Ojo's appearance at the hospital sent hospital employees flying to the phones to call their favorite tabloid reporters. Ojo was only too happy to describe the dramatic incident in detail!

"I didn't know what had happened. By the time I woke up, the skin was falling off," Ojofeitimi said.

"It sounded like a woman screaming," a neighbor in their Springfield Gardens building said of the 6 a.m. attack.

Between the Daily News and the Post, this story got a total of nine bylines today. If the Al "Grits" Green incident happened today, an entire spinoff paper would need to be launched. Tabloids: there when we need them.
[NYDN, NYP]

Forty-one-year-old Patrick Burris (pictured) was shot dead by cops who came to investigate a report of a burglary in Gastonia, NC. Burris reportedly pulled a gun and wounded one of the officers, and was killed in the subsequent shootout. Now police say that was the same gun that had a good portion of the entire state panicked for the past week:

"Through forensics, we were able to prove today that the weapon he shot the officer with was the same weapon all five of our victims were shot with," said[Cherokee County Sheriff Bill] Blanton.

Police also can place Burris near the three sites of the killings and have recovered items from the murder scenes in his possession, Blanton said, without providing details.

Residents of Gaffney, SC, where the killings had occurred, were reportedly mostly too scared to even venture out for 4th of July celebrations.

Burris was just released from prison last April, after serving eight years for breaking and entering and larceny. South Carolina lawmen are now saying he never should have been free:

Burris had an extensive criminal record for a variety of crimes in several states including: armed robbery, common law robbery, weapons violation, forgeries, multiple instances of breaking and entering, and possession of stolen goods.

[Pic: AP]

• Christian Lacroix just went broke. No more "colourful gypsy-themed clothes." The silver lining: the company never made a profit even in good times.
• Versace is forcing out its CEO after he pissed off Donatella by urging her to simplify her designs so the company could cut costs. "Arguing rationally about money" turns out to not be a skill that Donatella Versace has developed over the course of her career.
• More dramatic happenings at Halston, the iconic 70s brand overseen by fashion plate Harvey Weinstein: the last creative director was booted for not being sexy enough. Now the company has brought it Mario Schwab, "said to be responsible for the body-con trend that is now so huge" among people who know about fashion, apparently. He promises to make Halston exciting again, for people who like clothes. Don't forget to make money, too!

The billionaire is Anil Ambani. That's extra-interesting, since Ambani is the guy who sued his own brother for $2 billion last year after he got offended by a profile in the New York Times (he and his brother have been locked in a vicious feud ever since they split up their dad's huge business empire—Anil took the sexy side, like entertainment and finance, while his brother took the more prosaic industrial side). He's also the Indian tycoon who's backing Steven Spielberg's movie studio, to the tune of $550 million.

And, he has the distinction of being named the dude who lost the most money of anyone anywhere last year ($32 billion). But he still has $12 billion! And a helicopter. Which somebody tried to sabotage by putting rocks in the rotor—but the sabotage was discovered by the hero technician!

Now that technician is dead. He was struck by a train Tuesday night.

Debate raged in India on Wednesday over whether Mr. Borge had committed suicide, had been pushed or was yet another accidental victim of the trains, which kill an average of 10 people a day.

There's no time to remark upon the insanity of that train-related death rate. Because the dead technician, Borge, died carrying a letter that "said he had been 'facing troubles' in recent days, his brother said, adding that 'something fishy' had been going on."

I'll say! Police immediately ruled out the corporate intrigue Ambani assassination angle, but, you know, the feud, the brother, the money... who knows. This whole thing is like a novel by the guy who wrote The Constant Gardener. We anxiously await the inevitable raft of movies.
[NYT, Independent]

#2 is clearly the most Madoff-esque, but for the purposes of this flick, why not just go with #1, "Extremely Angry Guy?"

Namely those big old honking gay folks at Comedy Central's sister network, Logo. The curious little series, featuring comedian Silverman, her sister Laura, and whole cast of wacky characters, looked like it was going to peter out and die when Comedy Central had to—because of the economy and all—slash the show's budget by 20%. Not exactly chuffed by this idea, the producers threatened to leave. The network wanted to keep the show running, but they just couldn't hammer out an acceptable budget agreement.

Then, in swept Logo, sabers a' brandish, capes fluttering in the breeze. With the two forces combined, the show will have an even higher budget than the previous $1.1 million per episode (TV is expensive). Plus, Logo can cash in on Silverman's big fag (und hag) appeal, as well as the fact that there is a hetero-acting (sorta) gay couple on the show. Everybody wins! Especially Logo viewers (hi, you two!) who previously only had the abysmal Big Gay Sketch Show to turn to for laughs on the network, which has consistently failed to be as sexy as here! or as splashy and original as Bravo.

[THR]

I had the good fortune to mistakenly watch this show last night, so let me just describe for you two instances of drama and intrigue, accompanied by copious dramatic music and editing, that went down in this one episode, and which were broadcast out to the world, by choice, to illustrate the dramatic perils the Homeland Security department faces while keeping us safe:

• A dude coming into America claimed to be an American. Turned out to be true.
• Somebody attempted to bring a sandwich into the USA.

Brothers and sisters of the proletariat, you must at this very moment drop your bacon egg and cheese wraps and rush down to the Marketplace at Kimmel Center, where a dashing group of Zapata-like freedom fighters has seized control of everything from the Yolato frozen yogurt stand to Cafe Spice's spicy Thai cuisine area. The group of attractive young sexually available rebels is called Take Back NYU!, and their real live demands include:

1. Full legal and disciplinary amnesty for all parties involved in the occupation.

[Ed. note: why do these occupiers always start off with amnesty? Really, is that the NUMBER ONE thing you're fighting for? Because if so you could have just stayed home, problem solved.]

2. Full compensation for all employees whose jobs were disrupted during the course of the occupation.
[Blah blah more transparency from NYU about budgets, etc...]
9. That annual scholarships be provided for thirteen Palestinian students, starting with the 2009/2010 academic year. These scholarships will include funding for books, housing, meals and travel expenses.
10. That the university donate all excess supplies and materials in an effort to rebuild the University of Gaza.

These perfectly just and sensible demands must be met or the protesters are prepared to deny access to easy grab 'n go sandwiches to the entire fascist NYU community for days to come! They have the support of the same hardened insurgents who seized control of the New School not long ago! They're already sharing intelligence about how and when to prevent administration lackey from retreating INTO THE SWAYDUCK! We will stand in solidarity with these young radicals until Palestinians cannot walk into their classrooms without being bombarded with leftover boxes of NYU t-shirts!

"I know you are here to kill me. Shoot, coward, you are only going to kill a man."
—Che Guevara

Trouble is, Obama apparently forgot to ask Roberts to bring a Bible. Roberts, who can't tie his shoes or be trusted with sharp objects, obviously can't remember on his own, and Obama damn sure doesn't keep that particular book handy. So everyone just stood in a semi-circle (read: crescent shape, probably pointing toward Mecca) and enjoyed a secular humanist swearing-in, to which God was not invited.

"We decided it was so much fun . . . " Obama joked to the reporters, waiting for Roberts (LATE?). Asked if he was ready by Roberts, Obama replied "I am, and we're going to do it very slowly."

From tonight's pool report:

Justice Roberts with a staff member, Robert Gibbs, David Axelrod, Greg Craig, a WH Photographer and POTUS

Also four reporters: st pete, bloomberg, ap and reuters.

Some of you have asked and no, michelle obama was not there.
When we walked into Map Room, obama was on the couch, and roberts was in a chair to his left. For the swearing in, obama and roberts stood across room from where they had sat, with us and staff in loose semicircle. UPDATE: ...There was No Bible.

This should shut those strict-constructionist atheists right up.

Chaunce found time between feuds with Page Six to sit down with his childhood friend Tony and pen the screenplay for Lapdance. It's the dramatic tale of two high school buddies from Jersey, one of whom goes into gossip and the other into being a doorman at Scores. Chaunce wrote up a summary for us. Highlights:

Like working at Gawker, zing! Minus the sex and celebrities and girls. Chaunce knows how to turn a scoop—and how to turn a phrase:

The dramatic conclusion:

Yes.

After the audience stood up for a Spanish version of "God Bless America," the actors sat down and got right into it. First up we met a couple whose love for alcohol is at the center of their connection, then a couple getting to know each other over a complicated personality test (Armisen: "Do you often have emotional outbursts without thinking them through?" Rudolph: "What kind of fucking question is that?"), then a third couple on their first date as they discuss stuffed animals (Rudolph: "When I was little, I used to put Snoopy between my legs and just hump him so hard. I humped him and humped him until his nose broke off.").

Sorry — spoiler alert? The (re)viewer notes that the vignettes comprised roughly 15 couples in all, with little more connective tissue than its author's irreverence and the SNL veterans channeling it. It can't be any worse than Baby Mama. Find out for yourself if you're feeling adventurous and can manage to mug a ticketholder; even Craigslist has nothing doing for tonight's second and final show.

• Paul Thomas Anderson’s Top-Secret Play Revealed [Vulture]
• Maya Rudolph and Fred Armisen [Largo]

Back when Calacanis' Weblogs Inc was competing for traffic and attention with Gawker Media, Jason basically led to the creation of Gawker Comments. Our publisher, Nick Denton, never cared for comments. Too much noise. Too many amateurs. Spam. But Calacanis' Engadget had comments, and they helped that site's traffic. "A blog is not a blog without comments," Jason used to say. Now, though?

Why should we all build our homes and give residence to the trolls under them? Comments on blogs inevitably implode, and we all accept it under the belief that "open is better!" Open is not better. Running a blog is like letting a virtuoso play for 90 minutes are Carnegie Hall, and then seconds after their performance you run to the back Alley and grab the most inebriated homeless person drag them on stage and ask them what they think of the performance they overheard in the Alley. They then take a piss on the stage and say "F-you" to the people who just had a wonderful experience for 90 or 92 minutes. That's openness for you... my how far we've come! We've put the wisdom of the deranged on the same level as the wisdom of the wise.

Hah. An about-face! Look what YOU ANIMALS did to him! Jason Calacanis is gone off the net, like so many others before him, because commenters are mean. And also homeless and drunk. From the wisdom of crowds to, as Jason later says: "For the record, crowds are really frackin' stupid and to put your stock in crowds is about as bright as putting your faith in a dictator." Harsh! But definitely in tune with the current internet zeitgeist.

Because he's not the only one! Emily Gould shut off comments! Most Tumblrs are comment-free!

But the personal blog comment-retreat comes too late, as most professional outlets, like print magazines and newspapers, now allow comments everywhere. And they're nearly all terrible! Even when they're heavily moderated, as they are at the New York Times, the signal-to-noise ratio seems to get worse every day. What the hell is to be done? Some Gawker Media editors semi-regularly express their barely hidden desire to BAN EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU and go back to the glorious olde days of undemocratic blogging-as-broadcasting, not as conversation. We're sure that sentiment exists at every media outlet that currently hosts the unhinged rantings of conspiracists and cranks.

But the genie's out of the bottle. Commenters are here. And the internet does seem, these days, to belong to them. Treat her kindly. We'll just keep posting funny pictures for you to riff on.

Zing! Lodwick was apparently on a tear last night, as he called another, more well-meaning online critic "evil." We're just glad he's going to devote more time to his new start-up, which will change the world through self-importance and failure to be profitable.

Herr Merkel sounds awfully familiar: "Tall, handsome German man meets with Cora Neel and the other board members about buying Hamilton Motors." And, as if you need more than a drama about the car biz based in the D, apparently Andie MacDowell is already on board. Poor Yorick: We thought that was your head we saw rolling down Jefferson.

THE PRINCE OF MOTOR CITY To be an auto tycoon... or not to be? That's the problem plaguing philosophy lecturer Billy Hamilton.

His father, the legendary William Hamilton III of Hamilton Motor Works, was just killed in a mysterious accident. And when Billy returns home for the funeral, he's shocked to discover that his father left him... everything. The factory. The assets. Detroit's fourth-biggest auto plant. All the power and wealth he can imagine. But Billy's not sure if he wants it. Because the situation back home has gotten strange indeed.

Company CFO and family friend Paul Riley is outraged that he wasn't given the keys to the kingdom. Billy's unfinished romance with Riley's spunky daughter Meg is heating up again. And Billy's mom and his Uncle Charlie seem to be consoling one another in much too cozy a fashion—do they know more about William's death than they're letting on?

But all this pales in comparison to the eerie goings-on around the plant. Billy's being haunted by a song... a moody Elvis song that was his father's favorite. He's getting mysterious, meaningful messages from complete strangers. At a dinner party, he chats with an empty seat next to him—which chats back. Finally, a ghost that could only be his father tells Billy in a croaking voice: "I want revenge."

An epic, Gothic, family melodrama with overtones of Hamlet, The Prince of Motor City injects corporate and familial intrigue with supernatural suspense. Produced by actor Hamish Linklater of The New Adventures of Old Christine, this riveting drama tells the story of a modern-day monarch with method in his madness... and vengeance in his heart.

In the same post, Romero also placed part of the blame on Wilson for the laughable "John Romero's About To Make You His Bitch" print ads that ran prior to the release of the ill-fated shooter Daikatana.

Wilson responds in an open letter to Romero, sent to Kotaku, that he will "not allow you to rewrite the history of it all, more to your liking and to my public detriment, and I will in no way take the rap for what you did (or didn't do) with your dream company", going on to defend his character and refute certain claims.

It gets particularly nasty near the end of the letter, when Wilson says to Romero "your unparalleled work ethic and strong character has [...] left only a bloody trail of ex-wives, fatherless kids, and ill advised breast implants strewn across this fair nation." Insert stunned silence here, then continue for the full "Dear John" letter.

Dear John, I'm writing this letter from Moscow, having just read your lovely post about me, which a good friend forwarded me and implored me to reply to. I really never thought I would relive the joy that was Ion Storm, circa 1997, or that the memories of those times still troubled you so 11 years later. Then again, I would guess you live in the memories of your twenties as much as you can, given the reality of your thirties. Glad to know I'm still in your thoughts.

I enjoyed your comments very much, but several of my friends (especially those that were around for those heady time to witness the truth of it up close) did not find it quite so funny, and thought that I should take the time to set a few things straight as publicly as the flame you chose to randomly launch my way.

While I am not at all interested in reliving those days, I will also not allow you to rewrite the history of it all, more to your liking and to my public detriment, and I will in no way take the rap for what you did (or didn't do)with your dream company. So here are just a few reminders to jog your memory.

While my job title (which you gave me) was CEO of your company, I was one of two "junior partners" in a partnership of 6. I made about 1/3 of what the 'big boy partners' (as you liked to call yourselves back then) did and owned less than five percent of your company. I wasn't awarded a 250k signing bonus like you were for signing up to your own startup and I didn't have a personal assistant like you, nor occupy one of the 4 corners of power in the original Ion Storm building. And unlike you, I didn't get to file a federal trademark for my own personal catch phrase," Suck it Down." I remind you of these things only to remind you that there was absolutely nothing done by me or Ion Storm, including the advertisements which bore your name and which you happily posed for, that didn't require your full approval and grand signature.

And while I did think that famous Bitch ad was pretty funny, I'll remind you that you signed that one too, and I'm fairly certain I wasn't holding your hand or using a Jedi mind trick on you when you did it. I'll also remind you that the whole reason for running the teaser ad was that we felt we should be starting to advertise the game since it you said was shipping so soon, for Christmas in 1997. Even though we had nothing but a logo and that signature promise to use for an ad 6 months before you promised Eidos and your partners that Daikatana would be ready to redefine shooters on shelves worldwide.

Our former employee also reminded me that I fought on a daily basis to try to save that company from the poison which you had invited into it (and watched spread like a cancer while you kept your head in the sand), only to find myself ushered out the door, since it was such a buzz kill to hear my incessant complaints about the way things were being run, which were really those of the 80 or so young fresh faced developers we hired in the 10 months I was there. But hey, it was clear that I was the problem there, as you guys really took off the year after I left. Or, more accurately, nearly every one of those 80 hires did.

I do owe you a thank you for that little shove to get me started on Gathering of Developers, a company that I was an actual partner of, and which Take Two 'reigned in' buy buying for 30 million dollars, two years after we opened an office, which resulted in no less than eight million unit selling PC games and over 350 million dollars in revenue for TTWO (my investors) during roughly the same amount of time that it took you and the remaining 'big boy partners' to shit away Eidos' (your investors) 30 million and deliver one of the biggest heaps of dung ever put onto a CD Rom, just before being foreclosed on. Thank god for Warren Spector, who was also made a 'junior partner', and later delivered Eidos Storm's only salvation in the form of Deus Ex.

And please don't be too concerned for the independent developers I work with... just like with GodGames, and like the deal I struck for you with Eidos, Gamecock owns their IP and is branded above the publisher on everything, and has a great royalty rate. Royalty rates are what you make if you actually make a game that is good and sells. Remember Quake one?

I'm also grateful for your concern over my incessant partying, which has somehow led me to be married to the same beautiful woman for 17 years now, while raising two incredible daughters together. You should maybe try the partying, since your unparalleled work ethic and strong character has (just in the time I've known you) left only a bloody trail of ex-wives, fatherless kids, and ill advised breast implants strewn across this fair nation, even before you flew all the way to Romania for your latest wife. If she's not still around, let me know, and I'll see if I can pick another one up for you here in Russia.

Its been great catching up, but I'm off to dinner now with Harry Miller, my best friend and business partner for the past decade (ever had one of those, John?), and our very happy new investor, followed by some crazy partying to keep it real, just for you.

You take care now, and remember just because id, Eidos, and then Midway fired you doesn't mean you're not still awesome!

Suck it down,

Your pal Mike

Happy weekend, everybody!

I went at showtime, 'round eight, and purchased a snack from Manhattan Criminal Court's old-timey concession stand.

The first case I caught was about an incident that happened up on West 140th, regarding the "endangerment of the welfare of a child." Heavy stuff, to be sure, but aren't dysfunctional families the plot of every single Eugene O'Neill play?

Earnest young lawyers, policemen, and security personnel swarmed the front of the room, their chatter maintaining a low hum over the proceedings. Families and children slouched in the wooden pews. The real action was in the peanut gallery. Two men seated behind me were providing color commentary on each case, with frequent "Goddamns!" and "Five hundred bail in cash, that's some booollshit." They were well-versed in the intricacies of what they called "the system."

A young woman on the stand, charged with assault in the third degree, wiped away tears as she was led back to the holding pen.

"In the third degree," the man behind me says. "Two kids and two jobs, no criminal record." August Wilson couldn't have said it any better.

Night Court runs 'til one a.m. these days. It hasn't run twenty-four hours since 2003, when the one to eight a.m. "lobster shift" was eliminated. "When I get locked up, I'm already tired and fucked-up anyway; I sleep right up until they bring me out there," the man added.

"You been to Rikers?" asked his companion.

"Naw, I don't like goin' to Rikers."

The grim parade of humanity marched on: lots of assaults—mostly by women!—but also minor driving offenses, drug possession, and something about "she took my girl shopping without permission." All the defendants had dark skin. Maybe white people are just really, really well-behaved in this city? Or was this a tragedy so broad that it was bordering on farce?

Or maybe, as the man behind me put it: "There's some terrorist shit goin' on at the courthouse."