When Dante talks about the Inner Ring of the Seventh Circle of the Inferno, I believe he was referring to something resembling the above photograph. Ughh.

So, yeah: 3,000 people show up to a Long Island mall for a signing this kid's having at an Abercrombie Kids. Madness breaks out, people have to go to the hospital, they've now pressed charges against a senior V.P. at Island-Def Jam for not Tweeting the cancellation of his appearence. Seriously.

Police arrested a senior vice president from Bieber's label, Island Def Jam Records, James A. Roppo, 44, of Hoboken, N.J., saying he hindered their crowd-control efforts by not cooperating. He was in custody Friday night, pending charges that could include criminal nuisance, endangering the welfare of a minor and obstructing government administration, Smith said. "We asked for his help in getting the crowd to go away by sending out a Twitter message," Smith said. "By not cooperating with us we feel he put lives in danger and the public at risk."

I wish cops would arrest me for not Twittering. Fantastic. Who's this kid again? He does this little song and dance:

Somehow, in this story, Usher is the Charlie to his, uh, "angelic teen dreaminess" or whatever, except why are teenage girls always crazy about teenage guys who look like girls? Maybe Zac Efron gets the exception card because he was in that Burr Steers movie with Matthew Perry, but still, like, the Carter Brothers? And they all act kinda hip hop-y [Except, again, for Efron: patterns!]. And early Justin Timberlake? And I mean, let's not even start on Hanson. The middle one? Are you kidding? Can someone please explain these things to me? Also, isn't the whole You + Me thing a bit tired? They should've really consulted MTV's in-house playbook before dropping that one.

Anyway, this kid, this 15 year-old Canadian kid, caused this scene:

Not exactly the reaction I had after the first time I saw the "You Oughta Know" video, but still, understandable on some level, right? WRONG. Because people were hurt. This is where G-12 Protests and Tiger Beat meet in the middle. I'm impressed, but also, kind of disappointed rubber bullets weren't at least threatened. Or even better: that they'd burn this entire Long Island mall's supply of Juicy Couture velour tracksuits. That would've stopped 'em dead in their tracks. Riot cops gotta pull out at least a few decent stops. Next time, call me. I know how to handle these things.

Anyway, a record exec is in jail—yay?—and a star is made, but whatever happened to the days when shit like this was all just A Hard Day's Night? He should learn, even though, apparently, the psychotic teen beasties of Long Island take a little more to be stopped than some clever hiding, in their great tradition of senseless consumer thuggery. Rage on, kids. Rage on.

Viva.

[Photo via HaveUHeard??]

Earlier: Oprah's Favorite Things 2007: The Audience Freaks Out!

1.) Martha Stewart Vs. Rachael Ray
Last night on Nightline, Cynthia McFadden tried to stir up shit between the two women.

2.) Martha Stewart Vs. Sarah Palin
But on the red carpet this week, Martha didn't need any encouragement to talk shit on Sarah.

3.) Piper Palin Child Beauty Queen
Earlier this week, I joked that Piper Palin was wearing so much makeup for Sarah's interview with Barbara Walters that she practically looked high glitz.

Later that day, Oprah's camera crew went to Wasilla to film the Palin family at home, where Piper was wearing a crown and a sash.

4.) Mother/daughter bonding

5.) The D.E.N.N.I.S. System
It's funny 'cause it's true.

6.) Crap letter from a dude
As featured on True Life: I Can't Leave My Boyfriend. The guy later came back to her apartment when she wasn't home, and stole all of her electronics and her dog.

7.) America's Next Top Amityville Horror
ANTM aired some never-before-seen moments, and I'd rather that this one had stayed unseen.

8.) Drunk idiots
The people on the Real World/Road Rules Challenge get so stupid drunk that they always end up fighting, and subsequently kicked off the show (whichseems to be their sole source of income). Brad started in with Darrell for no reason.

And then Darrell turned Brad into Quasimodo.

9.) Sewing with Nancy
Her awkwardness makes me uncomfortable.

10.) Stomache

The new $11 billion operating budget is actually just an ominous warning that in a year—or maybe a few months—the Transit Authority will once again cite the need to hike fares in order to strong arm Albany in finding a newer, more regressive way of funding operating costs.

They have basically promised it already:

In addition to the 2010 budget, the MTA released a four-year fiscal plan. It envisions 7.5% fare and toll hikes in 2011 and 2013 as the agency tries to establish a pattern of regular inflation-based increases.

There is really not so much inflation right now, in America, is there? (But who knows what the future holds!)

But, yes, it is insane that our mass transit is operated by a rotating cast of idiot millionaires with free E-Zpasses for life (and beyond!) beholden to absolutely no one, at all, operating with two sets of books, and yet we have to actually sympathize with them because the people who profit from the way an efficient mass transit system allows for the mobility of cheap labor don't think they should be forced to pony up any money to keep transit affordable. Fares are simply taxes—incredibly regressive taxes, just like the sales taxes that New York City residents suffer to fund our own transit while suburban New Yorkers bitch about the prospect of being charged to clog our streets with their cars, and Jersey dicks bemoan the tolls they have to pay to enter the city where they make all of their money while contributing nothing back.

Meanwhile, though, the MTA lies, about everything, all the time. They are saving just enough of the money from the emergency bailout earlier this year to allow them to not threaten to raise fares again for one (1) year (while fighting transit workers' promised wage increase in court). And thanks to that bailout, we only had to endure a slight fare increase with no service cuts! Except that not a single goddamn line is running on schedule anymore, ever, and that's been the case all year and it only gets worse every week.

Track and signal work must be up 1000% across the board, because there's hardly a line that isn't out of commission on the conveniently poorer or less utilizied portions of the routes these days. The F just gives up at Jay St now. The service advisories, when they are actually correctly posted, which is rarely, grow longer every weekend. If you live outside Manhattan, you better catch a train home before 11 pm, because otherwise who the fuck knows when a train will show up and where it will actually take you. Lord only knows what the hell the G train was doing last weekend, and why. Everyone, anecdotally, has noticed this. But no one has just straight-up said that these are the across the board service cuts that they promised they wouldn't need to institute once we saved them from disaster a few months ago.

It is time, now, immediately, to do a few things:

• To end the insane federal transit funding system that a) overfunds highways and b) dispenses capital project money for urban mass transit systems but forbids any federal spending on operating costs for cities of more than 200,000 people. The Reagan administration slashed mass transit funding, of course, but it was Mr. Bill Clinton who eliminated operating assistance altogether. Do you want to know about how much highway funding has increased over the same period of time? No, you don't. Real estate taxes and fares are not the proper way to fund the nation's largest subway system, especially when we will earmark federal cash for the Robert Byrd Memorial Frontage Road to the Erma Ora Byrd Conference and Learning Center and Community Swimming Pool.
• To destroy the MTA. The public authorities reform bill that just passed the Assembly is a wonderful start! But the entire board needs to be dissolved and replaced with, you know, actual subway riders, elitist technocrat transit wonks, and people with experience in government management and accounting. Civil servants, in other words.
• Everyone in Albany should be tarred and feathered. This is an important part of our prescription for any local problem.
• Also fuck Bloomberg.

Anyway! No fare increases until January 1, 2011! And some day—maybe in like 2015, when you ride the robot-operated Second Avenue line to your favorite soup kitchen—there may be those little signs that tell you when the next train is coming! This "install little signs" project is only a zillion dollars over budget (so far!).

That's right, last night during the disastrous season six finale, Lifetime announced that season seven will debut on the network the second week in January. It's a good thing too, because after this awful, rushed season, both Lifetime and Bunim/Murray, who produces the show, need to show that they can make a good season. Maybe season six was like the muslin version of a gown that a couturier makes so she can figure out what she's doing and next season will be the finished red-carpet ready product. Let's hope.

So, onto last night's finale. Irina, Althea, and Carol Hannah all showed their 13-look collections in Bryant Park during fashion week (way back in February). We actually found some things to love about it, but first:

Things We Hate:

• Crying: Everyone cried. Althea cried, Carol Hannah cried, Irina cried, Irina's parents cried, Tim Gunn cried into his handkerchief backstage that he still has three seasons left on his contract. Everyone cried except Cry-stopher, which was strange. We love drama, but all this excessive crying just makes us want to, well, weep.
• The Other Designers: We didn't even like Logan, Cry-stopher, and Gordana before they were kicked off, and we don't want to see them around again. They really had nothing to add. If the producers wanted to do something interesting, they would have brought back the first three designers kicked off. They all sucked! Imagine weeping Carol Hannah having to deal with Malvin of egg dress fame. Awesome.
• Cry-stopher's Eyebrows: While we're at it, let's talk about Cry-stopher some more, because his eyebrows were so drawn on, he looked like a third-rate drag queen doing an impersonation of Faye Dunaway as Joan Crawford, but without the camp. And why, for fuck's sake, didn't he go to the L'Oreal Paris Make Up room to have them at least draw them on symmetrically.
• Fake Introductions: We all know that the final collections were filmed back in February when the show was still embroiled in about 23 different lawsuits and they were trying to keep production details a big secret. All the press accounts of the runway show mention that the designers made no appearances at all. So, what was up with the fake introductions they each gave their collection? Did they assemble a faux audience and recreate the set and film the introductions then? Or did they do it later that day, but with a cast of extras instead of the general public and a bunch of media types? And did they think that we wouldn't notice?
• Irina Invented the Smokey Eye: It really irked us when Irina accused Althea of stealing her makeup scheme for the final show. As if she just heard what Irina wanted and copied her. Oh, because smudged makeup has never been done before ever in the history of fashion or the world. You made it up, Irina! We know you think otherwise, but you are not original. You didn't invent any of the ideas you have accused Althea of stealing. And all of fashion, like most other art, is about stealing and reappropriating anyway. And this coming from a girl who stole T-shirt designs—twice!
• Heidi's Pink Outfit: It wasn't as horrible as the pink ruffle shirt and sparkly biker shorts she wore earlier in the season, but it looks—as Ms. Kors would say—very mother of the bride. Actually we think Endora wore it to a wedding once on Bewitched.
• No Celebrities: We've said this before, but part of the move to L.A. was supposed to be about getting great celebs as guests and judges. Who do they get for the finale? Suzy Menkes! Who? Exactly. Suzy is great and all (see below), but in the past we had Parker Posey, Debra Messing, Posh Spice, people who have great style and a little bit of pizazz. Suzy has the cred and would have been a great replacement for one of the two frequent absentee judges this season, but she is no finale judge. And if you're going to have another horrible year in L.A., then we want to see some serious star wattage!
• Cohesion: Making a collection of clothes that has cohesion is kind of like creating a concept album—the only people who care about it are industry types. It's not like there are women marching around who buy entire collections or want all their clothes for a season to look like they "tell a story." When everyone is downloading singles, who cares how all the songs sound together on an album? "Cohesion" is some bullshit that the fashion industrial complex cooked up and holds designers to when no one else really cares about it. The only time it looks good is in the 20 minutes when everything walks down the runway.
• No Color: Would it have killed you guys to do something other than shades of drab? Your collections all looked about as washed out as Tim Gunn after three weeks of swine flu!
• Nothing Stands Out: After watching the finale last night, I was thinking about the ghosts of finales of seasons past. Remember Jay McCarroll's multicolored tier tatter dress, Chloe Dao's sculpted satin gem-tone sheath, Daniel V's brown dress with the little embellished flap on the boobs, Santino Rice's babydolls with the breasts flying about, Laura Bennet's glamorous bedazzling, Michael Knight's mess of an urban collection, Christian Siriano's brown and white ruffled ball, Chris March's dresses made of human hair, Jillian Lewis' knits with the poodle tail sleeves, Kenley Collin's retro gowns, and Leanne Marshall's waves? Remember those? I can recall each of those collections distinctly from memory. I couldn't even describe one thing I saw last night other than Irina's stupid hats and Carol Hannah's lilac buttplug dress. That makes me sad.

Things We Loved:

• Tim Gunn Freaking Out: Finally, all the stress of the shitty season got to Grampa Gunn and he snapped. Brilliant. More about it in the videos.
• Jaslene!: Our favorite moment of every television year is when there is complete trashy fashion reality show synergy and contestants from America's Next Top Model strut the runway on Project Runway. The only one we noticed last night was the Cha-Cha Diva herself (and one of our favorite Top Models ever) Jaslene Gonzalez. One is more than enough.
• Suzy Menkes: Now we feel a little bad for picking on Suzy Menkes, the legendary fashion journalist and International Herald Tribune fashion editor. It wasn't fair to not tell us who she is and put her in front of the camera with There's Something About Mary hair and a sparkly gold coat. Of course we were going to crack jokes. We know she is a great writer and deserves all of our respect, but had no clue what she looked like. It's not fair to put her out like that without an id. Don't do that to poor Suzy Menkes. Make her look good.
• Ari Fish's Look: Remember Ari? She was the first one kicked off this season. While Nicolas was at the runway show looking like Pudgy Kurt Cobain as always and Shirina was wearing some gypsy costume from last Halloween, Ari had totally reinvented herself. She looked like a cross between Isabella Blow and Boy George playing Leigh Bowery in Taboo. Genius!
• Nina Garcia Fashion Director of Marie Claire Magazine Hate's Irina's Collection: Did you see the stink eye that NGFDMCM gave Irina on the runway last night? When she saw that everything was black she said, "We talked about that," like she was the disappointed mother of a daughter who keeps wetting the bed. Then she told Irina that black never gets any editorial coverage. Looks like someone's spread in Marie Claire magazine will be begrudging.
• Lifetime's Commercials: Lady vitamins, pregnancy tests, fat Carrie Fisher, the horrible Georgia O'Keefe Paints Vagina Flowers Lifetime movie promos, cleaning products, tampons—this is what we had to endure being hawked during the commercial breaks, and it provided some wonderfully easy targets. Thanks Lifetime. Also, you made up for it with the trailer for The 12 Men of Christmas. Kristen Chenoweth starring in a movie about making a naked calendar with hot guys? Oh yes, my gay ass will be tuning in, without any irony and a big fat smile on my face.
• Michael Kors Says "Bravo Guys": Was it an intentional dig at Lifetime by bringing up the show's old network? We don't think so, but it was a perfect bitchy end to this horrible season.

So, in the end, as we accuately predicted Irina won for her crappy black collection with ugly hats. Rather than talk about the clothes, go watch the full collections in the videos. How quickly can we forget that this season ever happened? We hope it's sometime around Sunday afternoon, because we want to get back to loving Runway.

For the last time until 2010, let's sashay and chanter our way to the videos.

Meltdown of the Week
Context: Carol Hannah is sick and trying to finish her collection and snaps under the pressure. Thankfully Cry-stopher is there for a shoulder to cry on.
Vision: That she's not going to make it through, and that Cry-stopher and his eyebrows can help her.
Delusion: Of course she'll make it. She's a can-do kid. This was the one moment of real emotion we felt all season. She may not be the greatest designer, but this is a highlight of her young life, and to have it ruined by circumstances beyond her control really sucks. We're glad she made it work.
What Would Nina Say: "Get it togther!"
Dramometer: 10

Under the Gunn
Context: All the girls are late getting their models ready and Grampa Gunn freaks out. He does it in the same way that our high school Latin teacher, Sister Nicotena of the Holy Smoke, used to, where she barely raises her voice, but manages to shame everyone into submission and make them feel like 20,000 monkeys just took a shit on their heads.
Vision: That he can get these looks ready for the runway.
Delusion: The only way to make any of these models acceptable is if Gunn goes back and redesigns every collection himself.
What Would Nina Say: "You should have screamed louder."
Dramometer: 8

Althea's Collection
Context: Here is the finished product.
Vision: The future.
Delusion: There is nothing futuristic about any of these pieces. In fact, you can buy most of them right now at Express—on the sale rack.
What Would Nina Say: "I would put that suit in my magazine. But you won't let me, because you chose another winner."
Dramometer: 0

Carol Hannah's Collection
Context: Here are here 12 disparate looks. A couple of them we actually like.
Vision: Making a bunch of really great clothes, even if they are disconnected, will win the prize. Also, lilac buttplugs.
Delusion: That these fashion types don't care about "cohesion."
What Would Nina Say: "Can we take another look at Althea's?"
Dramometer: 0

Irina Won for This
Context: The most original collection ever on the face of the earth.
Vision: Black, black, black, brown, more black, and hats. It's like armor!
Delusion: The only thing we have to guard against is our eyes ever seeing something like this ever again.
What Would Nina Say: "All black will get no editorial coverage, even though my magazine is contractually obligated to cover it."
Dramometer: 0

There's backlash of course. This week programs across the network are creating stories that deal with environmental issues. Sure, the show complied (unplug your chargers and change your lightbulbs—servicey!), but not without biting the hand that feeds it.

First, Jack and Kenneth make fun of this silly little program. Sure, it reads as making fun of people who don't believe in global warming, but the show could have just made the directive to cut carbon emissions from GE headquarters instead of going the meta route and having a show about how NBC is making shows talk about environmental stuff.

When Kenneth goes into Jenna's dressing room to make her unplug her chargers, he comes armed with a silly pamphlet the network has put out. It features a quote from an actress who is barely known from a show that is barely on the air and with a bun that barely makes any sense. What a way to make fun of corporate propaganda.

Aside from Friday Night Lights we saw lots of making fun of other NBC shows last night, also getting hit were Heroes and The Cosby Show. At least the network is a good enough sport to give them clearance to dog on their shows.

And while we're at it, another observation: When did 30 Rock get so gay? Between Jenna's gaggle of gays, the funny gays in line at the Hugh Jackman event, and Liz's gay cop roommate this season has been mighty queer. It's like Cheyenne Jackson demanded the up they gay quotient by 15% before he would sign his contract.

Ok, now on to the final burn.

Freshman NYU ladies come running to windows of their dorm every time Jude Law comes out on his balcony. The reason for this, again: Jude Law lives in a condo with a balcony that is towered over by a dormitory full of 18 year-olds. He has not made friends with his neighbors, according to the NYP:

"He noticed we were there and we started waving at him. Then he went inside and came back with two oranges," freshman Neha Najeeb told The Post. "He threw them at our window, but he missed." Law then went back inside and returned with two additional oranges, she said.

In four tries, he landed two oranges on the windows next door. I see several problems here:

1. They don't play baseball in England. Try kicking the oranges next time, Jude. Heh.
2. Jude Law goes out on his balcony to exercise with a personal trainer, then gets upset when people look at him. Go to a gym, you bizarrely attractive yogi. Rich people seem to enjoy Equinox.
3. Look at these pictures of his totally comical workout outfit. Heh.
4. Just be thankful you're not located next door to a state school dorm, Jude Law. Your balcony would be covered in shattered beer bottles at all times. It's not as bad as you think. Your every move is an object of fantasy for dozens of young women, just enjoy it. God.

Vadim Ponorovsky, the owner of Paradou, a restaurant in the Meatpacking district, described on its website as a "light-filled, airy oasis... filled with warmth and charm," really REALLY wants waitstaff to collect email addresses from customers, presumably so he can spam them. Here's the happy, team-building email he sent out, from a tipster.

To All,

Please read this email carefully. This is the last time we will be discussing this.

This weekend, saturday and sunday we had 451 customers. Guess how many emails we collected? 60? 80? 40? No. None of those. We, or more acurately you, collected 2 emails. Thats less than half of one percent. 2 fucking emails.

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU ASSHOLES?!?!?! How many times do we have to tell you how important it is that you collect emails. Everytime we have a slow night and you make no money and you sit there bitching about how you make no money, remember its because youre fucking lazy motherfuckers. YOU SHOULD ALL BE FIRED IMMEDIATELY!!!!! ALL OF YOU, INCLUDING THE HOSTS!!!!

Let me guess, youre probably sitting there saying "Vadim is such a fucking asshole. How dare he speak to me like this. I dont need this." Youre right, you dont, so why dont you get the fuck out. Any and all of you.

Youre probably sitting there saying "How dare he speak to me like this. How dare he not have respect for me". Youre right there also. I have absolutely no respect for any of you. Why? Because every fucking day, all of you continue to show that you have absolutely no respect for me or Alex. So if you dont respect us enough to do the little that we ask you to do, then GET THE FUCK OUT YOU FUCKING LAZY DISRESPECTFUL ASSHOLES!!!!!

Effective immediately, any server or host who fails to collect at least 20 emails per week, will be fined $100. Anyone failing to collect at least 20 emails for two weeks in a month will be fired immediately. No matter what. No matter who you are.

You dont want to do your job, you dont want to do what we ask, you dont belong at Paradou. Go find another place to work.

How dare you disrespect Alex and me this way. How dare you completely ignore what we ask of you time after time after time.

I am sick of all this shit, you bunch of fucking children. This is what I have to deal with at 6AM?!?!? I wouldnt tolerate this from my 13 year old, and Im sure as shit not going to tolerate it from any of you assholes.

You give no respect, you get 10 times back.

Be nice to waiters people! Tip generously! Tell them they look nice! They have enough trouble. And sometimes they don't get even get paid.

UPDATE: Ponorovsky has explained the email to Daniel Maurer of New York Magazine's Grub Street (and also to Eater).

He did not respond to an email from us seeking comment. But to add to that defense here is a message he sent our tipster when he found out they'd forwarded his fiery missive.

If the people who work for me are not happy they can find employment elsewhere. I do not hide. I speak my mind. They get praise when they deserve it and they got this because they desrved it too. I have no time for your childish sniping. And if anyone on my staff feels that they need you to defend them, they've chosen very poor champions.

Now please kindly go fuck yourselves or each other

The man does have a gift for profanity.

Jefferson City, MO police say that 15-year-old Bustamante confessed to the gruesome murder of 9-year-old Elizabeth Olten, whose throat was slashed and who endured multiple stab wounds; that Bustamante planned the crime in advance; that she hid the body; and that, as the Associated Press summarizes, she did it "without provocation because she wanted to know what it felt like." What's more, Bustamante apparently recorded some of her more disturbing thoughts and actions on social networking sites:

On a YouTube profile viewed by The Associated Press, which has since been taken down, Bustamante listed her hobbies as "killing people" and "cutting." A year ago, Bustamante posted a video to the site in which she appears to intentionally shock herself on an electric fence near her home, then goads her two younger brothers into doing the same.

Alyssa's MySpace and Facebook profiles are locked, but we managed a few glimpses of profiles under cutesy handles Alyssaheartsyou<3 and ramen_noodles_w00t on MySpace and her girly full name, Alyssa Dailene Bustamante, on Facebook:






Like most teens, Bustamante posed for profile pictures that aimed to communicate something about herself. The message is alternately run-of-the-mill and grim. Did the adults in Alyssa's life catch the red flags? Few details about Bustamante's home and school life have emerged, though Fox News reports that Bustamante had been in and out of mental health care facilities:

Juvenile officer David Cook testified that Bustamante has received mental health services since September 2007 after she attempted suicide. She had a 10-day stay in the mid-Missouri Mental Health Center after the attempt, and has received mental health services from Pathways Community Behavioral Healthcare in Jefferson City since.

Cook said Bustamante takes Prozac for depression and also received services for mood swings and self-harm. Cook said Bustamante has a history of cutting herself, but said that there were no indications she was homicidal.

Bustamante has been in police custody since she led authorities to Olten's body on Oct. 23, and was certified this week as an adult so she can be tried as one. 9-year-old victim Elizabeth Olten is remembered as a happy child who loved animals and playing dress up.

Bernard Goldberg is a Fox News commentator who thinks Liberals will always abort their Downs Syndrome baby, but it seems like he's also an aspiring satirist himself: "Let me try to respond to that brilliant analysis with a serious point," says Goldberg, his voice dripping with an icy blend of irony and disdain which subtly hints that Jon Stewart telling him to "go fuck yourself" was not really a smart thing to say, but instead was a funny joke made on a funny comedy show by a comedian which people laughed at because the word "fuck" is funny. In fact Goldberg's satire was so subtle that he didn't even get the joke himself.

Sort of undermines Fox's impassioned claims to being a real news organization when they find themselves constantly responding to a fake news program.

And here is the original "Daily Show" bit from last night's show:

Courtenay Semel, for those who are not familiar with her heiress-level fameballing, is not a shy and retiring person. A person does not make out with her attention-craving girlfriend Tila Tequila on red carpets because she mistrusts the media; a person does not scream at a club bouncer to "just fucking Google me, you dumb fuck" because she mistrusts the media; and a person certainly does not "joke" to a magazine reporter that "I'm kind of like the Don Juan of the lesbian world," as Semel did with Curve, because she mistrusts the media.

So it's odd that Semel would tell Curve that the "media kind of ruined that relationship" she had with Lindsay Lohan by saying the pair were dating. Semel added: "I can't even have a best friend because I guess I'm going to be linked with them next." But maybe she also can't have friends because she gives underminey quotes about them, like this one, from the new interview:

I think, you know, everyone scrutinizes, Lindsay for everything she went through, but they should thank her, because it shows you exactly what not to do.

That's a fairly cutting quote considering that Lohan has yet to enter rehab per Semel's urging. Of course, when Semel only went to rehab herself after her dad cut off access to the trust fund, something she left out of her little zinger. Semel, it would seem, grasps the advantages of strategic oversharing as well as the rest of her internet-bred generation; if only daddy Terry had been so savvy, Yahoo might be in a better place today.

[via People]

(Semel with heiress Casey Johnson this past May, top, via INF; Semel-Tequila pic, lower, via x17online.com)

Oprah ends a 25 year run that puts hers up with Fidel Castro and Muammar al-Gaddafi as one of the most durable dictatorships of our age. According to Variety, Oprah broke the news to her staffers today and will inform her subjects in the television audience on the air tomorrow that the dream will come to an end in less than two years. On September 9, 2011, Oprah will broadcast her last syndicated show.

She leaves to focus on the fledgling Oprah Winfrey Network (OWN) which has been struggling without the presence of its namesake since it launched in partnership with Discovery.

"Look up, see that?" An editor at Reagan Arthur drunkenly smiled during the boozy, Bat Mitzvah-y after party held on the balcony overlooking the ballroom of the Cipriani Wall Street, and woozily pointed up to a perch some 25-feet above the dance floor. "See where the DJ is?" We stared above us. "Next year, it's not going to be a DJ. It's gonna be a Kindle." Brilliantly wasted drunkspeak that it was, she had a point. And she couldn't have been the only one thinking it.

Just like film, TV, and music, everything's going digital, and some of the people in that room might be scared shitless that their product's going the way of the buffalo. Hence, the hysterical irony of Google sponsoring the party. The guys hoarding — and then giving away for free — the beautiful words that should cost money to buy, those fucking guys who call it "content" and are mainlining it into concentration camps of data, those were the guys holding the party.

Every year, media industries have their traditional back-patting ceremonies where they heap upon their products awards saluting their best and brightest. Cynics see it as a way to drive sales to products that need it (see: The Oscars, The Tonys, etc). The pompous, starfucky nonsense put in plain view at awards for film, TV, and music doesn't stick, here, and it shouldn't since basically everyone in the room more or less knows each other. The dance floor's raging and you get the feeling that people are genuinely humbled by winning. Truly, it's nice. And the general consensus was that it was a fun, fun party. That always helps.

Mo and I showed up to Cipriani's Wall Street ballroom around our invite's stated start time of 10pm, along with all the rest of the media folk there to get fucked up on the cheap. We were turned away immediately: The ceremony's running long, it'll be another half an hour 'til the after-party. We stood outside with a bunch of publishing assistants while I decided whether to put on my tie, which was rolled up in my pocket. "There're people in tuxes in there, goddamnit" Mo warned me. The invite said "festive attire." I decided to put my tie on. "You look like a Young Republican," Mo warned me.

The reason for the delay? The explanation I got was that Gore Vidal gave a "sad, rambling, 20-minute speech." His opening salvo: "'Most Presidents fear assassination. It is my impression I shall vanish from your view because I have been fired,' said Roosevelt." It's bad enough that your industry's fighting for its life. Letting your keynote speaker deliver an unintentionally sad requiem couldn't have been the best move.

We were let in to bum-rush the party just as host Andy Borowitz introduced the final award: the prize for the year's Best Fiction Book. I'd been having a cigarette with a guy who'd introduced himself as a member of James Franco's Columbia MFA class before we walked in. "$20 on McCann," I thought to myself, except, I said it out loud. Whoops. Sure enough, Colum McCann's book Let the Great World Spin, won. Someone knocked over a chair standing up applauding for him. Franco's classmate laughed at me. "What?" I looked at him. "It's the only book anybody's heard of." How could McCann's book not have won?

But maybe that's why my woozy, wobbly-footed editor friend was smiling when she stared up at the DJ and made her draconian prediction of a Kindle telling us how to dance instead of the Jersey DJ bumping Top 40 hits all night. Because there's still some esprit de corps amongst book authors, because they still care, because there's still a reason to get crunk. Books might be fucked, but at least they're worth saving. It's not all bad.

Mo and I got drunk and took pictures. We also got people to sign a magical book for charity, which you'll learn about later. In the mean time: here's who we saw. All of these people are drunk.

This fucking guy. James Franco was surrounded by a gaggle of women all night, and yes, he was awake. He was kind enough when we approached him, he even helped us with out secret project for the evening. But as I turned the corner, he started asking questions of Mo: Who was that? Who're you from? Mo sheepishly told him. And Franco, who Mo has swooned over since Freaks and Geeks, told her to fuckoff. Mo was sad, James Franco.
Matt Berninger, lead singer of The National, will not fuck you over. At least this month. He's Mr. November. And he was also totally shocked when I recognized him. So was I! But also: elated! Someone whose shit I knew comprehensively! Him and his wife Carin Besser, who—the more you know!—among other places has written for the New Yorker, were ridiculously nice. And showed up right before the party started, probably for the booze. But seriously: The National! This picture is awesome.
2009 National Book Award Fiction winner Colum McCann was all smiles. He took the subway to the ceremony. He can now pay for his cab ride back home with the giant piece of gelt around his neck.
And Then We Came To The Bar. Gawker Status Galley author Joshua Ferris was a very nice person. This is how Scott Rudin taught him how to hold champers: two at a time, while you crush the competition into the next dimension with your other hand.
Dave Eggers not only didn't want to pose for a picture, but he didn't want to contribute to the Gawker Charity Book Project! Asshole! [Actually, he was nice about saying no. But still: Asshole!] Probably because it wasn't for his own set of nonprofit kids' reading centers, 826. Gotta admire him for sticking to his guns, though. The man knows a dollah holla, amirite? BUT!
Heh, we did get little brother Toph "I May Have Had Sex With Julia Allison" Eggers, too. Note the flames in the background indicating the convergence of supernatural forces as Toph Eggers signs a piece of Gawker Media, LLC property. Did we tell him where we were from? No. Did we tell him Dave signed the book? Maybe. But is it for a good cause? Hell yeah! (For the record, Jeff Bercovici signed it as Dave). You've got to be kidding me. I've been informed via email that this isn't Dave Eggers' brother. I'm now going to find whoever told me it was and punch them in the face. For the children. Apparently, it's this guy, Alec Friedman. #GonnaGoCryNow.
Left to right: Jonathan Lethem's assistant Fred, who's first name I finally remembered but who's last name I still can't! Center is R.K. Ghansah, and to her right: James Franco's aforementioned MFA classmate, the very affable Mr. Mike Spies. Names! We didn't get 'em. Party reporting is hard work, people, especially when there's drink to be drank. But let me assure you all of these people are very nice despite how badly I totally screwed the pooch on IDing them.
Sloane Crosley was told there would be booze. Instead she got New York's Boris Kachka. Eh? [*Makes scales with hands*.]
The Seymour Hersh of the Styles Section, Allen Salkin, with rum scion Jeffrey Zarnow. Salkin made me promise I wouldn't talk any shit and that we'd have an armistice for this one night, so long as he did me a solid. And he did! Stickin' to my word here, Allen. Allen was very nice and didn't punch me in the face and he was not celebrating any made-up bullshit holidays that evening.
Former Gawker Intern turned Page Six reporter Neel Shah with Vice's executive editor (or however they title their employees over there: "King Kong BigDick of Editorial," etc) Chris Cechin. Where are the drugs, Chris? I asked him. He didn't know. I believed him.
Founding Gawker editor Elizabeth Spiers, with friend.
Neel Shah, New York Magazine's Magical Princess of Online Domination, former Gawker editor Jessica Coen, the pixilated Alex Balk, and former BlackBook EIC and Maxim editor Steve Garbarino. Balk told me he'd "rape (my) kittens" or something if I didn't obstruct his face. I believed him.
College Humor's Ricky Van Veen thinks you should look at some funny shit going down....
....which was New York magazine busybody Chris Wilson and former BlackBook/Maxim editor Steve Garbarino getting kicked out by Cipriani security for smoking inside. Whoops! I was later informed: This is how Chris finds out that the sun is down. By the way, this is my new favorite Party Exit Strategy: just light up in the middle of the room until you're forced to leave, and be like, What? I though that shit was cool here? Y'all are lame. Peace. Brilliant!
Daily Finance media reporter Jeff Bercovici lends his signature to a very special book, with Jamie Peck, who recently wrote about this crazyass fairy convention for VICE. Jamie also writes for the New York Press, The L, Suicidegirls, and a bunch of other badass indie fuck you and The Pope rock places like those. Her writing resume is basically like, if you're a dude and you live in New York and you have a blogger fetish—which is kind of really fucked up, like, really—than Jamie Peck is definitely your "Dream Weaver Moment" girl. And I also feel like an asshole for forgetting her name. But hey, look, Jeff Bercovici, who writes about the media, is signing a book.
Bonnie Jo Campbell, who was nominated with Colum McCann for the Fiction Prize for her book American Salvage, didn't win. But seriously, no joke: does that not look like someone who's legitimately happy to be there?
Gawker Editor-in-Chief Gabriel Snyder, in the default. "You clean up well!" He exclaimed. Jesus, man, thanks for the supreme vote of confidence. These people who manage writers, they think we have an existential crisis every time we try to put pants in the morning. It's unreal. WE KNOW HOW TO PUT ON PANTS.
Blogger/columnist extraordinaire, Katie Bakes, with the New York Observer's Status Galley Gangsta Leon Neyfakh.
The Mark of the Beast isn't 666. It's this guy's signature. He might not be drunk.
James Franco, you dick. You made Mo sad. She's not even part-time. Asswizzard! Mo was going to cry, but not because she was drunk, even though she was.
I try on the future of literature: Facebook! UGHHH. Seriously people, if you let books die out, you'll have to live with the proliferation of writing at this level.

Go here for the full panoply of CafePress bumper stickers, mugs, and shirts containing prayers for the president to die and for his daughters—per Psalm 109—to "continually be vagabonds, and to beg." The Psalm 109 items were indeed briefly taken off the market yesterday, a CafePress spokesman tells Gawker, after some controversy developed about the appropriateness of veiled death threats as bumper sticker material. But they thought about it, and you know what? Why the hell not! Here's CafePress' statement:

Based on current public discourse and our determination of what it is fair political commentary, Psalm 109:8 products are still featured on our site.

Anti-presidential gear has been a mainstay at CafePress since we were founded in 1999 and has become a key component of political discourse. Our site has become a cultural barometer of public opinion and as such designs often come into question. In managing our content we are trying to protect self-expression, while making sure we are not advocating violence.

They have a point: If "current public discourse" as defined by folks at Fox News won't banish people openly calling for the death of the President, why should an online tchotchke outlet say different? And besides, maybe all those supplicants are praying for Barack Obama to die non-violently, through a heart attack or AIDS or something.

In the end it doesn't matter, because it turns out that the Biblical joke is on those people praying on Psalm 109: We're the last person to come to for Biblical exegesis, but a tipster pointed out that the psalm's "Cry For Vengeance" is attributed to King David, who was beset by faithless and lying critics seeking to undermine him: "Let this be the reward of mine adversaries from the LORD, and of them that speak evil against my soul." In other words, the guy praying in Psalm 109:8 for his enemy's days to be numbered is an embattled leader facing down a gang of hectoring usurpers. And the guy whose days he wants God to number is Glenn Beck. Keep praying, kids!

When she burst into public consciousness, stealing the show in Speed 15 years ago, Bullock was hailed as the thinking man's starlet, a smart, tough wise-cracking throwback to Jean Arthur or Katherine Hepburn. And the residual good will of her "not a bimbo" persona still lingers on.

Well, no performer has done more to squander the public's good will than Sandra Bullock. In the decade and a half since Speed, she has accumulated a lifetime Rotten Tomatoes score of 28 (and that is helped by Oscar winner Crash in which she was only part of an ensemble.) Reading through the list of her films is like visiting the site of some epic, senseless battle and reciting the names of the fallen.

Read aloud with us then, the list of the films Sandra Bullock has inflicted upon society since her great moment (with Rotten Tomatoes scores): All About Steve (6), The Proposal (43), Premonition (8), The Lake House (36), Miss Congeniality 2: Armed & Fabulous (14), Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood (44), Murder by Numbers (30), Miss Congeniality (40), 28 Days (30), Gun Shy (24), 
Forces of Nature (46), Practical Magic (21), Hope Floats (23), Speed 2: Cruise Control (2), In Love and War (12), Two If by Sea (12), The Net (30),

Simply awe-inspiring. Note that Bullock has appeared in three films that achieved Tomatoes scores of under ten, a fate that should not befall any actor more than once. (Nicole Kidman, for comparison sake, has made plenty of clunkers in her time but has never been in a movie that scored below 19.)

Not only are none of the movies above anything resembling good, none at first glance are even memorable as big-money makers. The list looks like a roll call of the kind of showbiz-mill cannon fodder which surfaces every weekend and vanishes without a trace.

While most of her peers — the actresses of the 90's — have already been used up and cast aside by Hollywood, somehow Bullock's reign continues. After the mawkish-looking Blind Side comes and goes this weekend, she has five more films queued up in development; five movies which, given Bullock's track-record, seem eminently judgable by their titles. So get ready for The Sprinkler Queen, Kiss & Tango, One of the Guys, Jingle and Bridesmaids.

How does this keep happening? Why does the Bullock nightmare go on and on? Let's look at some possible explanations:

• Actually, they aren't all bombs. Her latest film The Proposal was, in fact a fairly gargantuan hit, earning almost $300 million worldwide on a modestly budgeted comedy. Even Miss Congeniality 2 made more than $100 million domestic before it was done. And the rule of thumb is that if you make a hit, you get three years of moviemaking to try and get another one before you are relegated to sitcom stunt casting.

• Foreigners. Unlike many comedy stars, the Bullock brand plays well overseas where presumably people don't understand in translation how much these movies suck. Her films routinely match or top their domestic hauls while playing abroad. Congenialty 2 and The Propsal for instance, made another $100 million overseas. Even The Lake House made $62 million overseas. Compare that to Will Ferrell whose films never travel. Talledega Nights, for instance earned $143 million domestic but only $14 million abroad. His last four films have each earned less than $30 million overseas.

• She's cheap. Bullock was sixth on Forbes list of this year's highest paid actresses, earning in an estimated $15 million per film, well below what Angelina Jolie would ask to dress up your little horror film.

• She'll be in anything. As seen in the list above.

• People still like her. ."She just seems like good folk....it's that totally intangable likability factor," one still devoted fan said to me. There seems to be a teflon factor at work in Bullock in which her onscreen choices do not rub off on the public's overall sense of her. Part of that may be due to...

• She's kept down the offscreen noise. While she's been in some high profile relationships, she has not turned her personal life into the sort of tabloid soap opera that generates some heat for a while, but soon enough leads to overexposure and fan hangovers.

So with all that behind her, there's no reason why the Bullock reign can't go on forever. The more interesting question perhaps, is why does someone who appears not-completely-stupid continue to make such ghastly choices? Yes, its certainly no easy feat to find decent parts for a grown up woman, but could she really have found worse ones? Unlike most of her peers, Bullock has never felt the need to prop up her acting bona fides with any prolonged stints in indie movies or low budget drama — Crash perhaps being the notable exception.

Which leads one to the conclusion that maybe she doesn't care. She's come to Hollywood haul off as much loot as she can, audiences be damned. Sandy, there's many people still, amazingly, waiting for you to prove that that's just not so.

Retail developer Jack Menashe masterminded the whole transformation. A look at the Limelight Marketplace website and this Real Deal article feature the pictures of the new space, which intends to be stores, restaurants, specialty food shops, and little carts all selling crazy fun things for tourists to haul back to wherever they came from. Sadly 75% of the 60 store spaces are already leased.

Established retailers that have already signed on are Caswell Massey, America's oldest retailer (they made George Washington's cologne), and Hunter Boots, the 150-year-old firm that supplies boots to England's Royal Family. New York newcomers include Mari's New York — Mari Tuttle was a chef at Balthazar's, and this is her artisanal brownie business — It's Sugar, a candy store created by Jeff Rubin, co-creator of Dylan's Candy Bar, Carter & Cavero Old World Olive Oil, and Silly Souls, a baby goods store.

It's basically going to be South Street Seaport on Sixth Avenue and 20th Street, where murderous club kid Michael Alig once walked around dressed as a demonic Ronald McDonald and handed out tablets of E like they were chicklets. Ah, progress.

Thankfully, the former church will retain some of the architectural flourishes that made it distinct, but its soul will be crushed by the feet of ten thousand fat visitors from Texas.

This is the first time we've ever seen the outside of the Limelight in the daylight.
In 1996, we once saw the inside of the Limelight in exactly the same way. Massive doses of Ketamine were involved.
They're going to have cotton candy! Just what we needed.
The real problem with this whole scheme is like it is a club with no velvet rope. "Real" New Yorkers will never shop in a place that looks like a mall where all the visitors go.
There will be carts at the Limelight Marketplace. If you need to get a hat embroidered with the name of your boyfriend, you'll know where to go. Also, no sophisticated shopping space has carts.
They also plan on selling a lot of food. We know this is a country full of fat people, but this still seems odd.
The first floor will host all the little gourmet food stores and restaurants. And don't forget the festival of shops. They're so happy to be there, it's a party!
The second floor is where all the home goods and beauty supplies will be. It is also home to the sneaker gallery, in case you ever need to go somewhere to see children and straight boys pout when their mothers or wives won't let them buy a ridiculous priced pair of rainbow-colored Nikes.
This is where the VIP bottle service is. Ha! Just kidding. But there will be music and fashion!

Honestly, trimming down bad acting moments throughout Nic Cage's career may just be one of the hardest jobs in editing.

For our masochistic readers, clips sourced from: Vampire's Kiss, Con Air, National Treasure 2, Ghostrider, Snake Eyes, Wicker Man, City of Angels, and The Rock.

Sincerest apologies go to all the interns who were forced to watch these movies.

While it wasn't as great as last week's cry fest—guess that's what happens when deprived of Sue Motherfucking Sylvester for an entire episode—it was still a good time with a few chuckles, some surprising turns, and a whole lot of ballads. Yuck. But as always, it's the music we come for so let us see what we can decipher from this Lite Jazz station of an episode.

"Endless Love": Poor Lionel Richie. Babygay Kurt gave Diana Ross a shout out but the man who wrote this duet doesn't even get a mention. Burn! That wasn't the only diss last night, but the night really centered on everyone being totally crushed out.

The most obvious was Rachel on Mr. Schuester. This was a very unfortunate plot development. While it was really funny for an episode, the complicated codependency of these two would be much more interesting for the long run. Before last night, they both needed each other—Rachel to get famous and Will to win regionals—but neither liked each other. They had a tentative alliance that constantly put each other at odds. What a dynamic! It made Rachel's switch from disdain to adoration totally unbelievable.

More believable was Kurt's love for Finn. As a young babygay dealing with high school torment, BG Kurt crushes out on the first hot guy to pay him even the slightest bit of kindness and attention. The best part is that Babygay Kurt is doing just what Fred Phelps always accuses the gays of: recruiting. If only he could get Finn to ditch the bitch and make the switch, but it's going to take a few heartbreaks before BGK learns the first lesson of queendom: crushing on straight guys only leads to pain.

Speaking of which, we love that Puck doesn't wear underwear. Hey, we're not crushing out on him, but we sure are going to fantasize. He keeps fantasizing about his endless love for Quinn, and he finds it unfair that even though he is the babydaddy, she's bringing Finn home to meet the parents.

Also a nice touch was the slight dollop for a reminder that Emma is in love with Will. The writers didn't obsess over it, but used it for a few pivotal scenes. Same goes for Terri and her fake baby, which was a great punchline when she was dealing with Rachel, but we didn't have to listen to her blather for more than a few minutes at a time. Instead of a whole, heavy meal of these characters, we just got a perfect amuse bouche (I learned that from Top Chef!).

"I'll Stand By You": I don't know about you, but I only love Chrissie Hynde when she rocks out, not when she gets all sappy like in this very popular but underwhelming hit that Finn sings to the sonogram of his unborn child.

It's sweet that he wants to do what is best for himself and his child, and when he snapped at Kurt about everyone trying to make him be something he's not, he tellingly snapped. Quinn wants him to be a provider, Coach Tanaka wants him to be a baller, Mr. Schue wants him to be a star, Rachel wants him to be the Tony to her Maria, and Kurt wants him to be a gay. Well, he's not really any of those, and no one ever really thinks about what Finn wants. What he wants more than anything is to be a dad to his baby, and Quinn isn't even letting him do that. Speaking of which, is she still giving the baby to Terri? Is she going to put it up for adoption? Raise it herself? We're not sure, but babies make everything boring, so we hope it goes to a convent or a farm upstate or something.

When Finn was singing this song alone, we thought that the opportunity for greatness that would be a duet between him and Babygay Kurt would be lost (oh, if only he got to sing "I Honestly Love You"!). But no, they did something even better with it. Even though it was for his own dubious ends, it was nice that BGK could be an ally for Finn the whole episode. Sure, his advice backfired, but it's swell to see him making something close to a real friend. Our hopes for Kurt is that he meets a nice boy in another choir and they fall in love and go to to karaoke night with Mercedes every Thursday, but he still gets to be friends with Finn. We don't see straight boys and gay boys have platonic friendships on TV very often, so it would be a nice change of pace.

"Don't Stand So Close to Me"/"Young Girl": Are we still doing mashups? I would complain, but this one was actually good—maybe even better than The Police original, which does get a little monotonous after a bit. Still, it was an effective way for someone to tell another party to get away and start behaving correctly.

Of course Will was directing this at Rachel who totally lost her mind when she fell in love with him. Gold stars are obviously her thing, but did she really think he would wear that tacky tie? After she showed up to school in her Burberry print top, we guess she would. Don't her gay fathers see what she's wearing before she leaves the house? Anyway, Mr. Schuester was right to put an end to her advances, which were only going to cause them both pain. If only Terri got the memo, who thought to exploit Rachel for her cooking, cleaning, and craziness skills. Never having been one, I can't say with certainty, but it seems like all teenage girls are a little bit insane. No wonder Rachel won't listen to reason. And Emma was channeling her inner Twilight fan when she and Rachel watched Will sing. It was as if he was Robert Pattinson walking the red carpet and they were the only two ladies trying to claw their way past the barrier just to touch the jacket of Edward Cullen (If you are an old, insert The Monkees for Twilight and Davy Jones for Robert Pattinson).

Strangely enough, it was Suzie Pepper (Wendy's schizophrenic daughter) who had to talk some sense into Rachel. The only thing that could get through to her was a girl who burned a hole in her esophagus eating the world's hottest pepper in a fit of pique after being rejected by Will. Suzie really did Rachel a favor and pointed out that her lack of self esteem makes her choose men who are unattainable. Wow, she's right. Funny how that works. Since Rachel has internalized all the hatred of her peers and thinks of herself as an ugly dork, the only person who would love her is undeserving. And Will's pep talk after she "breaks up" with him was very nice and heart felt. Are these two on the way to becoming true allies? God, I hope not.

However, the best "step the fuck off" of the night came from Mercedes. When her duet partner Puck (now that is a wasted opportunity!) confessed that he is the father, she didn't do the predictable TV thing and go and tell everyone and ruin Quinn and Finn and Puck's lives. No, she kept her big trap shut and told Puck that he better step off as well. Quinn had chosen another man, and if he really loved her, he would respect her wishes and keep away. And you do not mess with Mercedes, so Puck did the smart thing and took his mohawk home and planned the next day's outfit—commando, of course.

"You're Having My Baby": If it were possibly to go back in time Terminator style and kill Paul Anka before he wrote this song to stop it from ever coming to pass, then we would try.

So, yeah, Finn sings this song to Quinn's drunkard parents as a way to let them know what is going on. The song sucks, but watching their faces go from bopping along and enjoying the song to figuring out that he means the lyrics quite literally was brilliant. They freak out and kick Quinn out of the house. If only her father were a little bit less cartoonish, the scene in the living room where he kicks her out and she protests might have hit a little closer to home, but still it was quite effective. The real tears came when she confronted her mother for knowing that she was pregnant and not being there for her. How could a woman let someone kick her child out of the house? Let's hope she puts some poison in her husband's scotch and invites Quinn and the baby to live with her (Team Quinn!) after he's dead.

It's a stark contrast to Finn's mother, who handles the news remarkably well. She's not happy, but she knows there is no changing the past, and the best thing she can do is help to manage a bad situation. When she is kind enough to invite Quinn to move in, well, that's how this show goes about breaking your heart with rainbows just about every week. This woman knows a thing or two about raising a baby alone, and she extends the invitation as much to help Quinn as she does to support her son. That is the way parenting should be done.

"Lean on Me": There is something about this Bill Withers classic that just makes me whither inside. Maybe it's because it makes me think of the Morgan Freeman movie of the same name, or maybe it's just the schmaltzy sentimentality that makes me mental, but I can't stand it. As far as this cover version goes, the arrangement was quite good (way to kill it at the end Mercedes!) but the sound was totally fucked up. There is no way those 10 kids in a school rehearsal room could make a sound that huge and grand. The sound has been way better in recent weeks, lets hope that they can sort all the mixing issues out before the end of the season.

While that may be messed up, the song selection has managed to be off-kilter and not obvious, even if we don't enjoy every number. This week also showed some great musical grace notes, like Rachel trying to sing "Crush" in the car with Will and Suzie Pepper crying to "More than Words" before choking on her chili.

The message of the song was spot on. It was great to see another episode of storylines revolving around the kids and the plot moving a bit more slowly. Now that we've established how they all help each other out, it was a little bit more believable when everyone offered to help Finn and Quinn carry the burden of teenage pregnancy and shacking up together in Finn's mom's house. While rounding out the show, it also did a little bit to advance the overall narrative of the season, by showing that Kurt and Puck may have backed off for now, but they're crushes are far from over.

The most shocking thing about this whole night though was that the show doesn't need to lean on Sue Motherfucking Sylvester to be good and hysterical. Sure, we would have loved for her to come down on high and let us know how Sue Cs it and deliver the best line of the night, but at the end of the episode, we felt like we got our money's worth without her. That doesn't mean we can't wait for her to be front and center next week though!

The suit was probably inevitable. As we first reported, the Sacramento-based firm of Kershaw, Cutter & Ratinoff has been looking for victims of scammy ads in games like Mafia Wars and Farmville to potentially file a class action suit. Less than a week later, the firm's suit has hit federal district court in Northern California.

You can read the initial complaint in full here.

Neither gaming startup Zynga nor social network Facebook actually originates the advertisements in question; instead, other companies take out ads in Zynga's games, which run on Facebook's network, and the two companies make reportedly large sums of money from the offers. Some of the ads trick users into signing up for unauthorized cell phone charges or expensive mail-order products like educational CDs, typically by disguising them as "free" offers or "free trials," or as part of an "online quiz." TechCrunch has run an aggressive series of articles, cataloged at the bottom of this post.

Zynga reportedly takes in close to one-third of its revenue from "commercial offers" like those, and Facebook does well too, as KC&R lawyers point out in their complaint. An excerpt (click to enlarge):

Swift's attorneys also point to Zynga CEO Mark Pincus' damning video confession that "I did every horrible thing in the book just to get revenues" in their complaint, indicating it will be a significant piece of courtroom evidence, just as we predicted.

The prospect of being on the hook for massive damages has to make both Zynga and Facebook's investors sweat. Facebook is the darling of Silicon Valley, with VCs having valued it in the billions of dollars, while Zynga counts the elite firm of Kleiner Perkins Caufield & Byers among its major investors. Yet both companies have come to rely on greasy advertisers for much of their revenue; in addition to the game-ad scammers, Facebook is also sells ad to marketers who resort to tactics like using stolen pictures of apparent underaged girls to promote their products. If the company's are found to be liable of helping con customers by working with these sorts of slimeballs, it's hard to say where the payouts might end.

Below, an excerpt of the scams allegedly perpetrated on the lead plaintiff in the case, Rebecca Swift.

(Top pic: Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg, by Raphaël Labbé)

[Full court filing]

There is a place where the episode ends
And before the show begins
And there the chefs grow soft and white,
And there Jen's face burns crimson bright,
And there the brothers prep for their fight
To ballotine a thing.

Eli fights for Blaise, the Huck to his Tom Sawyer,
absurd, abstract and color blind, just like Indigo Montoya.
For Kev it's honor; for Jen it's pride
For Mike it's stabbing his brother in the side
But for all the chefs there's no nook to hide
Except in the place where the episode ends.

A chicken inside a duck tucked inside a pheasant
A tranny mess, fucked in a dress, triple stuffed protein ain't pleasant.
Jen triumphed though Eli snorted
Mike harumphed but Jen retorted
Kev and Bry were kind and all transported
To the place where the episode ends.

Lamb or salmon, two garnishes and no room for excuses.
[Technical perfection is, after all, the point of all Bocuses.]
Padma, clad in black and white,
Sent the chefs to stew the night
chew their cud and think what's right
to cook in the the place where the episode ends.

And lo, what an expert panel sat, chaired by Thomas Keller
D. Boulud and T Collicks and lotsa other fellas
And how they ate and dissected
Deconstructed and resurrected
Offered harsh critique and invective
In the place where the episode ends.

So the team served their protein on a mirrored platter
Flaws reflected and fillets thin. Some fillets were fatter.
Kev's was simple but Eli's lamb raw
Jen's salmon fishy, Mike's caught in the caw
Thomas Keller liked not what he saw
In the place where the episode ends.

Would any hack it in real competition, one shudders to think.
In a world gone wrong, the nation on the brink,
would you trust Mike's bouche to amuse?
or Eli's fusion not to confuse
or Jen's nerves not to torpedo her rouxs
In the place where the episode ends.

En fin, it was infant Eli whose head he had to lose
And crying he left blubbering "J'accuse!"
But all's fair in love and war and in the Bocuse
In the place where the episode ends.

[Apologies and deep gratitude to Shel Silverstein and Mike Byhoff.]