"You kept that Kama Sutra book that Jon gave you for Christmas in your room, but you never used it. I waited in vain for you to break out the lizard position!" says "Claire." But the bedroom wasn't the only arena in which Neel was found lacking. "Your jokes were funny, but almost as hilarious was how hard you laughed at them." Ouch! Also: "Sometimes you'd express something with sarcasm or as a joke, trying to say something personal without putting yourself out there." Bad news!

Still, take the time to cast your vote for Neel. He's not a redhead! And you could win shiny diamonds.

I'm pretty sure that all of my regrettable/not-someone-I-was-dating-or-interested-in hookups are better off not getting in touch with me after the fact, I mean, that's the reason we're not dating in the first place! That being said, sounds like Emily has a thing for Neel!

Hey guys,
my name is neel shah—i'm a writer in NYC. I'm involved in some contest for Glamour Magazine write [sic] now, and sort of need some assistance from you guys. Essentially, Glamour is trying to find their next male dating columnist, and they've pitted three guys against each other (me and two others). It's hard enough getting white people to vote for a brown person in this thing, so i figured i'd try to galvanize the brown voting community as well. You guys actually wrote about me once (I used to work for Gawker), so i was hoping this might fit with your blog, too. Anyway, I hate asking for stuff like this, but i figured it was worth a shot. It's always been my goal to dispense love advice to white women in the midwest. sort of.

You Pick The Next Jake [Glamour]

About 60% of Indian men have penises which are between three and five centimetres shorter than international standards used in condom manufacture. Doctor Chander Puri, a specialist in reproductive health at the Indian Council of Medical Research, told the BBC there was an obvious need in India for custom-made condoms, as most of those currently on sale are too large.

Gawker: Neel, as a representative for the South Asian man, how do you respond to the allegation that "about 60% of Indian men have penises which are between three and five centimetres shorter than international standards used in condom manufacture?"
Neel: Uh, no comment.
Gawker: Have you ever had a problem with an ill-fitting condom?
Neel: Uh, no comment.
Gawker: The tipster who sent us this link titled his email "Breaking: Pope wears funny hat/Bear shits in woods. Were you aware that the stereotype of the small-dicked Indian man was so prevalent? And if so, why?
Neel: . . .
Gawker: NEEL, RICHARD HAS A CAMERA. I WILL SEND YOU A BOOB PHOTO IF YOU COME UP WITH ONE HALFWAY DECENT RESPONSE. I MEAN IT.
Neel: im thinking!
Neel: these are tough questions
Neel: gimme a min, getting coffee
Gawker: you are such a tease!
Neel: I've never heard this before. Perhaps you have us confused for the Jews?
Gawker: Ok, last question: how big is your weiner?
Neel: one sec.
Gawker: I didn't ask how long you usually last during sex, I asked how big your weiner was!
Neel: haha. very clever. trying to be somewhat amusing here!
Gawker: Try faster.
Neel: Bibi Ka Maqbara
Gawker: uhhh, not getting it
Neel: it's the miniature version of the taj mahal
the building i linked to. is the joke not obvious?
if not, ill give you something else.
Gawker: nope, actually still curious as to your dick size. Obviously you've measured it. Just tell!
Neel: ugh. what are you trying to do to me here?!
Gawker: make sure no one thinks you have a small dick. I'm doing you a favor, really.
Neel: i need a joke though
Neel: i also dont know centimeters
Neel: it's a nice sized chutney bottle
Gawker: THANK YOU. dismissed.

Condoms "Too Big" For Indian Men [BBC]
Earlier: Gawker's Coverage of Intern Neel

Exclusive! Radar Brings a Dose of Fashion into the Clubhouse [ETP]

We will be bringing you coverage of the Greatest Awards Show of All Time all day, but to kick things off Intern Neel gives his on-location report, after the jump.

We weren't exactly thrilled when we drew VMAs duty. These things seem like fun in principle, but are typically so mired in bureaucratic excess and attempts at precalculated "spontaneity" that they're never really worth the effort. And so we trekked up to Radio City Music Hall expecting to wage a losing battle on the throngs of screaming tweens and foreign reporters who think it's the highest of high comedy to ask Justin Timberlake where his Sexy went, and how he plans on getting it Back. Perhaps it was our low expectations, perhaps it was the fact that MTV's flaks and event coordinators were refreshingly competent, or perhaps it was the all the gratis liquor doled out in the makeshift green room, but we were pleasantly surprised: this shit was pretty entertaining. (Yes, we realize it's anathema to describe anything in a vaguely positive fashion on Gawker these days. Regularly-scheduled snarking will return in short time). To the gossip we go!

A few quick notes from the red carpet, where, with alcohol not yet a factor and an overabundance of client-sterilizing celebrity handlers, banality reigns supreme:

1) You could be a baby-raping terrorist and still meet unbridled enthusiasm if you walk down that thing. This is probably obvious even to those watching at home, but it's literally like the fucking janitor ambles by and you have to cover your ears to block out the unflagging, high-pitched shrieking. Just sayin'.

2) Bored and out of questions, we started asking random celebrities what they thought of Gawker. Their responses:

Pusha-T and Malice, Clipse: "What?"
Lil Wayne: "Huh?"
Wyclef Jean: "What?"
50 Cent: (no response)
Ludacris: "Shit, dog, I stopped readin' that after the Spiers regime." (Just kidding: "What?")

There you have it, folks: black people—still not reading Gawker.

3) Quote of the carpet goes to Whitney from The Hills (also, as is my journalistic imperative to report to you, Dear Reader, waaay hotter than co-star Lauren Conrad in person): when we asked what she learned about the magazine industry from her internship at Teen Vogue, she replied, "I learned that I don't actually want to work in magazines." Smarter than she looks, that one.

At 8:00pm sharp, we were whisked over to the green room that had been erected in the basement of Radio City, where a bevy of flatscreen TVs were airing a live feed of the show. A show of little interest to Johnny Knoxville, hunched in a corner, visibly intoxicated and swilling booze out of little liquor bottles he had on his person, open bar be damned. "Hey Johnny," we started. "Saw the preview of the Vice Guide to Travel DVD you're in. Looks cool."
Knoxville: "Huh?"
Us: "The Vice DVD that you did."
Knoxville: (slurred) "I don't know what I did.
Us: "Didn't you shoot some segments for some travel thing they're doing?"
Knoxville: (mumbles something incoherent about Nazi camps and Paraguay)
Us: "Cool. What you been doin tonight"
Knoxville: "Drinking."
Us: "Nice. What you up to later?"
Knoxville: "I'm just tryin' to have fun."
Us: "Good luck."

Over to Sarah Silverman, who gets all indignant and hits us in the shoulder when we mention we're from Gawker: "What the fuck! You guys wrote something about me, like, 'Sarah Silverman has her own dumpster or some shit." We did? "Yeah, it was you, wasn't it?" Umm, maybe? Don't think so, though. She contemplates this for a few moments. "Ahhh, fuck. It was Defamer. Sorry!" Haha. Bitch! Kidding. Jessica Simpson walks by. So, Sarah, what do you think of her and John Mayer? "You know, shockingly, unlike most other 35 year-old women on the edge of their seats over this, I haven't speculated much on the matter. Wasn't she dating Dane Cook?" Allegedly. Do you think he's actually funny? His show sort of sucks, no? "Um, no comment! Comedian's honor code."

Fair enough. Lucky for us, Girls Gone Wild meatstick Joe Francis wasn't nearly so tight-lipped. As we were milling about waiting for a lull in his conversation with Paris Hilton (who kept doing double-fisted shots of ice water at the bar. Bizzare.), Francis turned to us and introduced himself.
Us: "Nice meeting you. Mind if we ask a few questions, on the record?"
Francis: "No, no, not now."
Us: "Come on, dude! Just one! What'd you make of that L.A. Times profile of you a few weeks back?" Francis scrunches his brow, then breaks into a wide smile. "Here's the problem. If I had had sex with that reporter like she wanted to, it'd have all worked out for me. But I chose not to 'cause she's a fat ugly pig. So I made that decision." Oh, Joe. That vulgar mouth is so unbecoming! A simple "no comment" would have sufficed.

Other random tidbits, in no particular order, most of which are of dubious import: Jessica Simpson giving us the deathstare and putting her hand to her throat in a gesture intended to indicate her inability to verbally communicate (she has laryngitis, you see) when we asked her how John Mayer was. Nick Lachey being there when Simpson wasn't. Real World: Key West train wreck Paula, whose issues with alcohol abuse were widely documented on the show, making multiple trips to the bar. Laguna Beach and Hills star Lauren Conrad telling friends that she's planning on being single for a while, and that she had a "not good" run-in with ex-boyfriend Jason last night (who, for the record, wins "Douchebag of the Year" honors in a fucking landslide for making out with his platinum-blonde whore of a girlfriend on the red carpet). Paris and Nicole Richie not talking. Nicole Richie attempting to sign an autograph for a young fan, clicking the end of the pen furiously when it wouldn't dispense ink, shaking it vigorously when it still wouldn't dispense ink, then, after much confusion as to how to properly wield such a strange instrument, realizing she was holding the pen upside down. Johnny Knoxville attempting to affix a chain medallion necklace of some sort to the exposed genitalia of fellow Jackass Chris Pontius over by the bar. Our camera pic of said genitalia coming out really dark, probably for the best, due to the dim lighting.

11:30pm. Show winding down; only scattered Real World cast members left (evidently the dregs of the MTV talent pool.) Time to go file this puppy. Before we go, our favorite blind item, courtesy of a mildly intoxicated (but nonetheless reliable—in vino veritas etc etc) source:

"Which on-air personality has a penchant for sexually harassing interns? He took an intern he met at an MTV Beach House summer party out to lunch (expensed his meal, didn't buy hers), then invited her back to his office for some closed-door canoodling. Multiple failed makeout attempts later, he even promised to go visit her in college to seal the deal (she remained unconvinced). The intern declined to file charges to avoid unnecessary publicity, despite the fact that she wasn't his only victim."

(And no, it's not Gideon Yago)

Last night News gossip Ben Widdicombe and T (the NYT Style book) bigwig Horacio Silva threw a little party at Silva's charming apartment. The soiree was in honor of Lee Tulloch, whose Fabulous Nobodies is being republished on its twentieth anniversary. We dispatched Intern Neel, whose coverage follows, along with the fine work of Gawker lensman Nikola Tamindzic.

In our infinite wisdom, we showed up already intoxicated and way late. So late, in fact, that we got there just as everyone else was on their way out, though we'd like to think that was more random happenstance than cause-effect. Thankfully, we can extrapolate with 99% certainty what went on in the hours preceding our arrival using a top-secret Media Party Template we had mocked up specifically for situations like this:

1) Lots of drinking
2) Lots of idle chit-chat
3) Lots of discussing where everyone's going next

Rush and Molloy graduate Chris Rovzar stuck around just long enough to tell us he's quite excited about his upcoming Fulbright scholarship, in which he'll be studying gay marriages in Madrid (fear not, New York queens: the Daily News is keeping a spot for him when he gets back). Radar's Jeff Bercovici stuck around just long enough to tell us he was leaving. Gatecrasher and party co-host Ben Widdicombe stuck around to ply us with red wine.

Sufficiently plied, we asked Ms. Tulloch, the woman of the hour, whether she suffered any guilt over indirectly paving the way for the Weisbergers of the world. "Well," she said carefully, "at least it gives you something to do on the beach." That's one way to spin it.

Chris Rovzar and unidentified female

Jo Piazza and Mariana Nolan

Heather Lylas and Mark Ellwood

Troy and Ann Shocket

Ben Crawford and Lee Carter

Corynne Steindler and Jeff Bercovici

Miguel Enamorado and Corinna Stringer

Yana Kamps and Cator Sparks and unidentified female

Cator Sparks and unidentified female

Prabal Gurung, Damien Nunes and Hanuk

Prabal, Damien, Hanuk and Yana

David Hauslaib

Lee Carter, Horacio Silva and unidentified female

Lolita Amos

Jo Piazza

Cator Sparks and Chris Rovzar

Lee Tulloch

Ben Widdicombe and Horacio Silva

Yana Kamps & Damien Nunes

They may also fuck you!

And though age and gender differences may conjure up unsavory images of sexual dalliances, the people involved in these arrangements say the relationships don't typically cross over into romantic territory. One exception is 16-year-old Cory Kennedy, who since last fall has been working as an unpaid intern for the Los Angeles party photographer Mark Hunter, 21. Since her job began, she has become both his girlfriend and something of an Internet phenomenon thanks to Mr. Hunter's Web site, www.thecobrasnake.com, which is dominated by pictures of her with her signature unbrushed hair and improbable outfits.

Great stuff. Maybe next week they'll do a trend piece on the age of consent.

Interns, the Founts of Youth [NYT]

FOR THE RECORD: All Gawker interns are 18 years of age or older, and we wouldn't fuck them anyway. Well, maybe Neel. There's just something about him.

Gawker Intern Neel Shah thinks he understands. Hailing from picturesque Port Jefferson, Long Island, Neel is a first generation Indian-American who took the SATs in 7th grade, went to the same dorky summer program at Johns Hopkins as Viswanathan, and recently graduated from Dartmouth. His father is a doctor, his family drives a Range Rover, and he played tennis in high school. In some small way, Neel knows where Kaavya's coming from. His culturally specific analysis of her hell and humiliation follows.

Whatever dubious subcontinental wunderkind Kaavya Viswanathan did write, didn't write, had ghost-written, cribbed, subconsciously borrowed, telepathically stole, or else was brainwashed into doing by a bunch of Pakistanis hell-bent on subverting India's credibility in the burgeoning Southeast Asian chick-lit genre, at least one thing is clear: shit like this is the reason brown kids should stick to quantitative math and organic chemistry. Ms. Viswanathan, after all, had all the hallmarks of future i-banker or doctor. Namely:

1. She was Indian (duh).
2. She had typical suburban "Indian" parents — that is, they were highly educated (both doctors), hyper-concerned with micromanaging every aspect of their progeny's education (they spent half a year's tuition to essentially buy their daughter admission to a school deemed "socially acceptable" by the other parent doctors and engineers of the Indian community at large), and owners of a large, drastically overpriced S.U.V. (the rear windshield of which provides optimal placement for a "socially acceptable" college decal used to ramp up envy in the aforementioned parent doctors and engineers of the Indian community at large).
3. She knew what she wanted at a ridiculously early age (a career in finance).

Had she stayed the course that was essentially her birthright, Ms. Viswanathan would've been crunching numbers for a top-bulge bracket bank in no time. Perhaps not by way of Harvard, but at least via Brown or Penn...certainly not — gasp! — state school.

But Brown and Penn aren't Harvard, and for some kids with an innate masochistic streak, Opal Mehta-esque parents who've spent the GDP of a small African nation on SAT prep classes, or have some combination of the both, it's Harvard or bust. And then you have absurdly compensated college counselors (who have to answer to some pretty pissed-off parents if they don't deliver the goods) saying, "You know, having a book deal will look grrreat on the 'extracurricular activities' portion of your Harvard app;" and you have bottom-line-driven book publishers saying, "You know, signing a 17-year old kid to a half a million dollar deal will provide grrreat buzz in a overcrowded but highly lucrative genre; let's worry about whether or not she can actually write later;" and you have overbearing parents saying, "You know, you've had every competitive advantage in life; we won't be mad if you don't get into Harvard, but you should really try your hardest — this book thing looks like a really good opportunity." And now, somewhere in this tangled mess of nerd-camp entitlement (see also: fellow Crimson alum Sylvester, Nick) and shady book packagers, you have a Harvard sophomore who looks to be proper fucked.

But hey, Kaavya: if nothing else, this will totally make killer fodder for a story on redemption and life lessons learned for your med school application essays.