• Melanie Griffith has checked into rehab for a third time, but her doctor says it's simply "routine." At this point, yes. [Mirror]
  
  
• Robin Williams has been asked to play Britain's Got Talent singer Susan Boyle in a biopic about her life. Sounds like a perfect fit. [Page Six]
  
  
• Singer-turned-loon Amy Winehouse has filed a £50,000 lawsuit against her former mother-in-law, who Winehouse accused of copyright infringement for selling one of her rambling love letters to her ex-husband. [The Sun]
  
  
• Ed Swiderski, the man who shocked — shocked! — the world by cheating on his Bachelorette "girlfriend" insisted he never took the show seriously. [Us]
  
  
• Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise inspired a Scientology fashion line. That says it all. [The Guardian]
  
  
• Lesbian tennis star Martina Navratilova former beauty queen girlfriend Julia Lemigova once dated Swiss banker Edouard Stern, who was murdered by his lover in a sadomasochistic sex romp. That may be the most titillating gossip we've heard in a long time. [Daily Mail]
  
  
• American Idol winner David Cook's so secretive about his love life that he refuses to buy anything for his girlfriend. Wait, isn't that just cheap? [Page Six]
  
  
• Sex tape and reality star Kim Kardashian will direct an "unscripted show" about her publicist friend Jonathan Cheban. [Page Six]
  
  
• Now that Eddie Cibrian and LeAnn Rimes are out in the open about their adulterous relationship, Cibrian's wife is free to rip him to shreds. She describes him as a "a compulsive liar, cheater and a home wrecker." Well, we know at least two of those things are true. [Gatecrasher]
  
  
• Ian McKellen went to see his friend Rachel Weisz in A Streetcar Named Desire. That's just sweet. [Just Jared]

Jacob was sentenced to 30 months in prison. Jonathan Cheban sure has some freaky friends!

[Thanks, TSG]

As of today, the card has yet to be returned; Pink Elephant flack Jonathan Cheban (oh honey, we've MISSED you) explains that they "haven't been able to locate the card yet." On the bright side, Cheban and the club have offered to replace Roca's pants, which were torn in the melee. And you thought these people were assholes.

News Photog to Get Repaid; Pix Nixed [NYDN]

In the next installment of Jonathan Twist, our shiny-tressed urchin — low on Evian and Lean Cuisine — avoids hunger by eating his Clarendon sweatshirt.

Earlier: Jonathan Cheban, Flack of All Trades

Oh, that's right — Cheban's a hardcore multitasker, so he's still maintaining his position with the Grubster. Interestingly enough, that position recently involved being the publicist for two major New Year's Eve parties: Mariah Carey's ass-shaking shindig here at Cipriani, and Lohan's barely-legal bash at Prive in Miami.

In a shocking — shocking — turn of events, we hear Cheban the Publicist tried to limit coverage of both events to Access Hollywood, so as to help Cheban the Correspondent score a nice exclusive at the clubs. While New York media ultimately strong-armed its way into Mariah's night at Cipriani, Cheban managed a media shut-out at Prive, barring any of Access' competitors and giving himself the "exclusive" on Lohan's big New Year's Eve party.

We won't go into the journalistic ethics of all this, seeing as we hardly consider Access and its ilk to be much more than publicist-flavored Froot Loops. But, in terms of pure flackery, limiting media access to an event isn't exactly the best PR work for Cheban's clients. And when the clients are pissed, the Grubman is pissed. She's already roused from her slumber, lumbering her way to the wheel of her SUV. And we all know what happens next, right?

I am thankful for my family and friends, that we finally ran out of Lean Cuisine in the office, and for another year of getting trashed in the press.

And, in turn, her PR partner, Jonathan Cheban:

I'm thankful for so much this year: that there are only 3 PoweR Girls left in the office, that Usher wore a Clarendon shirt to his "In The Mix" Junket. And I'm happy that my partner Lizzie will be wearing underwear for Thanksgiving dinner pictures this year — and Hulk Hogan is not invited.

Earlier: Media Thanksgiving: The Grateful Hacks

Well, it's official: People magazine has acknowledged the existence of Lean Cuisine scarfing publicist Jonathan Cheban, meaning that housewives across the land are slowly being defiled by images of various celebrities in Cheban's Clarendon t-shirts. And if that doesn't do it, surely the publicist's piercing, come-hither pose will destroy any remaining fragments of one's innocence. The article is an interminable two paragraphs, but we do have some favorite quotes from the man himself:

• "Isn't it so cute?"
• "I'm so excited!"
• "[We're] not something that's so last season!"

All of which were delivered in Cheban's signature, husky coo.

People [Article not online.]

"What's hot now are the clothes you can wear both day and night. Like sneakers with jeans and a blazer — that's a very Clarendon look," he says. "I myself have like a hundred pairs of Nikes, a specific type called 'dunks.' Not the mall 'dunks' that you can get anywhere, but the special colors that are impossible to get except in Japan."

Special colors? Can normal people see these special colors? We went to Cheban, who explains, "The colors do exist in a rainbow, except it's a rainbow that exists only over Japan."

Ah. Obviously. And so to explain it would be impossible, like explaining the color blue to a blind man.

His T-Shirts Made Him a Star [NJ.com]

I'm such a fool. When tinfoil hat-wearing publicist Jonathan Cheban sent me a bag of overpriced goodies from his Clarendon line, I thought it meant something. I thought I was SPECIAL, you know? Ha, well, stupid me! I should've known; you fuckers are all the same. Thanks a lot, jerk.
[Images via JJB]

I was sure I'd paid a lifetime's worth of journalistic dues after spending a strange Sunday evening with the inanely chipper celebu-lurker/frozen-food-flack Jonathan Cheban (despite the shiny hair, we're still pretty sure he's the fourth horseman of the publicist apocalypse). But once I received a package chock full of Cheban's Clarendon shirts (sized to fit), I realized the public deserved more. You're hungry. You know you want it, so please feast your eyes upon Cheban's designs, as worn by anonymodel Greg. We're sure you'll see plenty more of these spectacularly pricey cotton threads during Fashion Week, no?

You know there's a story behind this; wherein I went to dinner with the Publicist of Doom and told him to his face why he was not particularly popular.

It was random but not entirely unexpected: Jonathan Cheban, my super-favoritest publicist, wanted to meet me and, as such, our mutual acquaintances arranged a group dinner last night. Was this to be a peacekeeping mission? Was Cheban attempting to humanize himself to me? Or had he merely heard that I was hungry and in need of overpriced food from above 14th? I m a curious person, so I agreed—but not without spending quality time with some Corona before I headed out.

My plan was to get to the restaurant early enough to hit the bar before Cheban arrived. But, as I walked into Mr. Chow (it s amazing how going 60-odd blocks uptown simultaneously sends one back in time), I immediately ran into Jonathan Cheban at the coat check. He s exactly as I imagined: thin, shiny hair, wearing a t-shirt of his own design and two pieces of lightweight bling around his neck. He gave me a warm smile and offered to check my coat with his. I have your coat ticket now, you can t escape, he said. Touch , Cheban, touch .

Here's why we kind of feel momentarily sorry for Cheban: he gets prank-called a lot. Someone even called his mother in the wee hours of the morning and claimed it was Lizzie Grubman. Madame Cheban, being half-asleep and not really thinking, assumed it was indeed Lizzie and gave the caller Cheban s Sidekick number. This Lizzie-imposter has been calling Cheban ever since, claiming they met at The Marquee. During the course of dinner, Cheban ignored five or so calls from this prankster. Out of curiousity, I answered the sixth call. It's "Mandy Moore," the caller said. I was feeling tired, so I hung up on her.

Things were predictably awkward; The Chebs ordered for all of us while I pathetically begged two different waiters for a gin and tonic. We made small talk, and I learned a lot. Cheban wanted to walk out during The Aviator. Cheban promoted Lean Cuisine at Sundance and got a free pair of Timberland boots. Cheban went to an awesome restaurant in Atlanta. Cheban wants a Gawker t-shirt. All the while, his T-Mobile sidekick and Motorola cell phone sat prominently on the table. I put my cell phone out on the table too, in an attempt to gently mock Cheban, but he didn t notice. The food arrived; each new dish, according to Cheban, is the best ever.

We finally got to the inevitable discussions: Jonathan claimed that he s not capitalizing on his famous friends, that at the end of the day he s working hard to make sure Evian or whatever is merely AT the club where said famous friends will be. I politely explained to him that he is loathsome because he s a very public publicist who apparently revels in his connections, as if it were a gold medal of shit. He seemed to understand but still insisted that he s not a schmoozer. This, of course, left me wondering why we were having dinner.

Having done some work for VH1 myself, I asked Cheban what he thought about his recent ousting from the network's roster of talking heads. "They knew I was working for Evian," he claimed. When I mentioned that both he and I had taped for another, yet-to-air special, he joked, "I bet I was cut from that, too!" "Actually, you were," I replied. "I talked to the producer."

Cheban was cheerily nervous about what I would write and made sporting jokes about his suicide watch intensifying with this piece's publication. When photo time hit, Cheban expressed concern that I would frown or make a nasty face. He insisted that I give him approval over which image I used, but the one we agreed on is still less than perfect; Cheban felt that his jacket looked as if it were choking him.

At the end of the meal, The Chebs paid (to slight protestation) and offered all of us a ride home. I was hesitant (would Lizzie be waiting to attack me in the car?), but I couldn't put up a fight and, more importantly, I wanted to see his car, in hopes that it was a bulletproof Yukon or Range Rover. We walked down the street to his Mercedes SLK (disappointingly black); on the way, Jonathan identifies a patch of ice where, earlier in the evening, he slipped and fell. The ride home was quick ("This car has a little pep," he said) and, as Jonathan dropped me off, he asked for my address. He s going to mail me t-shirts from his line, which I will no doubt wear to The Star Room.