· Angelina Jolie proposes an ambitious adopt-a-landmine program for Iraq. God, we hope she doesn't try to give one a mohawk. The resulting People spreads would be horrific.
· Jealous of Rupert Murdoch's recent MySpace acquisition, ultra laid-back Viacom execu-dude Tom Freston totally paid $49 million or whatever for iFilm, whenever he gets around to signing off on the paperwork. Get it? he's laid back, man.
· It's almost like Boy George never had a male hustler come over and try to rob him before. Hell-oooo! Amateur hour!
· Not content with revolutionizing the energy drink market, Steve Seagal turns his attention to saving the Delta blues.
· And just because it's Friday afternoon and you've been so well behaved all week, here's a possibly stale link to a nipple slip from a Laguna Beach cast member (NSFW). Don't say we never did nothin' for ya.

Friday
The American Cinema Foundation presents a series of free seminars on "Finding the Future of Public Television" tonight and all day Saturday at the Mark Goodson Screening Room at the American Film Institute. There will be a gaggle of writers and media types, some free drinks and finger food, and, of course, lots of liveblogging.
· One woman music round-up: Aimee Mann at the House of Blues in Anaheim.
Saturday
· Dodgeball is for bitches: The 4 Square Championships take place Saturday night at the Met Theater. Why must we denigrate dodgeball to celebrate 4 Square? Because we have the killer competitive instinct, that's why.
· A more traditional, multiband music round-up: LCD Soundsystem at Avalon, Misfits at the Key Club; Bob Mould at the El Rey.
Sunday
· More music? The Bravery at Avalon, and Aimee Mann escapes the painfully unfashioable Anaheim HOB to seek refuge at Royce Hall.
· You've done enough drinking this weekend, so it's time to walk off the hangover for a good cause: AIDS Walk Los Angeles. We understand it's also OK to participate if you're not hungover.

This is all we know about the above pics, courtesy of the JJB message board: "Paris Hilton and Bijou Philips leaving club Mood in Hollywood in the middle of a fight between a paparazzo and a security. Paris was not injured." She was, however, incredibly turned on.

While you're crossing your fingers and hoping your boss doesn't ask why your afternoon pumpkin latte smells suspiciously like tequila, enjoy these Friday afternoon box office projections of dubious value:

This one requires no set-up, other than to share that two different readers swear up and down that the auctioneer did, in fact, live underneath Paris Hilton:

We'd like to take a moment of silence in recognition of this week's sponsors, whose glorious, glorious cash keeps this NFL-style orgy boat afloat. Done being silent? Then consume! Consume! If you'd like to advertise on Defamer and make the world's most conspicuous consumers hot and bothered for your line of business, see this page.

· Steven Spielberg makes a deal with gaming juggernaut Electronic Arts to develop three original video game franchises. EA will own the rights to games, and Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment first-look development rights for TV and Film. The first game is already in the works, and will revolve around a hugely successful director's attempts to keep his out-of-control star from terrorizing depressed new mothers and ruining the opening of their summer blockbuster. [Variety]
· True of False: The Hollywood Reporter really, really likes Jodie Foster. Have you ever seen a salad tossed in true-false form? You have now. [THR]
· Steve Carell sets up two projects with Universal, ensuring that he will have steady work well into the next decade. One is from Carell's original pitch, the other, according to one of its writers, "[I]s for Steve to play the most Caucasian man in America, who's sent to juvenile prison for a petty crime he committed as a kid. Suddenly this suburban drip is surrounded by 11-year-old bad-asses." Ooh, watch the uptight cracker get menaced by 11-year-old bad-asses of color! [Variety]
· Jerry Bruckheimer buys the rights to the sports comedy Ballers, assigns his staff to determine a plausible way that pro footballers might explode spectacularly. [THR]
· What's left of Miramax buys the North American rights to The Queen, a film about the royal family after Princess Diana's death, based on a scene from a particularly moving commemorative dinner plate. [Variety]

The news about the new James Bond is certainly exciting, but what about the guys who make a living impersonating Pierce Brosnan's version of the tuxedoed icon? The dye job and the radical plastic surgery aren't going to pay for themselves.

Today's LAT looks at CAA's recent bloodthirsty rampage through their competition's staff and client lists; it seems that in a relentless push for "100% market share," the agency doesn't just want talent—it wants all the talent, a ten-percent lust not seen since Michael Ovitz's tanks regularly rolled down Wilshire Blvd. Even high-powered studio execs seem cowed by CAA's surging clout:

We know that surveys like the one above that ABC is using for Commander in Chief (it's a little hard to read, but click it to see the full version) are used for market research, but do they have to sound so needy? Am I too far-fetched? Do I remind you of that bitch Hillary? Do my Geena Davis lips, plump and luxurious like throw pillows from God's sofa, make you feel insecure about your own? Why don't you loooove me? We suppose they might use the answers to help "recalibrate" the show following the recent showrunner switch, but it's clear they're ready for a change of direction—they didn't even ask if we'd find a scene of rough sex between a Secret Service agent and the First Daughter "too rapey."

Almost as inevitable as Daniel Craig's thoroughly anticlimactic anointment as the next James Bond were the lazy headlines and ledes that would accompany the "news":

Apropos of nothing but a desire to ease into Friday morning without too much thought or effort, Towelroad has a bunch of screen grabs of an "Easter egg" from the Pearl Harbor DVD, where noted prankster and all-around good time guy Ben Affleck and onetime It-boy heartthrob Josh Hartnett reenact Affleck's famous "animal crackers" scene from Armageddon. Another secret DVD goodie features a montage of Affleck precariously dangling his genitals behind director Michael Bay's head, only letting his manhood drop on the fauxteur's shoulder at the precise moments he calls "action!" A furious Bay, victimized by Affleck's junk over and over again, finally threatens to cast the actor in every movie he ever makes as revenge—a threat, obviously, that he didn't have to balls to follow through on.

· The Laugh Factory is auctioning off ten minutes of stage time and donating the entire winning bid to the American Red Cross. And this isn't any old stage time, either, it's an opening slot for Jon Lovitz. Yes, you may bomb, but you might also wind up sleeping with the Pathological Liar—for charity!
· British Esquire pretends to care what Jessica Alba thinks about film as an excuse to get her to tart around in some skimpy movie-inspired outfits. Nicely played.
· Don't be mislead by the spine, title page, or cover of the erotic novel Vamp—porn star Savannah Samson did not actually write it. But don't worry, that doesn't mean she won't eventually write her own novel and address all of the loose ends of Vamp.
· Coming soon from Apple: the iPod Stapler, iPod Insulin Injector, and the iPod Nuclear Coolant Flow Regulator. It's just like Steve Jobs to release a bunch of new toys right after you dropped $400 bucks on the one that plays Desperate Housewives.

· Thursday night music round-up: The Tribute to DJ John Peel is free at the Echo; Headphones and Minus the Bear at the Troubadour; Death From Above 1979 at the El Rey.
· Tonight at the Improv Olympic, our pals Dana and Julia (of onetime Punk'd fame) put on perhaps the horniest two-woman show we've ever seen, The Adventures of Helen and Ellen, and we've spent considerable time in a female correctional facility.
· The Aero Theatre does a double feature of Italian cinema, with the classic films Sciusia and Ieri, Oggi, and Domani, which we remember means "Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow" from our high school Italian class. We got an A, by the way, and can now only ask how to find a bathroom or a fishmonger.

As amazing as it sounds, being Paris Hilton's publicist is not an easy job; Hilton's burned-out ex-flacks are about as ubiquitous as wealthy Greeks who have tasted the heiress' tonsils in a VIP booth at Spider Club. But when tales of Hilton's latest celebutart escapades start making the rounds, who does one call for the inevitable, feeble shrug-and-no-comment cocktail? Radar ran into this very problem today, encountering two deeply masochistic PR professionals claiming the rights of first denial:

Again and again, the local edition of Craigslist has proven its utility as a virtual casting office, offering up on a regular basis exciting opportunities previously available only to those with a high-powered agent. The online community also recently made a successful foray into location scouting, and perhaps buoyed by that pilot program, now seeks to make a splash in the world of film finance:

Just yesterday, we passed along a report that Katie Holmes' Catholic dad was not pleased about his daughter's mysterious knocking-up by heroically potent fiancé Tom Cruise. The family survey about Katie's uterus continues today, with this certainly reliable online report that Holmes' aunt believes that the Miracle Baby came to be the "old fashioned way":

Over the past hour or so, our inbox has been peppered with a new, unsourced rumor about half of ICM being snapped up by two bankers. A cut-and-pasted snippet has been flying around on e-mail and on the tracking boards, but here's the whole item, which originated in today's Page Six:

Hollywood PrivacyWatch celebrity sightings are sent in and authored by our eagle-eyed readers; send yours to tips[AT]defamer.com (please put “sighting” or “PrivacyWatch” in the subject line, unless you want our e-mail filter to eat your handiwork) and let the world know about Garry Shandling's workout outfit.

Having seen one too many $2000 My Super Sweet Sixteen party dress and Laguna Beach butt-floss bikini, The LA Weekly's Nikki Finke is finally ready to tune her television to MTV and chainsaw the fucker in half (kids, ask your parents!). In this week's column, Finke laments the network's—which, we hear, used to primarily present delightful mini-movies set to the most popular songs of the day—loss of semi-innocence; after all, what kind of basic cable channel can claim a rock-and-roll soul when it cynically underwrites some Hollywood do-gooding just because the host is a movie star who boffs Justin Timberlake?