Well, that's not entirely true, over the past seven days, there have been some nice things said about the Hollywood director, but we certainly didn't find the tweets he was talking about. In the piece, he says the "other day" he flew to New York, and on the trip a limo driver tweeted about the tip he left. To do that, a lot of things would have to happen: the limo driver would have to recognize Brett Ratner, he'd have to risk his job and life to tweet while driving, and Brett Ratner would have to leave a good tip. At least two of any of those three things seem unlikely to occur.

Also, Ratner claims two "performance artists" tweeted that he would attend their strip show, and a kid tweeted that he was a thief. We couldn't find any of these. In BlackBook Ratner says that the constant surveillance of people recognizing him and writing about what he's doing and how awesome he is really harshing his mellow. That apparently seems to be a problem only in Bizarro Cyberspace where Ratner lives.

Mostly, what people were talking about was how he would produce a new Roman Polanski documentary.

Some excerpts of what people were really saying:

• @BrianLynch says: :Brett Ratner's Roman Polanski doc will have the kickiest soundtrack and most hilarious fish out of water misunderstandings a doc can HAVE."
• @hunterstep says: Polanski is like white peoples' oj, except he's guilty and he didn't murder anyone, and he's friends with brett ratner.
• @John_Hollahan says: Even if I felt drugging/raping were ok, Brett Ratner's support would give me pause. On any issue, really.
• @AdamTM24 says: Brett Ratner, McG, Roland Emmerich, Joel Schumacher, Friedberg/Seltzer, Tom Rothman. All clown shoes when it comes to movie making.
• @katerbee says: You know how to decide how you feel something? find out what Brett Ratner thinks, then think the opposite.
• @PAPPADEMAS says: Also: Brett Ratner got a "Special Thanks" for, like, just being a good dude. His heart is so big it has a poolhouse you could crash in.
• @Meli_Molina says: Oh yea, saw New York, I Love You. I still don't have a soft spot for NYC and I still hate Brett Ratner with a fiery passion

But Ratner still looks on the bright side, seeing past the drawbacks of living in a world where limo drivers and strippers constantly tweet about how excited they are to be near you:

Maybe I should look at the positive side of constant surveillance. Maybe it's a sign that when one of my films comes out, and it's really good, all of those secret spies will tell everyone about it, and get more people into the theater for opening weekend. But then again, they might not like what they've seen and tell everyone that the movie isn't worth their dollars.

From our not very scientific market research, we're going to have to go with the latter.

[Image via Getty]

[Image via TrexFiles23 Flickr]

First, Sean Avery sexed up the waifmatron-of-a-certain-age Anna Wintour's Vogue, then Ryan Adams Blackbook-ed in exchange for free publicity for his new record. Then, author James Frey voluntarily asked to intern here.

For Lydia, however, this is the next step on the media-ladder after you quit your Page Six column in a snit over an item about your family's company that you allegedly didn't write.

Meanwhile, the disgruntled Blackbook worker Foster (to her left) blogs that he's "trying to explain to her how our backend listings system works." Something tells us it's gonna be a loooong Monday.

"This makes two things that were already totally evident even more evident:

(1) people don't actually read anything on the internet, and

(2) the economy and media jobs are so fucking shitty that, assuming they did, people managed to glaze over the fact that I'm dead, writing a post about having drinking myself to death the night before because of layoffs. Unreal/awesome."

Also, he adds, "I got a text from my mom last night: "Are you okay? Did you lose your job? Love u and would like to help."

As Freud would say, Sometimes an article about desperate drinking is just an article about desperate drinking.

Sacco: "Bungalow 8 London is more like the sophisticated European sister of New York."

Reviewer: "damn right! There are many worthwhile ways to spend your £350 in London - this isn't one of them. You've read the reviews - they are accurate. It is nothing like Bungalow 8 NYC which was so much fun a few years ago..."

Sacco: "And the downstairs opens at eleven o’clock, Tuesday through Saturday, and it’s much more of a clubby vibe than we have in New York."

Reviewer: "I'm a fair person....So I tried EVERY night in the week at Bungalow 8, and I'm talking weekend, early, midnight til late.... and it was a DISASTER....spent over £500 each night on champagne. Waste of money if you ask me."

Reviewer: "The place is very disappointing time after time. Specially compared to other clubs I have membership with. The music is cliche and dull. The members are like a bunch of estate agents, the place itself is like a corridor and the drinks are overpriced. A lot of hot air. I would rate the club lounge at Heathrow Airport higher than this place."

Etc.

[BlackBook, View London]

My creepy questions I never really planned on asking her are staring me in the face. Ricci looks at my notepad, and sees this lad-mag question: "If you're with a guy, how many times a day?" I'm mortified for even writing it down.

"Oh," she says dismissively. "All men think that women who don't drink are obsessed with sex. It's a male fantasy. If you don't drink, then you must be a sex addict. Like I haven't heard that one before."

"Harmlessly predictable," she continues, noticing I've turned a shade of red even more crimson than usual. "Not predictable," she corrects politely, "but a harmlessly stereotypical belief."

Just don't stand up and run out, I beg her.

"I won't yet," she says.

And she doesn't.

Bonus—Ricci on Vincent Gallo: "He's crazy, and he's an asshole. He's not... nice."

Turns out there are capsule reviews of cultural things, like mainstream rock concerts—"New York's favorite Blondie Takes Over The Fillmore"— and restaurants that have been open for a while—"Room For Two At Market Table." There's a weekly events-listing post. The whole thing is markedly like New York magazine's Daily Intel, except the writing is more along the lines of "Kids, without [Duran Duran], there'd be no Scissor Sisters, Killers, Strokes, and even little Franz Ferdinand. Or at least, they'd sound quite a bit different."

Why come this website sucks so bad? Well, maybe it's because they're in the process of staffing up!

How do we know? Because this email landed in our inbox, and similar ones in the inboxes of a few bloggers we know, a couple weeks ago.

My name is [Redacted], and I am with BlackBook Magazine. We are hiring a full web department and am hoping to speak with you on your experience at Gawker. Get in touch, [Redacted's first initial].

Her name is Maddy Simpson. She's an ex-model and, although it went unmentioned in the writeup, she has been a stylist, sittings editor and photography editor for Black Book. The story of their love borders on farce, a parade of romcom clichés you swear you've seen in some movie with Andie McDowell but can't find on IMDB.

A week after their first date:

[S]he visited him at his pied-à-terre behind the Chateau Marmont hotel in West Hollywood.

"Maddy fell in love with my place as much as me," Mr. Garbarino joked.

As for his feelings, he said: "Maddy had this cool that felt right, not trendy pretensions. And she had these one-liners....."

Mr. Garbarino soon abandoned his pied-à-terre. "I decided on the Fourth of July to pack up, and move back to New York, at first to her little apartment, then to our own place," he said.

Childhood dreams of the life of Scarlett O'Hara ran through my imagination," Ms. Simpson said. "It was our romantic respite before we had to go face the reality of what we were about to see of New Orleans." They fastened the shutters and "waited for the roof to be blown off," Mr. Garbarino said. When the electricity failed, they lighted candles and ran through the cavernous rooms, laughing....

As the storm howled, he proposed on the grand staircase. "It was love in the ruins," Mr. Garbarino said.

Maddy Simpson and Steven Garbarino [NYT]

7 Minutes In Heaven With Mike Albo [Bazima]
Related: Blackbook Never Pays Anyone

We had to know. Was the story drawn from real life? Mr. Morgan was kind enough to comment via email:

I grew up about a 10-minute walk from the PCH. As a young lad I used to walk the pee-soaked underpass to get to State Beach. Lots of scary homeless people lived there so I'd always carry my trusty Swiss Army knife with me in case the shit went down. Later, I was forced to drive that beast. I have many friends who've run into serious trouble on the PCH. They were usually drunk. From a young age, I've had a terrible fear of drinking and driving. I try not to do it, especially on the PCH. And even though the shit never went down, I still carry a fear of pee-soaked underpasses. I try to avoid them, too!

Sundance Last Words: 'He's Driving! Pray!' [NYO]

Earlier: MTV Viewers Smarter Than We Thought