accent somewhere along the way. She's still going strong, however, with a career-resuscitating turn in the Broadway revival of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf about to premiere in London, a booking that offers her an excuse to avoid the dreaded Oscars:

Other Scary Hollywood Lawyer (and recent Defamer penpal) Marty Singer has fired a warning shot across the bow of The Smoking Gun, trying to head off a potentially embarrassing situation for an unnamed client who was a little careless with her diary. An excerpt from the legal letter:

· The trades break down last night's SAGgies, where Reese Witherspoon celebrated the warm-up to her seemingly inevitable Oscar win. [Variety, THR]
· Even without the protection of the Desperate Housewives bully, ABC's Sunday night Nielsen toady Grey's Anatomy dishes out some ratings intimidation. [THR]
· Quinceanara and God Grew Tired of Us pull the first-ever double-double victories at Sundance, winning both audience and jury prices in the dramatic and doc competitions, respectively. Sadly, Destricted's brave depiction of the forbidden love between man and bulldozer goes unrewarded. [Variety]
· McG plans to reclaim his long-abandoned place in the fauxteur pantheon, finally ending a three year behind-the-camera hiatus to direct Matthew McConaughey in a college football tragedy-and-redemption pic. [THR]
· And please, we beg of you, don't go to Variety's homepage and gaze upon the truly horrifying picture of Martin Lawrence, in full Big Momma drag, bounding towards you in a yellow one-piece. You've been warned. [Variety]

It would hardly seem fair if this year's Oscars promotional campaign (see above billboard captured by a Defamer reader in the Valley) were playing favorites; yet one look at the art, featuring two meaty, rugged hands firmly grasping their suggestively placed 13.5 inch (mercy!) "trophy" all but screams that the fellas of Brokeback Mountain have got this baby wrapped up. Upon further reflection, however, what may seem like a blatant Brokeback bias is in actuality a representation of the far more inclusive theme of the celebration of that greatest masturbatory display of Hollywood's self-love, the Academy Awards ceremony.

We tried to watch the SAGgies last night, but our increasingly sentient-seeming TiVo talked us out of it by politely suggesting that we might better enjoy a recorded rerun of Project Runway instead. (Oh, that wacky Santino! What will he design next?) Luckily, Would You Blog Me was tuned in, and caught this brief on-stage expression of idol worship following Crash's big win:

Tom Cruise's unforgettable 2005, a seemingly endless procession of choreographed public displays of affection, down-with-psychiatry diatribes, and unconvincing fiancée-inseminations (OK, that happened only once, but it felt like Holmes was getting knocked up anew each week), was recognized by the Razzies, the annual celebration of everything that went wrong in Hollywood:

In the end, Lionsgate's plan to buy themselves a SAG award by sending out an unprecedented 130,000 Crash screeners to every living SAG member (last paying gig Thug #3 on Magnum P.I.? You get a screener!) proved to be a winning strategy, as the movie took a best film ensemble trophy at yesterday's SAG awards. Shut out of the proceedings was Brokeback Mountain, a clear message from voters that it requires more actorly skill to pretend to be racist than it does to pretend to be gay. Other winners included Philip Seymour Hoffman for Capote, Reese Witherspoon for Walk the Line, the cast of Lost for best ensemble TV drama and, in a turn of events sure to have resulted in Ari Emanuel launching a plate of Chinese food at his plasma screen, the cast of Desperate Housewives for best ensemble TV comedy.

Sunday's LAT conducted a forensic investigation into the cause of the death of The WB, determining that the network never really recovered from losing Buffy the Vampire Slayer to UPN in 2001. With UPN's foot temporarily in place on The WB's throat, parent company Viacom then brought in its closer to try and finally deliver the death blow:

Nothing can quash the rebellion of a Monday morning breakfast burrito against your stomach lining more ruthlessly than a fizzy glass of the weekend box office numbers:

· Time Warner and CBS Corp. announce a merging of UPN and The WB into one network: The CW. The internal memos fly: from Warner Bros. CEO Barry Meyer, from exiting WB chairman Garth Ancier, and of course, the one that started it all, from Les Moonves. And yes, you're stuck with the name. Only we didn't say positively.
· Disney finally mounts Pixar. Scratch that. It's the other way around. Meanwhile, Disney's basement sweatshop of knockoff artists nervously await their fates.
· Farewell, Revolution. You will be sorely Ooh, look! Sundance coverage!
· Our Man in Sundance: He lands. He Crispins. He eavesdrops. He reviews. He Van Der Beeks! He gets paranoid. He Noltes. He deviates. He Gores! He returns.
· Sadly, however, he misses this hot tub party.
· Goodbye, Madonna's ex-brother in law.
· Heather Graham can't be happy that her splashy TV comeback lasted all of 60 minutes. Will this mean the newspaper insert magazines won't be a-callin' anymore?
· "Exits are to the rear of the plane, and, oh, Kenny Chesney is an animal who enjoyed taking me from behind, and let's just say I wasn't too nervous about getting pregnant, if you catch my drift. Now relax and enjoy the flight."
· No one can seem to agree on the sex, but at least we know what the name will be. And that its mother will be using her pillowy lips to ease the world's suffering.
· Will Steven Soderbergh's audacious plan for Bubble revolutionize Hollywood? And more importantly, what's up with the creepy doll heads?
· Rejoice, CBS scum! You can have your precious DVD discount.
· Defamer employment: Girls Gone Wild is looking for an office coordinator. While The Pink Panther is looking for the next Jocelyn Wildenstein.
· Did the paparazzi come to Britney's rescue? And who will come to her father's?
· Those wings never had a chance when Kiefer opened a can of karate whoop ass all over them! (Or was that just hot sauce?)
· NBC Universal makes dreary office questionnaires fun through creative, branded role playing!

· "Do you think—is there a porn shortage in this country, do you think? I mean, is there a lack of homegrown porn actresses? Is this a crisis?" Tucker Carlson debates the lawyer who wants to help a deported Playmate return to the States on an "extraordinary ability" visa.
· Whew! For a little while there, we thought we were the only ones who drank too much and didn't sleep enough while at Sundance.
· Colin Farrell has lucky underwear, Well, not that lucky.
· It's going to take more than a well-intentioned sign to keep Paris Hilton from running her skank parade up and down Main Street in Park City.
· Curbed LA discovers that Adam Goldberg and Christina Ricci had pretty crappy decorating taste.

A reader sends along this delightful, if brief, exchange in response to our earlier post about Heather Graham's suddenly tragic Life cover story:

Friday
· A Friday night of musical delights: Morningwood at the Roxy, Of Montreal at The Echo; INXS at the Gibson Ampitheatre at CityWalk; Morris Tepper at Tangier, with PJ Harvey sitting in on bass. That's right, bitches, PJ's gonna be there.
· Writer Paul La Farge reads from his translation of The Facts of Winter at the Museum of Jurassic Technology, a cool place we still haven't been to despite five years of good intentions.
Saturday
· Saturday night music round-up, with optional celebrity musical appearance: The Gossip and Numbers at The Echo; Dead Kennedys at the House of Anything But Blues (as Jonesy likes to call it) on Sunset; and Marla "Use to be on The Practice" Sokoloff, whom we had no idea had a music thing going, at the Mint.
· Bust out the can of Aquanet, the leather pants, and a desire to get herpes from a member of Whitesnake for Rock of Ages at The Vanguard Theater, a rock musical straight outta 1986 Hollywood.
Sunday
· WordTheaterLA presents "Dinner with Melissa Pritchard and Her Stories" at M bar, where the writer and some of her friends will read her work at a venue with booze, something not as commonly available at those boring old bookstore readings. [via LAW]
· A traveling Marilyn Monroe exhibit makes its first stop aboard the Queen Mary, where you can see "priceless objects" from her life. Not guaranteed to attend: The ghost of Marilyn Monroe.

Under the ever-expanding heading of "Failed Career Attempts of the Men in Britney Spears' Life" comes news that JJ Chill, the Venice smoothie shop (tagline: "Think outside the cone") purchased by her dad Jamie in an attempt at getting his life back together after his post-divorce alcoholic tailspin and subsequent rehab stint, will be shuttering its frozen delicacy-dispensing doors:

We may be a little more than fashionably late to this particular party, but it's Friday afternoon, and our resistance to the awesome is incredibly low. Behold: the 100x100 burger (100 patties, 100 slices of cheese—but for the carb conscious, just two buns!), the bastard child of some overly agreeable In-N-Out workers and some dudes with a coronary deathwish on the loose in Las Vegas. And yes, they ate the whole thing, which they estimated to be about 19,000 calories. We imagine that it won't be long before an Escalade full of guys driving home from a bender on the Strip pull over to the In-N-Out at Sunset and Highland and decide to go for the record.

Just yesterday, Fox 411's Roger Friedman couldn't help spilling the dirty beans about his trip on Southwest, during which a flight attendant treated a cabin full of shocked passengers to a passionate defense of Kenny "A Capable Lover, Just Not With Renee Zellweger" Chesney's heterosexuality. Today, however, Friedman's clamming up and offering his readers nothing more than a paralyzing case of the gossip blue balls:

Is there no limit to the perilous lengths daytime dramas will go to outdo one another? Not to be trumped by the Passions flood sequence that nearly destroyed their entire set, All My Children decided to up the carnage with a "Mardi Gras explosion" that put four stuntmen in the hospital:

If Hollywood really isn't much more than a constant dick-measuring contest, the strategic mailing address label placement on the cover of the latest BusinessWeek should make anyone think twice before lining up against new Disney Superman Steve Jobs and slapping his manhood down on the table. Subscribers to the magazine might expect that once they peel off the label, they'll merely uncover the rest of Jobs' partially obscured leg; in actuality, the sticker actually hides a cartoon of CEO Robert Iger, wearing nothing but a ball gag, a pair of mouse ears, and an expression of terror as he cowers before the man who'll probably take his job in a couple of years.

It's usually a recipe for success: Simply take one star of a newly launched sitcom, add a gushy puff piece, throw in a goofy angle for garnish, shake, and serve a fizzy, goes-down-easy PR cocktail. But when long magazine lead times go to battle with short series shelf-lives, the results can turn sour. Case in point: In this Life cover story that came included with weekend newspapers across the country today, Heather Graham is touted as "TV's sexiest star...she's in almost every scene of her bubbly new ABC sitcom, Emily's Reasons Why Not," a series which we now know was unmercifully elimidated after a single episode. (We didn't watch it, but when the president of the network is going on record about how hard it blew, you tend to get the feeling that a beloved series for the ages, it was not.) The angle of the piece is, ironically enough, how the actress spends her time off, with Graham explaining "I can't wait to turn off on the weekends. I don't have to like anything for anyone, or be in a good mood, or fix my hair. If I want to be in bed for two whole days, I can." With her schedule clear, a foul-tempered, rat's nest-haired Graham is now free to loll around far longer than a mere two days in bed, unburdened of having to "like anything for anyone."