Contrary to what our nifty little advertisers would have you believe, we will not be appearing at 92nd Street Y tomorrow, and not simply because it's above 14th and terribly inconvenient. As it turns out, the venue was actually charging $25 (American!) for admission, which we find mildly absurd. The octogenarian retirees who make up most of the 92Y regulars are, of course, happy to pay that for, say, Phillip Roth. But for some dirty-mouthed kid they've never heard of? Survey says no.

An Amber Alert waiting to happen.

Sunday afternoon we threw out our back. Did we do this the way most non-geriatrics do, in an athletic endeavor? No, we did not. Did we do it exercising? Nope. Having sex? Alas, no. So how, then? We threw out our back lifting a case of wine. Which, ultimately, seems about right.

We don't understand, either, why Nordstrom is advertising on Gawker — one imagines that Bergdorf's is simultaneously running an extensive campaign on, say, Seattlest — but, still, they're paying us money, and they're sponsoring a lovely contest, and so we're happy to do whatever they'd like.

If we ever bothered to fight our way through the monthly perfume sampler also known as Vanity Fair, we would have discovered this earlier and mounted a more appropriate counteroffensive. As it is, it's far too late on a Friday for us to do much more than just point it out: VF tore a precious editorial page away from coverage of minor European royalty this month and instead devoted it to making fun of us. (At right. Click on it to enlarge.)

It's getting closer and closer to Christmas, and you're still busy trying to think of clever gifts for your friends and loved ones. Here's an idea: Give up! And then turn to Gawker Media. Let the professional smartasses here at your favorite blog non-empire think up the clever slogans; all you have to do is click, pay, and, eventually, wrap.

We're popping marshmallows in hot chocolate for this week's sponsors, who help ensure our cocoa is nicely spiked. Want to join our apr s-ski shindig? There's info here.

The feeling's mutual, buddy.
The funny thing about Playboy's holiday party — held last night at Home — is that it was somewhat tame. Not that staff photog Nikola Tamindzic minded; there were lots of boobies both real and fake, but big breasts do not a top playmate make. And, worse, Playmates just aren't as shiny in real life. Thankfully, the civilian girls were willing to get slutty enough to pick up any slack. After the jump, merry T and jolly A.

A little sampling from our new younger brother Consumerist (who, as some of you have noted, is aesthetically challenged — that's how we politely refer to sites designed by Hungarian goat-fuckers):

We here at Gawker Media love to spend our money, but we hate being treated like cattle while we do it. And so our big happy family is proud to announce the birth of our latest site: Consumerist, our answer to the utter fuckitude of modern capitalism.

We think we're choosing to take this as a compliment. But we're not entirely sure. The press release for an exhibit opening Saturday in Dublin arrived in our inbox today; here's part of it:

Blackface Jesus ain't never gonna let you down.

Carefully written thank-you notes for this week's sponsors, who some day, when we become men, will help foot the bill for our rock-starrific b'nai mitzvah. Care to stuff a few checks in our suit pocket? More info here.

DJ Jess prefers to think of his brand of sex appeal as "painful."
It descended upon the Lower East Side like a locust to a wheatfield or a bedbug to your mattress: Fat Baby, the latest bar to hit Rivington Street and provide shelter for the awkwardly hip and the tragically Jersey. The multi-floored venue, which is gargantuan by neighborhood standards, hosted its Nouveau! party on Wednesday night, so we forced staff stalkerazzi Nikola Tamindzic to turn his lens on downtown's latest midweek warriors. After the jump, more calculated hipness than you can shake a stick at.

Mick Rock and daughter.
Throughout the 70s, rock photographer Mick Rock shot the likes of David Bowie, Mick Jagger, and Iggy Pop, and somewhere along the way morphed into Keith Richards. We wanted to see how he's holding up, so we sent shutterstud Nikola Tamindzic, to check out his exhibition last night at the SoHo Grand. After the jump, Heatherette types flit about while Mick Rock gets cozy with a girl young enough to be his daughter — who is, in fact, his daughter.

The freakishly brilliant (and clearly way underoccupied) Andrew Hearst suggests that Russ Smith's Times Co.-buys-Gawker thesis is far less ridiculous than we thought:

Honestly, we have spent the past 24 hours mulling over former New York Press owner Russ Smith's Mugger column in the alt-weekly's latest issue, in which he details the sale of Gawker Media to the New York Times Company for $32 million. As this is utterly ridiculous and unequivocally not true, we imagine Smith intended the piece as some sort of quasi-parody.

Yeah, we have no idea what's been going on for the last few hours, either. But apparently things are working again now, so we'll briefly return you to your regularly scheduled bitchery.

In what we think might be the most successful marketing-scam pseudo-popular terminology since "metrosexual," today has apparently been dubbed "Cyber Monday." Bombarded as we all regularly are by emails and RSS feeds and always-on broadband, we don't quite see how this day is more cyber than all other days. But apparently, some market-research firm has figured out that a lot of online shopping happens today and therefore came up with this apparently wildy successful moniker.

Thanks to our advertisers, whose support keeps us covered in gravy and rolling in cranberry sauce. Interested? More info here.