I mean, yes, one of the major conceits of Entourage is that it is an inside look at Hollywood, which is full, duh, of celebrities. But it's begun to feel like a desperate stunt to mask the show's flailing quality level. Trotting out Tony Bennett, Giovanni Ribisi, and series exec-producer Mark Wahlberg in one episode? Too much distraction from an already cobbled-together plot. Especially that Wahlberg bit, which was self-deprecating in a kind of depressing way. A show like Gossip Girl has placed its handful of cameos more sparingly. The Jay McInerney and Tinsley Mortimer bits were wry winks to its New York audience base. Entourage's used to be the same way—an occasional "look who's willing to make fun of themselves" or "look how silly LA is" kind of thing. Lately though they come off as slathering over-showmanship. Kind of like Ari's swearing and Turtle's horniness and Drama's now-cartoonish buffoonery, come to think of it.

In Which Blood Bubbles Up Through The Cracks Of New York City Streets
Real Housewives of New York City is not new. It premiered to horrified lookers on last year, its particular brand of gonzo nouveau riche tackiness eventually wooing viewers close to its leathery bosom. Now it's filming again, with a new "housewife" called Kelly Killoren Bensimon who films little internet movies with famous people in the Hamptons. No word yet on when the new season will begin but, again, they are filming. A tipster tells us: "I live VERY close to Alex and Simon of Real Housewives (I see them daily) and they were filming ALL weekend. I was most excited to see Jill Zarin there, happily chatting with Alex. I noted that Alex changed her outfit multiple times over the course of a day. Simon enjoys smoking outside with the crew."

In Which The Blood Seeps Under Doors, Into Homes and Shops, Threatening to Drown Small Dogs and Children
We warned you about this long ago, and now it seems to have become a reality (hardee harrr). Whitney Port, the dove-eyed and ghostlike silent observer from MTV's Los Angeles dream ballet The Hills, is currently working for the tremendously scary fashion PR guru Kelly Cutrone, which brings her and her cameras! to New York City. Yes, she's filming a show, rumored to be called The City, about her trials and travails in this biggest of rotten crab apples. Joining her on the carefully moderated ride will be Olivia Palermo, the confusing socialite who does something having to do with fashion sometimes. Fellow socialite Inevitably Emily Brill does not approve. Palermo's people have denied her involvement, but The Brills seems fairly convinced that she is. Sigh.

In Which The Blood Gets In the Elevator Of the Empire State Building and Lurches, Ominously, To the Top
As reported earlier by the Guest of a Guest, a new show called Social Heights will soon be leaving us bleary eyed and irrationally afraid of door knobs and streetlamps. It's to star various society types like socialgay and PR ninny Kristian Laliberte and friend of reality-TV hating Emily Brill Devorah Rose. Ms. Brill was approached at one point to be on this show, formerly titled 10021, but she eventually turned it down. The ins and outs of getting this stupid thing off the ground are probably more "interesting" than any of the tiresome plotlines the producers could ever hope to come up with. Either way, fellow socialgay Micah Jesse sits in a corner and sulks.

In Which the Blood Oozes Out of the Elevator and Precariously Close to the Edge...
We just don't really know what's going on with Julia Allison's reality show. The former Star editor-at-large and current fancy apartment-haver and her two Weird Sister buddies, "tech geek" Megan Asha and Fulbright scholar Mary Rambin, recently started NonSociety, an internet amalgamation of their Tumblr musings and various photo and video diary entries. Supposedly this is all being turned into a reality show for Bravo, which may or may not be subsidizing Ms. Allison's apartment. It's all terribly confusing and I'm not really sure these girls are actually considered "socialites," but whatever; they're pretty and have money and people seem to sorta pay attention when they do things. Again, sigh.

In Which the Blood Spills Over, Set to Rain Down and Destroy the City's Populace, Until a Bright Yellow Umbrella Catches It All and Protects Us Forever
Tinsley Mortimer and her indefatigable (if exasperated) housekeeper Guadalupe get a reality show in which they putter around the house and say funny things, Tinsley tells long rambling stories to the camera, and they go on various car trips. In one episode they go to Vermont to "see the exfoliage" as Tinz puts it, and she ends up getting stuck in an apple tree. The credits roll while Guadalupe pokes at the tree with a stick, trying to shake the socialite and handbag designer loose. (OK, so this one is made up. But it would be amazing, I think. You know, if Guadalupe existed. Get on it, Tinsley!)

"These girls who want to be called handbag designers, they're basically expressing their sense that they're not taken seriously because they're called socialites," said... David Patrick Columbia, the editor of the New York Social Diary website... "And, you know, they're not."

For Devorah Rose, editor-in-chief of Social Life magazine, being known as a socialite is a mixed blessing.

"Anyone who's not a celebrity, who's being photographed going out, becomes a socialite," Rose told Reuters. "Because it's not exclusive anymore, nobody wants to be a socialite."

Sorry, Reuters: Writing about how socialites have these basically fake businesses is not business news.

But you can maybe pass it off as that. If you don't mind feeling like one of those society gossips who puts on Wall Street airs (just read a good article about those gals).

[Reuters]

"Well it was a happy time because I had just found the old shoe I thought I lost and Guadalupe was mad at me because she said "Meez Tinsley ju are never pooting things a-way when I am asking you!" and so I ran out of the house and down the street and into the park and I climbed a hill and poked at the dirt with sticks for a while and looked for bugs. I didn't find any bugs because they were probably mad at me too so I left the park and ate some pizzapie and it got all on my shirt so I cried a little bit and then I went to see the Little Mermaid in Broadway and it looked like my feelings! So that made me feel better and I went home and curled up outside Guadalupe's door and in the morning she wasn't mad anymore and she made me cereal and she was humming her nice little back-home song and it was sunny and there were birds so I felt better and then the TV called and asked me to be on it so I said 'Yes I will Go!' and so I went to the beach house and they moved me in front of a movie camera and I said a few things and then it was over. Oh but I forgot the best part, when I got to the beach house I was rooting around in the old lobster traps that are under the porch and I found my shoe in one of them! Guadalupe was very happy and patted my head and said 'I will geev it a wash.' And then she made me a lemonade and sent me out to the porch to watch the seaside and I did and I drank the lemonade and looked at the ocean and I thought of the Little Mermaid and how it was sad that she didn't like where she lived or the people she lived with because I do, very much, every day."

• Madonna heard about her brother Christopher Ciccone's tell-all book, so she emailed him "Call me." He was all, "Hello? I don’t respond to commands anymore." Besides, writing the book "was like a giant fucking orgasm." [Observer]
• The (supposed) backstory on the Christian Bale assault investigation: He was depressed about the death of Heath Ledger, and exhausted from the movie, and his Mom said "some very outrageous things about him, and his wife," according to a Mail source. Bale yelled at her but didn't touch her or the wife, supposedly. Bale also reportedly lashed out recently on the set of Terminator 4.
• Lorne Michaels, the Saturday Night Live producer, won an initial court decision against a man who keeps trying to contact him because the Long Island man claims Michaels is eavesdropping on his private conversations, "singing and/or other utterances." [Post]
• Socialites Tinsley and Topper Mortimer might get to join the very exclusive Southmampton Bathing Competition. It was in Bonfire of the Vanities and everything! Think good thoughts, so that the Tinz and her sis might some day be cordoned off from rabble like yourself. [Observer]
• Banking heir Matthew Melon promised, in writing, to pay his girlfriend and business partner $1 million if he ever did cocaine again. Now, of course, they've broken up and she's trying to enforce the contract. He was definitely high at some point! [P6]
• Actor Balthazar Getty acknowledged that he has separated rom his wife, in case the pictures of him groping Sienna Miller topless weren't confirmation enough. [P6]
• Lauren Conrad was two hours late to a paid appearance, even though there was a helicopter to ferry her to the party. [P6]
• Here's a picture of Matthew McConaughey's brand new baby. [OK!]

• Sad Anne Hathaway had been shopping for homes with her scummy Italian boyfriend Rafaello Follieri right before the movie starlet finally realized she had to dump the loser. She told InStyle, for next month's issue: "If we get a house as opposed to an apartment, the first two floors will be a bit more traditional for him to be able to receive people, and the top two floors will be whatever I want." [P6]
• Socialite Tinsley Mortimer's Gossip Girl cameo was in an all-white party scene. Apparently "it was like a virginal reference not a reference to Puffy." [Observer]
• Like Sean Avery, tennis star Anna Kournikova would like to work for Anna Wintour at Vogue. Unlike Avery, she made the mistake of putting the editrix at number FIVE on her list of the 10 people she'd most like to work for, post-tennis. [P6]
• The corporate infighting over Madonna's $120 million Live Nation has already begun. Looks like there may be layoffs. [Post]
• Rapper DMX may lose a townhouse because he didn't promote a line of "urban doggie wear" as promised. The dog-gear company hooked up with DMX after hearing his gravelly voice in public service announcements he made about pets. It turns out DMX was ordered to make those ads after being found guilty of cruelty to his own 14 pit bulls. [Post]
• Heather Locklear checked into rehab for athlete's foot or something. Seriously, though: For "psychological treatment." Everyone is pulling this "rehab-but-not-for-drugs" stunt now. What does rehab even MEAN any more? [OK!]
• Stable for several months now, Britney Spears finally gets to have her kids over for sleepovers again. [TMZ]

If you put Blair and Serena together, you get Tinsley Mortimer. Tinsley's hair is always set and she always looks perfect, but she takes risks. We also incorporate Arden Wohl's downtown doyenne look—headbands, floral dresses, and chunky shoes.

As for the Gossip boys, socialite Derek Blasberg was the paradigm with his bow ties, classic squares, and sneakers. We were worried whether Middle America would get it, but then we saw a teenage boy—a fan hoping to catch a glimpse of the cast—waiting outside The Palace Hotel for hours wearing Chuck's signature J. Press scarf, so clearly people relate.

On her outfit for the evening:

I thought, I need to wear a lot of color. I'm sick of it being freezing. It's been teasing me every day. And now it's freezing again, though it wasn't the day before.

I'm obsessed with everything in here. I want it all. I like the Japanimation sculptures, those anime creatures come to life. I love Japanimation. I love Sailor Moon. She, like, spins and glows light or something.

Wow. I'm sure there's not. But I'd definitely like to have some superpower. Maybe I could snap my fingers and be instantly dressed in a pink poofy dress, and my hair would be automatically curled, since it's naturally straight. Snap my fingers and my hair would be curled. That's a great superpower. It might not change the world, but it would help me a lot. The hair takes some time.

I went outside yesterday and I was very tired but also happy because I could see a cloud that looked like my old hamster, Tim Daniels. He was named after one of daddy's tennis friends who liked to go see musicals and sometimes he would take me and Dabney to get ice cream cones and I'd always spill but Tim Daniels would say it's ok. He had a nice friend that he lived with named Arthur Meckleburg. We named our iguana Arthur Meckleburg. I was looking at the cloud for a while and then Guadalupe said 'Meez Tinsley, you have been outside for hours!' So I laughed and she made me some fishsticks and then I cried for a while and then she taught me how to do her Mexi-Dancing. It was a great birthday.

(OK, that last one's not real.)

beefer's new line beats the original, "I Took the Yellow Choo-Choo Here. Did You Know I Walk Like This? I Do. I Just Sort Of Hop Around With My Legs Crossed. Like An Angry Bunny. I Made This Out of My Dad's Coffee Things. Is The Choo-Choo Man Still Staring?"

When I heard that I was doing a reality show I was lying in my bathtub on the third floor wearing my rain slicker and thinking about sea lions. One time at the Sea World zoo I got in a fight with a sea lion because he was very mean to me and I don't like that. I think that must be why I wanted to do a reality show, you know? So people will be nice to me who aren't Guadalupe (she made me tacos today with peanut butter and jelly in them and they were sooo good!) I wonder if Kristian will help me with the reality show because he is a gay person and they know a lot about TV shows and unicorns. But he is probably busy with his work with the beep boops down at the Port Authority. I would like a unicorn. Do you know what time it is? I think it's midnight. I miss the bathtub.

Like it or not, the holidays are upon us. I'm sure when you were stumbling home in the wee morning hours of November 1st in your slutty Madeline Albright costume, you saw the shopkeepers ripping down witches and vampires and putting up pictures of a fat old man who breaks into your house and tries to woo your children with toys. But there's also that other holiday in between, that one dedicated to an afternoon spent face-down on the shag carpet, woozy from tryptophan and big-bottle wine. A time when you listen to and look at your family and wonder "Who are these people??" I was thinking about this the other day and, in the immortal words of Mr. Ed: later that night, I got to thinking. I've decided we'll have a new Thanksgiving. A Gawker Thanksgiving. It's so corny! I know! But, I get sentimental this time of year.

So. How will this work? I think we'll start with the location. Naturally Laurel Touby, founder of MediaArby's, will be our "cyber hostess." (Ugh.) We'll all meet sometime around noon. Julia Allison will bring her darling dog Lilly and Jakob Lodwick will bring his darling fashion lenses. Tinsley Mortimer will arrive wearing an old, soiled Santa suit and just blink confusedly at everyone. (She'll disappear for much of the night, only to be found in the backyard, stuck in a bear trap.) Kristian Laliberte will arrive with his new boyfriend, Elijah Pollack. They'll be so in love! (Later, during dinner, Anna Wintour will lean in close, her breath reeking of gin and clamato juice, purring into your ear "Aren't they just divine together? They're like Paul Newman and Katherine Ross in Butch Cassidy. Except, you know, gay and, um, young.") John Fitzgerald Page will come crashing through the foyer in his Beemer, Eiffel 65's "Blue" blasting loudly, and shove a sweaty bucket of fried chicken into Laurel's hands. Then, just as we think all the guests have arrived, we'll hear a strange hum, a demonic orchestra tuning. As the whole house rumbles, Sean Hannity will shriek, jumping up and down and clapping his hands, "Rupey is here!" Mr. Murdoch will disembark his flaming humpback whale nuclear stagecoach and shove a sweaty Judith Regan into Laurel's feather boa.

James Lipton will utter a dinner bell clarion call from deep within his diaphragm, and all the guests will be seated at the long oak table. There will be a beautiful centerpiece fashioned out of the rawhide remains of Jocelyn Wildenstein's face. The feast will consist of many bottles of Coppola Vineyards wine, PinkBerry soufflés, and turducken. Robert Olen Butler will be the first to get drunk and hurl recriminations at people. "Elizabeth!!" he'll shout across the table at Jann Wenner, "No one poops in South America! It wasn't a sign! It was nature!!" Chris Crocker will defuse the awkward situation by stripping down to his skivvies and doing an old-style fan dance/Britney Spears hyper-sexual mash-up that erotically incorporates Janet Robinson's famous green bean casserole. ("It's the fried onions that really make it work," he'll say in a post-performance YouTube interview with himself.)

Once all are sated and sufficiently boozed up, plates will be cleared by Laurel's faithful butler, Neel Shah. Then, it's on to charades! Mandy Stadtmiller will start. She will pantomime long walks on beaches and summers spent murmuring on porch swings about the big, bright future. In mere seconds team partner Alyssa Shelasky will shriek "SuperPreppy!!" Commenter KarenUhOh, who has been quietly assessing the legal ramifications of all this, will dryly deadpan: "I thought the category was real people." Mandy will run out of the room weeping and farting, having had her hideous secret revealed. Graydon Carter will be next. He will act out a strange series of lilts and affectations, and Lizzie Grubman will yell with delight "Spike! Spike! It's your little fey creature of a son!" A few more rounds will come and go, and of course it will end in a tie and all will be smugly satisfied with their own accomplishments.

The rest of the evening will be devoted to that most revered and corny of Thanksgiving traditions, the actual giving of thanks. The list of thanks will be long and varied. Selected highlights will be:

Tionna Tee Smalls: The film Ishtar
NewToJezebel: Jewish people.
Jeffrey Epstein: Those High School Musical: The Ice Tour tickets he managed to score.
Christopher Hitchens: Religion and Bic razors.
Atoosa Rubenstein: The well-meaning gypsies who style her and, in a bold extension of an olive branch, the Omega Kitties.
Senator Larry Craig: Feet, and a willful spirit.
Josh Schwartz and the rest of the Gossip Girl team: Blacks and Asians.

And, finally, the yoga stick of thanks will be passed to yours truly. And your friend LolCait will say this:

"I find the word 'thanks' inadequate, or even inappropriate. 'Thanks' implies expectation, a resigned 'Phew! Of course these good things were coming after all.' So I'm not thankful, I'm grateful. Things of late seem pretty awful and, truth is, I've Done Nothing During The War, and yet some good things keep coming to me. Six months into my participation in this bizarre social experiment, it is quite baffling to have found both silly entertainment and keen insight on this most cold and unfeeling internet. So I am grateful for a strange new home, for precarious new friendships."

All will be quiet for a moment, and then I will fall down, completely drunk. I will be scooped up by the ever-friendly Josh Ferris (swoon!) and taken from the room.

The night will end as nights do, with sloppy hugs and prolonged, slurred goodbyes. Dear James Kurisunkal will be passed out in the broom closet, spooning a snoring Spencer Pratt, who will still be in his 'Vincent from the Beauty and the Beast television series' Halloween costume. (Or is it a costume??) Ira Glass will dejectedly try to coax Merry Miller into his cab. The Gawker editors will wander off into the night, a bottle of champagne shared between them (with a pour to the sidewalk, remembering Balks, Shafrirs, Spiers, Oxfelds, and others long gone.) Nick Denton will open his umbrella and float whimsically away into the purple night sky. And I will ramble off, thinking of puns and light bulb jokes for the next week. But, before I turn the corner, I will feel a tap on my shoulder. "Don't be alarmed," a voice will say. "It's only me, Douglas." I'll messily grin at him, this most famous of Queens landlords, and say "Oh Douglas. I'm not alarmed. I'm just grateful... Just wonderfully, queasily grateful."

Douglas will shrug his shoulders and walk away, headed off to yuk it up with Michelle and Emily, happy to have been included at all.

"Who are all those strange people?" Patrick Moberg will ask as he stands on the stoop and watches this all unfold. "I don't know," his new wife Camille will respond, robotically petting his arm.

"I've only just met them."

Appearances can be deceiving. The book we were celebrating, 'Miss Education', isn't about tennis lessons at all. It's much more Francesca Lia Block than 'Gossip Girl,' full of sentences like "Parker in black and white Adidas high tops with the gold tongue and a raccoon coat she found in her basement. Blue with no jacket and no hat, just I Ching cards stuck into the spokes of his wheel. They ride, speeding and skittering on the icy shoulder of the highway, occasionally letting out a full-moon howl for the hell of it. Dangerous, and alive."

Likewise, you'd expect Soapnet's "Fashionista Diaries" starlet Bridget Helene to be shoving herself in front of the cameras all the time and reticent in front of someone who writes for a website, but: No. She stood at the corner of the bar, away from the flashbulbs, and expressed relief that the show was over. Now, she can live wherever she wants. "During the show, we had to live on Canal Street, and that was horrible. I mean, it was up high, so you couldn't smell or hear anything. But as soon as you'd come out onto the street, there would be, like, 1000 Chinamen— 'Prada!' 'Gucci!' Hey, is that Russian Navy by O.P.I. nailpolish? That is my absolute favorite," she said.

It was.

Publicist Kristian Laliberte came late to the party in a designer bomber jacket bearing the legend "John Lennon Loves On" and eyeliner. He's not eating carbs right now. I asked him to introduce me to his friend Tinsley Mortimer but he demurred. "Things are a little dicey with Tinsley right now, because of Peter [Davis]," he whispered.

So I went over to Tinsley's rarefied corner of the room alone, feeling as if I was bringing my lunch tray to the popular kids' table uninvited.

Her blonde ringlets shone in the bar's semidarkness, and her eyes registered nothing more than mild confusion when I told her why I'd come. Her tiny nostrils and her long black lashes fluttered as she spoke, and her voice was deliciously husky and just the tiniest bit Southern-accented.

Tinsley was happy to hear that someone had enjoyed the recent Styles profile of her relationship with her husband Topper, who she first married when she was 18. That bond was annulled, and the two were later remarried at a in a more socially acceptable way at a more socially acceptable age. Still: Romantic!

"Well, I feel like I might be really cheesy to say this, but you have to fight for love. You have to do whatever is necessary! I feel like people are too scared to say, 'I'm crazy about you! I'm obsessed with you! But when you feel that way, you should go for it, absolutely,' Tinsley said, widening her already-wide eyes.

It must be hard, though, to have been with the same person for so long, from such a young age. Seriously: Eighteen!

"Well, yeah," she said, "I mean, Topper was my first sexual experience! Sorry! Too much information?"

No, Tinsley. That is the exact perfect amount of information.

"But he'd been with other girls... I mean, he'd gotten it out of his system." She smiled. "I'm so glad I've never had to be single in this city. My sister-in-law is single, and it sounds awful!"

Oh, it is. But being in a long relationship with someone with whom one no longer has anything in common is worse.

"But I feel like it's actually really important to have separate lives, and that's what keeps your relationship strong in the long run," Tinsely said. "Most of all, you have to believe in love."

As he was slightly in his cups, Mr. Mortimer was quick to begin his indictment of the charity circuit. "What I'm saying is, I want to see some results from all these benefits," he said. "Do you think any of these people would be involved if they didn't get credit for it?"

But even though Tinsley comes across in this article, as usual, as a caricature of herself—"she arrived for an interview with a stack of press clippings and photographs of Graymont, the large house she grew up in. ("Because, you know, there are rumors that my father was like 'a carpet salesman,' and actually it's a family-owned carpet-manufacturing company.")—the Mortimers appear to have met cute and to... love each other?

Or he loves her, at least. On their introduction at boarding school: "It was a snowfall and she was walking across the campus with a couple of her friends and I just grabbed her and threw her in a snowbank. Anyway, that was my approach. She didn't like it but she was laughing so hard she couldn't breathe." And:

"I adore her," he said, affecting reluctance. She made a pouting face and said, "Adore me, Topper." "I don't care what anyone else thinks," he said. "If you want to live a certain way, I love you the same. I'll still be here."