Unspeakable perverts and frightening hippies will be disappointed to hear there was no spread-eagle shot of little Solveig crowning, but everything else is legit enough to turn horny teens off sex forever, if only because the phrase "birth livestream" is really starting to gross me out. Lynsee is strangely placid as the baby is emerging (apparently she got an epidural), but then the nurse plops a scrunchy-faced Solveig—covered in the chunky white goo-matter I am told is de rigeur for the miracle of life—onto her chest, and the presence of a multi-limbed being that was, until mere moments ago, thrashing around her vagina totally freaks her out. Anyway, here's the video. The excitement starts around 8:30.

And thus, with a grunt, a shriek, and an unceremonious plop, sticky little Solveig outdid every single oversharing ego-blogger on the planet in the first five seconds of her life. Congrats, Solveig, you are the Miracle Baby of Generation TMI. I'd say you'll never live this down, but Spencer Pratt skipped his vasectomy and Nadya Suleman's always a wildcard, so don't count your nanny cam endorsements, just yet.

UPDATE: I— oh my god— apparently witnessing the miracle of Solveig's birth answered none of my questions about how babies are made, because this post originally identified Solveig as a boy. But Solveig is a girl. All I can say is, as soon as this child learns how to type her name into a search engine, she's totally screwed. At least she's adorable?

Correction: Lynsee and Anders' last name is not Gannett. They've released this video, but not their last names. Sorry about that.

Heavens knows what they would think if Stewart just transmitted their intimate off-camera comments to the entire world. The likes of Snoop Dogg might not trust her with their deepest secrets anymore. No, better to keep the Martha Stewart Twitter an occult bible of hellish fire pits opening on the surface of the Earth. Douglas can keep hawking TwitterWit, his printed collection of amusing tweets; Stewart seems more likely to buy — or publish — something along the lines of TwitterWoe.

The whole thing started with a "tough-love" conversation between Allison and her high school boyfriend Dan, which included observations like the following:

You’re running a business that’s based on selling you as a product. But you’re not a product, you’re a person...

I feel like the Julia that’s on your blog, of all the faces of you, this is the worst. And I’ve seen you at your worst. I feel like this is the result of you being overexposed and burned out by having been slammed so hard. But it’s also a product of your social environment, which I have to say, I find absolutely appalling.”

...At the scariest moments in your life, you’re going to be alone. And then you’re going to have to ask yourself, am I really a success? Am I proud of myself? There’s so much more to that than whether your business succeeds, than whether you’re rich or not. It’s about being a good friend, a good parent, a good family member.”

We know all this, by the way, because while Dan was telling Julia about how dangerous it is to securitize her life on an oversharey blog, Allison raced to grab a pen and write everything down so she could publish the phone conversation on her oversharey blog.

Which is just the sort of predictable commitment to shareholder value (and distraction) this economy needs right now! Don't ever change, Julia. (No seriously, we'll downgrade your overshares or something.)

(Pictured: Allison cozying up to that other self-inflated personal media brand, Martha Stewart, via Mary Rambin.)

[Julia Allison, Megan Asha]

Notice the last line there, "I miss you bug."

Sure, that could be Moore. But maybe it's Courtney Love, or Frances Bean Cobain, and Adams is about to pay both of them back and apologize WHILE HE STILL CAN (i.e. before Love stabs him to death). Stranger things have happened! (Disclaimer: A stranger thing has never happened.)

[Ryan-Adams.com]

Salkin's story on the hot ukulele trend is out, and fits perfectly in his oeuvre. His past investigations have exposed chicks who eat meat, revealed how no one goes on vacations any more, and uncovered prepsters who hang out downtown—as well as their rival hipsters who hang out in Atlantic City.

We're now prepared to reveal Salkin's journalistic method to the public: He solicits you to hang out with him in casual settings and mines you for minutiae, which he then seasons with his patented significance-inflating sauce:

"I see you're no vegetarian!"

"Downtown is getting so preppy."

"Can you believe my dumbass roommate bought a ukulele?"

Lately I've been tying my shoelaces inside the shoe, to prevent those floppy strings on the outside. Others in Brooklyn are doing the same. Call me, Allen.

[NYT]

Salkin is the Times style reporter who is seemingly responsible for chronicling every (fake) microtrend making the rounds of a certain NYC subculture. He's written about women who eat red meat on the first date, Paul Sevigny's quest to turn Atlantic City into a chic nightlife destination, and how nobody takes vacations any more. Savvy readers will also remember that it was Salkin who in January explored the question, "Has Gawker Jumped The Snark?" (GET IT?)—just as the site was hiring some of the top 20 most mind-blowingly awesome staff members in its history.

With his finger on the pulse of culture, it's natural that Salkin has a wide, hungry fan base. So he has a Yahoo group called "Salkin Stories" that sends out a newsletter so you can keep up with all his important doings! Daily Intel has his latest message (which they note "goes out to a lot of people, many who don't actually know Salkin"), and there are some things you won't want to miss:

1/ Olympics. Due to job and family responsibilities, the folks who were to join me in Beijing for the Olympics can not come. What this means is I have face-value tickets to numerous events and a FREE PLACE TO STAY for a few people. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. All you have to do is get yourself to Beijing. This will be my 7th Olympics and I have done all the hard work of ordering tickets nearly two years in advance and securing a place to stay. I did an apartment swap for my place in New York, so I have a place for free in Beijing.

Say no more, Allen! I am so there.

Closer to home, it’s time to continue the tour of NYC BBQ joints, this time with a trip to the much lauded Fette Sau in Williamsburg. Deal is there are outdoor picnic tables which fill up tres fast, so we need to get there early. I will be arriving around 6pm and would like you there not long after that (but if you want to come and maybe have to sit elsewhere, can come til 7). Let me know asap if you can come, so I can get a head count. We had about 15 people last time (at RUB) and it was great (although Hill Country’s Q was much better, meat-taste-wise).

I sincerely hope that with the help of Gawker readers you can beat that record this time, Allen!

He goes on to fill us in about an article he wrote in HEEB, all his stories in the Times, another story his friend is working on, and throws in an urgent request for any ukulele players to contact him. Okay!

And he has his own website, where he gives a brief rundown of the wild life led by a man named Allen Salkin:

Allen Salkin cast industrial films in Hong Kong, wholesaled rubber duckies in Las Vegas, picked oranges in Crete, peddled oil paintings door-to-door in Western Australia, penned stories for New York Magazine, Details, Heeb, Yoga Journal, The Village Voice and other venues, taught Journalism at NYU and MediaBistro.com, and wrote the book "Festivus: The Holiday for the Rest of Us." He is a staff reporter at The New York Times.

See you all at Fette Sau.

[Daily Intel; pic via January Magazine]