Famespy covered Murphy's death under the headline "BRITTANY MURPHY DEAD AT 32 OF HEART ATTACK 3 Weeks After Husband Mysteriously Stopped Breathing; Are The Two Related?" Meanwhile, numerous message boards are filled with similarly dark speculation about Murphy's husband and some shady dealings he had with a yacht-dwelling millionaire named Arturo Globenfeldt.

All this can be traced back to an elaborate prank played on the Daily News. It started with a couple of articles then-Daily News gossip columnist Ben Widdicombe wrote in 2007 about Simon Monjack, Murphy's highly skeezy husband, after he disappeared mysteriously for 10 days. In the first short item, Widdicombe writes:

Is someone trying to harm Brittany Murphy?

A source who used to work for the perky star says she talks darkly of "a high-powered Hollywood player" who is allegedly stalking her.

And when her then-boyfriend (now husband), Simon Monjack, disappeared for 10 days in April, Murphy claimed he had been kidnapped by agents of this mysterious figure, says the source

"When he came back, he had head injuries," says the former insider. "He was pale and sometimes had trouble standing."

Not only that, but the former staffer also claims Murphy said she was unable to pay him because the money had been used for ransom...

Monjack, a screenwriter, is not short of enemies. Several anonymous sources have posted unflattering stories on the Internet about his past relationships. On June 13, a man identifying himself as Arturo Globenfeldt posted a message on Monjack's Imdb.com page claiming he owes him $16 million in film investment money.

(emphasis mine)

The mysterious "high-powered Hollywood player" is singled out as the potential kidnapper, but it was in this article Globenfeldt's name was first ominously linked to Murphy's. It's easy to see how the Globenfeldt rumor would begin.

Take a look at the comment Globenfeldt left on Monjack's IMDB page. (The comment has since been deleted):

Thu Jul 5 2007 06:51:11
I have backed several of this charlatan's projects in Cyprus. Now my Cypriate contacts tell me he has run off with a cool US $6,000,000 of their investment and US $16,000,000 of mine.

Please contact me if you have any knowledge of the whereabouts of this vile fellow.

- Arturo Globenfeldt

So, the fact that a multi-millionaire was using IMDB to collect a $16 million debt did not trip Widdicombe's highly-tuned 'bullshit' meter. Fair enough, he is a busy journalist. But Globenfeldt's blog, Arturoglobenfeldt.blogspot.com, should have signaled something was hilariously amiss.

Here, a series of glamor shots feature a heavyset, middle-aged "Arturo" in various alluring poses, his shirt invariably open while he flashes a look that suggests nothing more or less than: "Let's fuck." There is a picture of his massive yacht "La Machisma," from which he says he wrote the blog's incredible opening post:

I am at the minute on the poop with a good blanc in my hand; 1887, of course! The sun is baking me and I am in need of a good shower :). I may go below with some DVD disks I picked up in the Tunis bazaar. Aunt Pelagia had doubts as to whether they would work with my DVD player; it says 'multi-region' on the card-board container, so I am hoping they will.

In light of all this, Widdicombe filed a follow-up item about the Case of the Missing $16 million, in which both Globenfeldt (emailing from his yacht) and Monjack confirm the issue had been resolved.

Thank God! A clearly relieved Arturo wrote on his blog:

My dealings with Monjack are now at an end... In other news: I have commissioned a new yacht. Specs to come soon. Any ideas for a name, boys? The Monjack, perhaps? :)

Of course, Artuo was a fiction. The blog and the IMDB post were pranks. A few months later, the Blogger user "Arturo Globenfeldt" posted on a family blog—this time signing his name as Rob:

P.S. I'm posting as Arturo Globenfeldt because Gmail won't let me set up a new account for some reason... The name was part of a dare to see if I could get mentioned in a newspaper in print, and I did... A reporter actually contacted me about a totally made up investment I said I made (as Arturo). It's all pretty convoluted but it just goes to show how gullible people can be.

We salute you, Rob: You successfully punked the Daily News, and your specatcular prank lives on in the conspiracy theories of a hundred celebrity gossip bloggers. Any prank played upon the Daily News henceforth will be known as a "Globenfeldt".

UPDATE:Ben Widdicombe confirms via email that Monjack played along when he spoke to him—probably to project the image of a wealthy playboy. What a fameball. Writes Widdicombe:

I spoke with Monjack over the phone before the second item and he did not question Globenfeldt's indentity. Indeed, by saying the "$16 million misunderstanding" had been cleared up, he tacitly confirmed the story.

By chance, I also met Monjack socially (at Beige, go figure) a short while afterwards. Over a lengthy conversation during which the items were discussed, he neither challenged the veracity of anything that was written nor suggested Globenfeldt did not exist.

It's certainly possible that it suited Simon for the world to think he was blithely settling $16 million "misunderstandings" in between marrying Hollywood starlets. So if Globenfeldt was a prank, it was one it which Monjack collaborated. But, the point of the story was always Murphy's paranoia about Hollywood and the very well-known "Mr Big" she thought was trying to get her—not this other guy.

Schreffler brought Gatecrasher—once Page Six's competition—back to the paper with Sean Evans (also canned) after legendary NYDN gossip Ben Widdicombe left it for dead (or Star, which he left after five or so months). Sarah Polansky (who went from the National Enquirer to Page Six, where she was fired for being exposed by Radar as a "swag hag") filled in for Evans. I guess Polansky is the only person left over there? We also hear Chris Rovzar at NY Mag's Daily Intel was offered the job, but (predictably) turned it down, possibly because if he were to quit New York Magazine, Manhattan's Gossip Girl-watching population would have to be tear-gassed and read the riot act.

So: it looks like nobody's running gossip or getting decent scoops at the Daily News but the once a week Boris and Natasha-esque sideshow of Rush and Molloy — and they haven't been at the top of their game, lately — so maybe they'll try to bring Ben back again? He was awesome and he's currently doing AOL's Stylelist but I sincerely doubt that Daily News has the cash to compete with whatever he's getting at AOL. That said, the NYDN's gossip pages are just rehashing national items, and there're sleazier places to go for that dirt, so really, they might want to invest in some talent before they become the Knicks of New York's two-team gossip leagues.

Update: Maybe there's absolutely no way the NYDN can compete for Ben Widdicombe. We just heard that Widdicombe's working with TMZ as their executive editor. He hasn't let his New York apartment go, yet, and "needs the money." He's on a six-week trial with them. Well, if it's scratch you're after, Harvey Levin's got plenty to throw around. There're worse places to sell out, I suppose. Another tipster reports that Harvey Levin's been looking since last fall to fill that position, so it's a long time coming. He's met with plenty of people, but it's been difficult to fill the position because of Harvey's temperament.

2nd Update: Sheffler writes in and asks us when will we will be "updating/terminating your piece from the web" because, as it turns out, she wasn't shitcanned, but is leaving the Daily News to go to Bonnie Fuller's Hollywood Life thing. Enjoy your press-releasey goodness:

"I'm ecstatic to join Bonnie Fuller and the team at HollywoodLife.com as the West Coast Bureau Chief. I look forward to bringing my experience in celebrity news and lifestyle editorial to what will be a fabulous online destination for all women," says Schreffler, West Coast Bureau Chief, HollywoodLife.com.

In her new position, Schreffler will work closely with Fuller and Will Lee, executive editor, on editorial strategy, content development and overall direction of the site. HollywoodLife.com, which focuses on celebrity, style and lifestyle news, will re-launch in November 2009 with a new design and editorial focus, targeting style-minded women, ages 18-35...

...Where it will terminate their faces via awesome Bonnie Fuller'd website wonderfulness with little to no discretion. May I suggest a theme song? This is what the future of celebrity gossip looks like:

We hear (unconfirmed rumors) that Widdicombe is out at Star, for unknown reasons. That would put him on the job scarcely six months. Even though he was far, far more qualified that Julia Allison to hold his job, it may be that Star itself just doesn't have enough clout to be a serious operator in the gossip world.

Ben said he was burned out when he left the Daily News, so, if this is true, maybe it's not all bad. Random fun photo below: Ben and a bunch of ladies presiding over the "STRATEGY ROOM".

UPDATE: Ben emails:

Hello gentlemen, yes I have left the Star and joined StyleList.com as a contributing editor. Society and celebrity is my beat but I'm trying to think of a title that sounds less ridiculous than "society and celebrity editor." And in February I'm starting a weekly online column for T, the Times style magazine. I was thinking of calling it "Gatekeeper," what do you think?

Gossip, after all, can wear a body down. Being married to each other, and to the column, hasn't always been easy on Rush & Molloy. We've had disagreements. Julia Roberts once begged Rush not to run a sighting of her nuzzling then-secret boyfriend Benjamin Bratt at a SoHo restaurant. Rush talked Molloy out of writing it. Julia sent flowers in gratitude. But the secret got out elsewhere. The flowers wilted, as did their romance.

When he quit as editor of the Gatecrasher column in the Daily News and left on an extended vacation, Widdicombe said he had burned out after a decade on the party circuit. He wrote: "Also lately I’ve developed a peculiar attitude towards scandal—with some of the items that have crossed my desk I’ve thought, this really isn’t any of my business. Which is problematic for a professional gossip columnist." But not as problematic as a pile of bills on Widdicombe's return from his soul-searching vacation, presumably.

I'm sure it is in that spirit that online gossip site Jossip is sending off Widdicombe. 'Ben Widdicombe Exits Gossip Industry, Leaving Gaping Aussie Void,' runs the headline. Har har. There's only one problem: the Daily News gossip writer used to bed Jossip's wide-eyed young founder, David Hauslaib—and one could easily take his reference to Widdicombe's gaping void as the bitchy recollection of a former lover, rather than collegial ribbing.

Incidentally, Hauslaib also dated Patrick Healy, Hillary Clinton's persecutor at the New York Times, who was in turn the former boyfriend of Chris Rovzar, the ethereal young reporter who took over from Widdicombe at the News' Rush & Molloy column when the Australian gossip graduated to his own column. And that proves what, exactly? Only that New York's gay media subculture is even more incestuous than its heterosexual equivalent; the partner-hopping is simply less well examined.

Photograph, clockwise, from top left: Jossip's David Hauslaib; burnt-out gossip columnist Ben Widdicombe; Chris Rovzar, now at New York Magazine's Daily Intelligencer; and Patrick Healy of the New York Times.

"I have been a gossip columnist for all my 10 years in New York—first with the online fashion column 'Chic Happens,' and six years full-time with the Daily News. But for a writer New York is like a fairground, and I think it’s time to go on some of the other rides. Also lately I’ve developed a peculiar attitude towards scandal—with some of the items that have crossed my desk I’ve thought, 'This really isn’t any of my business.' Which is problematic for a professional gossip columnist.

"I approached Gatecrasher as essentially a humor column that happened to be about gossip. But now for me it’s time to Leave Britney Alone. Two weeks ago I went down to Palm Beach for Ivana Trump’s wedding, which was a hoot. Around midnight, as the reception was winding down, I found Kathy Hilton alone in a corridor. She was in front of a full-length mirror, holding her dress and dancing with her own reflection like a happy teenager. Something about that moment struck me as the perfect image to leave Gossip with."

Ben's retirement completes a circle. Every single New York City gossip columnist who started out around the same time as I did are all gone now, victims of the inevitable burn out. Well, all but one...

"But—spoiler warning—things don't turn out so well for him. According to the source, in the fictionalized version the gossip is killed when his car is wired with a bomb." [Gatecrasher]

Reached for comment, Stern gave us some plot rumors of his own: "I hear that Burkle is being played by John Goodman. He goes to jail in the end—just like he will in real life—becomes the sweetheart of Cellblock C and finally gets to empathize with all those teenagers who found themselves face-down in the back of [his private jet] 'Air Force Two.'"

Our theory, for what it's worth, is that these tales are just remnants of an old song and dance. Cruise was basically discovered, or at least developed, by David Geffen, a known and powerful gay. Wouldn't you, a 20-something year-old, cute young actor maybe play up the gay a bit, if it could land you a star-making movie like Risky Business? Now many years and great successes later, those early desperate days keep coming back to haunt him. It'd be like if someone was constantly telling potential friends and lovers stories about when you were in high school, when you were needy and would do anything to be in a clique. Except, you know, Tom is a gigantic crazy person with an army of angry lawyers and you're, well, just you.

"Which former stockbroker who was known for good looks and charm has let himself get fat and worse? A recent male date complained that the former hunk was also suffering from halitosis." [NYP]

If we missed any today, please let us know.

Our first black carpet sack was Nicole Fiscella, who plays Isabele Coates on the show . She showed us her tattoos. One says "Live to Inspire" in Sanskrit. The other is the Icelandic character for wisdom. "I have to cover them up for show," she said. Nearby some reporter from E! asked Leighton Meester (who plays Blair Waldorf), "Do you feel like this show is going to change your life?" Meester said: "It already has."

But it was really up to Les Moonves's wife and Big Brother host Julie Chen to ask the hard hitting questions. "Leighton," she said, sticking her microphone into Leighton's face space, "I've been pouring over interviews we've had in the past, you are by far the most intelligent and articulate person I've ever interviewed. [Beat] How do you do it?" In profile Meester's face looks like a delicate batiked Easter egg just beginning to crack.

Not to call Ms. Chen a liar but our favorite interviewee had to be Nan Zhang, who plays Katy Farkas. When asked what nationality her character was supposed to be, Zhang, who was born in China, replied, "I have no idea." But, and here's the cool part, even while she is on the show Zhang is continuing her studies at John Hopkins in premed and neuroscience! Zhang said that since she started filming the show, her social life has kind of gone to shit as now she constantly assesses the true intentions of her friends. Her shoes seemed like they were made out of diamonds.

As we made our way in, Nigel Lawson made his way out and "Charlie's Angels" director McG apologized to Josh Schwartz for leaving early. "We've gotta go man," he said to Schwartz. "I thought the party was from 7 to 10!" It was 8.

The inside of Tenjune (for those of you who have happily stayed away, it's basically just a basement) was filled with short squat men in horizontal stripes and taller skinnier women in baby doll shifts and halter tops. Daily News gossip columnist Ben Widdicombe, who we ran into at Florent later, called it the ninth circle of hell. Words like "wealthy," "sexy" and "naive" were projected onto the wall and Stealers Wheel's "Stuck In the Middle" played. In the VIP section, America's Next Top model winner Jaslene, who smells like an ashtray and looks like a tranny, was the only vaguely famous person. She was wearing a purple sequined beret.

Ideology was served alongside little cubes of watermelon and gorgonzola. After "Gossip Girl" premieres, the assembled congregation knew, the world would be a different place. The petites contretemps of the Upper East Side had found its spokespersons and right now, they were sipping mojitos and singing, "Well I don't know why I came here tonight, I got the feeling that something ain't right, I'm so scared in case I fall off my chair, And I'm wondering how I'll get down the stairs...."

[Photos: Jennifer Mitchell / Splash News]

The first one that immediately springs to mind is Radar—no one really knows how much Yusuf Jackson is on the hook for, and maybe, after all that, the involvement of Ron Burkle really is just that—a rumor? Or maybe not, and Daddy Burkle just lost interest.

Other possibilities: OK!, though supposedly they're on an upswing; 02138, though it's not really glossy—it's more matte; GOOD, but don't they have like a gajillion dollars?; and... gosh, we're stumped. Radar it is then?

Don't Shoot the Messenger [NYDN]

Which smoking-hot young TV actress started on her way in the industry by bedding one of the least attractive 'SNL' cast members while still in college?

Gawker Media polls require Javascript; if you're viewing this in an RSS reader, click through to view in your Javascript-enabled web browser.

Inside the restaurant, Tom Wolfe had his photo taken with Julia Allison. (That bears repeating: Tom Wolfe had his photo taken with Julia Allison.) Kurt Andersen made a little chit-chat before begging off to the Larry King appreciation party in the next room. (They had better snacks, by far. Also CNN partygoers received a Coach-imitation leather tote with a CNN tag, and a DVD of King's reputedly best work. You could sneak in through the kitchen.) The two parties side-by-side may have been a slight disaster on the part of Steven Rubenstein and his PR folks, but it came off fine, actually. (It was a question of wattage; did we see Hillary Clinton presswoman Jennifer Hanley outside, meaning that Hillary Clinton was inside the CNN party?)

Uniformed waiters were aggressive with the hors d'oeuvres, most of which featured caviar in some form, but the knot of yarmulked men gathered by the bar ignored them. (The duck, the shrimp, the crabcakes!) Also not eating, or drinking, was Jared's rehabilitated felon father, Charles Kushner, who mostly spoke in low tones to men at the end of the bar. Ever-gracious Jared entertained a seemingly endless stream of well-wishers and posed for photographs. The real estate broker-developer Michael Shvo said he'd call him about having lunch. Jared recently purchased the most expensive office building in America.

So how were things at the paper? "We're having a lot of fun," Jared said. Was he dating Ivanka Trump? "We're just friends. But thanks for asking." So that partnership was all business too.

Ms. Trump was in a very nice short black dress, looking tall and blonde; she talked for what seemed like eons with Jared's assistant Kimberly. Steven Rubenstein, who represents the Observer and the Kushner family, made sure everyone was having a good time and that the photographers were getting all the right people; he talked with did not talk with New York Times reporter Allen Salkin, who wrote such nice things about Jared in the Sunday Styles section.

Cindy Adams talked to Police Commissioner Ray Kelly, notebook in hand, hair at attention. Salon editor Joan Walsh, in a pantsuit, stayed close to Salon writer and former NYO staffer Rebecca Traister. Harry Evans was there with his wife, former lots-of-places editor Tina Brown, who spent a lot of time deep in very close conversation with W/WWD boy Jacob Bernstein.

"I love this tabloid!" Mr. Evans said, Britishly. "I seized it with great joy before a long bus ride, and I loved every word!" He is somewhat reminiscent of a brilliant leprechaun. "Joe Conason on politics! John Heilpern! The Obama piece! I thought it was terrific! The tabloid format is far better." Mr. Evans said that the bus had taken him to Southampton.

Ms. Brown has recently finished her book about Princess Diana. "It's like a plum pudding—there are great nuggets everywhere!" she said. "It's as much about celebrity culture as it is about Diana herself." And how did Ms. Brown feel about the Stephen Frears film The Queen? "I loved The Queen," Ms. Brown said. "It was very accurate! Except for the portrayal of Robin Janvrin, the Queen's private secretary. He looks like Kenneth Branagh in real life."

Ms. Brown said that the book had taken her a year and a half; for it, she conducted 250 interviews. "I feel like a giant whale has been lifted from my head."

Maer Roshan, who worked for Ms. Brown at her short-lived magazine Talk, was there with a bundle of his Radar-ites, including his lieutenant Chris Tennant, who was holding court with several ladies in a booth. He was wearing jeans that appeared to have been painted on. That tall woman with the jet-black hair, talking with the older man? So tall! Atoosa Rubenstein! Lots of flashbulbs.

Observer reporters seemed vaguely uncomfortable at such an extravagant gathering ("It's the Observer with money," more than one was overheard whispering), and they swiped multiple Bellinis as they came around on silver trays. Transom reporter Spencer Morgan however did not look uncomfortable.

Jessica Joffe wore eyeglasses. Slate editor Jacob Weisberg and Domino editor Deborah Needleman arrived with New York's Ariel Levy. Jacob is going on a three-month book leave soon. Andrew Balazs, Columbia J-school graduate, was there solo. Lloyd Grove was not in attendance, but Ben Widdicombe, Hud Morgan, and Daily News gossip boy Patrick Huguenin were.

We were promised there'd be no speeches but there was a microphone and so Jared took it and said that 20 years ago, when the New York Observer was founded, he was starting a venture called... kindergarten. His voice still has a little hint of his Livingston, New Jersey upbringing. The new website, he said, was to launch on Monday, but as a preview, they had a page up on the screen. (The Four Seasons, it turns out, does not have Internet access.) Jared said he was very fortunate to work with Peter Kaplan, the editor of the newspaper, a sentiment that was greeted with cheers from the crowd. "We get to go to the 21st century with a new newspaper," said Kaplan. He then referred to the paper's former owner and publisher, Arthur Carter, as "my buddy and weekly tormenter."

Of the paper, he said: "The paper is younger, thinner, and better looking, like Jared."

We talked to Peter Kaplan in person. "For anyone under 30, the New York Times is a queen-sized sheet!" he said. "Going smaller was the best thing we could have done. We're still smart. We still have an edge." He said something about possibly becoming the smartest tabloid in America. "It was time to make a change. I love it. It's great!"

Jacob Bernstein left in Peggy Siegal's car. The New Yorker's Nick Paumgarten may have left with William Berlind for stiffer drinks. Patrick McMullan's photographers would prove unable to identify Alex Kuczynski. Ivanka Trump left alone, and on foot, heading east on 52nd Street. —Doree

The mixture of financial types, publishing people, drink-cadging bloggers, and assorted hangers-on made for the kind of spectacle that, could they ever have conceived of it, would have made the Pilgrims decide that any kind of torture and oppression was better to endure than sailing to an unknown continent to lay the groundwork for a country that would, on some chilly evening in the early spring of one of the nation's most prosperous decades, put forth a party like this one. You hated loving hating to love being there, and you struggled to conceal yourself, and before you knew it you were being introduced to Jay McInerney and telling him that, yes, you were the one who called him "Douchebag, Jay Douchebag" on your silly little website, an admission he took with the calm demeanor of someone used to having complete strangers let him know that they had referred to him as a douchebag each time he made a new acquaintance. Which is to say he smiled, nodded, and then told a story about himself that, while amusing, did nothing to disprove the earlier judgment. Still, he was perfectly friendly, and was soon posing for pictures with young Vachon, who was outfitted in the standard blazer and underbuttoned shirt that seem to mark so many young men who have come into a great fortune via inheritance, the financial markets, or gigantic book deals. This was his room, this was his time, and everyone around him moved about with the constant awareness that they were in the presence of the season's Next Big Thing. He outshone the combined wattage of the thousand Next Little Things who scurried about the packed event trying to grab the oversized appetizers that were being passed around by harried buspeople.

Looking around you were overwhelmed by the stunning mediocrity of most of it. Did you see Nick Denton in the back, standing close—but not too close—to his former employee (and Mergers dedicatee) Elizabeth Spiers? Was that Radar resurrectionist Maer Roshan leaning back and carrying low in a conversation with a reporter from WWD? Who would win the battle of drunken WASP stereotypes with the surname Morgan, Hudson or Spencer? Could the News' Ben Widdicombe get in enough free wines before Cocktail's Jo Piazza finished the last bottle? Why weren't we informed that no one wears ties anymore? It's a sad day when publishing types are dressed better than the finance types, but it's even sadder when the bloggers are sporting neckwear.

There was a stunned moment of shocked ecstasy when, by the wall where Roshan deputy Chris Tennant was disgruntledly flirting, a full set of breasts came into view, their sparkly flesh somehow offering to extend and make good the promise of sex. Then, just as quickly you realized it was Julia Allison, and tried to think of puppies and babies, anything good and pure. It shouldn't have been a surprise to see her—she's everywhere, like ejaculate on a porn booth floor—but it seemed like as good a time as any to surf the crowd and find someone willing to offer a quote. I passed by Radar whatever Neel Shah, but I didn't need any advice on dating or taxicab etiquette or blogging for Glamour, so I moved on. Spotting literary agent David Kuhn, I introduced myself and told him I worked for Gawker, which was probably not a good idea.

"So David," I asked, "how do you feel about being Out magazine's fiftieth most powerful gay?"

"Is this for print?"

"Fuck yeah."

"Then just say I'm happy I wasn't the fifty-first." He then went on to say something extremely funny and extremely off the record about Out's Aaron Hicklin and, perhaps realizing that the last thing you want to do around an inebriated gossip blogger is start being candid, asked "Hey, do you want to meet the real Roger Thorne?"

Thorne is the "id" character of Mergers, an entitled, foul-mouthed, nip-slip-obsessed caricature of every Ivy League WASP who has done well in life due to family connections rather than any semblance of intelligence. How could I not want to meet the model? Kuhn, desperate to get rid of me lest he say something catty about Tina Brown, was happy to make the introductions and disappear.

"Dude, I love Gawker!" said the Thorne inspiration.

"Dude, I loved your character! How does it feel to be the model for Roger Thorne?"

"Dude, it's awesome! I mean, some of that stuff was exaggerated, but you know—" He suddenly grew wistful and displayed the kind of reticence with which the banker in the book was entirely unfamiliar. "I'd prefer that this isn't on Gawker. You know, I just want to have a good time."

I was started to feel that second stage of inebriation, the one where you know you have a good hour, if that, of comprehensibility left, so I nodded and shook his firm American hand and went out into the cool air to clear my head and fill my lungs with smoke. My head hurt from overindulgence in the drinks department and underindulgence on the solid side—we expect too much of alcohol and too little of hors d' uvre—but as I worked my way toward the door I swore I saw the only two women who work for Radar.

Outside was no better than in, except you could smoke and you were less likely to run into Nick Denton, who will pick random moments at parties to discuss the unnecessary technical changes he's forcing on your website and mutter ominously about post counts and generally just scare the shit out of you that you're going to be fired within the week. Managing Editor Choire Sicha was smoking—Managing Editor Choire Sicha is always smoking—and discussing the merits of Remnick v. Brown with Roshan, a longtime Brown partisan. Somewhere in the background I could hear the Canadian-accented tones of the Huffington Post's Rachel Sklar and her posse of Eat the Pressers. Balthazar habitu Lockhart Steele was chatting with New York Sun contributor Meghan Keane. Dealbreaker's John Carney hobbled about on one crutch. It occurred to me that these were the same fucking people I saw at work or in bars every day. I checked in with the people from Riverhead, who lamented the absence of Emily Gould since it left them unable to thank her for keeping the book so prominent in the cultural conversation.

Vachon approached once more. He was in excellent spirits, effusive with praise, modest in his own success, proud to point out the fine family members who had come to town for the celebration. Vachon told me how much my support for the novel meant to him, how my assessment of its flaws mirrored his own. He told me all this and my hand grew tighter around my drink. I stared at Dana blankly as I realized that having to write this report as an inconsistent dispatch in the style of his novel was going to be painful and time-consuming for me and anyone who had to read it. Then I felt warm liquid on my hand and looked at my tie and first noticed the thin trail of dark red that trickled down my jacket. I was spilling wine on myself and it became clear to everyone how drunk I was. It wasn't until I put the glass down and saw how the wine had pooled on my jeans and dripped down to my shoes, and how it came now more quickly, through my fingers, that, in the space of a final epiphany, I finally understood it all. I really need to switch to white; it stains less. —balk

• Nobody watched "I'm From Rolling Stone." [WWD]
  
• Google in a deal with CBS; don't get too excited, it's just radio for now. [MDN]
  
• Fox News: Ted Kennedy is a "hostile enemy" of the United States. [ThinkProgress]
  
• Some lady from the BBC named Managing Editor at HuffPo. No word on whether or not she's got a qualified rack. [Romenesko]
  
• Doug Brod named editor at Spin. [WWD]
  
• Judy Miller: fans in high places. [NYS]
  
• Blind Item: What scribe from a media-centric weekly publication was gatecrashed while covering a gossip columnist's birthday fiesta? It's not really daily news that sometimes people have to wait in line for the bathroom, but we hear that this journalist was observed over the transom trying to avoid the line by urinating off of the fire escape. The none-too-pleased host was concerned for his neighbors down under, and chided the young reporter until he turned pink-sheeted with embarrassment. [NYO, second item, "Ben Widdicombe Loves Weiners, Especially the One I Whipped Out On His Fire Escape"]

  [Image via]
  

The newly installed editor of Seventeen magazine, Ann Shoket, was [at Ben Widdicombe's birthday party], flanked by her publicist. "Ben is the most charming, most dashing .... "
Right, right, now what are you wearing?
"What? Oh no, I don't want to tell you that," she gasped. She wore a tube top and jeans. "Now I'm starting to get into trouble with my publicity department. They're like, 'Don't talk to anybody.'"
Her publicist, Scott Gorenstein, stepped in. "She's wearing an appropriate outfit for a humid evening in the East Village."

Ben Widdicombe Loves Wieners [NYO]

Earlier: Say Hello To The New 'Toos

• Soon, the Daily News will be all Widdicombe, all the time. Anyone know what ever happened to that Grove guy?
  
• Alex Kuczynski, fake writer? Or just lazy? [The Shophound]
  
• Ladies and gentlemen, presenting the new Star Jones. [Jossip]
  
• Malcolm Gladwell, defender of newspaper journalism. [Gladwell.com]
  
• The Times gets out of the TV biz. [AdAge]

Celebrity chef Mario Batali has been enjoying la dolce vita this summer, with late-night drinking sessions at the Spotted Pig.

During one recent bacchanal, which lasted almost until sunrise, the red-headed restaurateur told his companions he was leaving to "drop in on Courtney Love."

"He said that he 'often' drops in on her," said our man with the big ears.

We're going to dispense with all the obvious bits here (except the vomiting, which we've already done) and ask a serious question: How drunk does one have to be to not only admit that you're off to fuck Courtney Love, but that you've been fucking Courtney Love on a regular basis? Also, thank God the guy doesn't do the actual cooking at any of his restaurants anymore; we don't think we could ever eat anything he's touched again.

Chef Batali workin' on a side dish? [NYDN]

We know we spend our Independence Days barbecuing at a backyard in Cobble Hill, our Bastille Days enjoying drag queens and steaks frites at Florent, and our St. Patrick's Days as far as possible from Fifth Avenue. But having rarely been south of the Mason-Dixon line, let alone the equator, we have no idea how to celebrate today's momentous occasion. So we asked Daily News Gatecrasher Ben Widdicombe, Gawker's go-to guy on all things Aussie, for guidance. He was not particularly helpful:

"Crunk" is not really an Australian word, but it captures the spirit of the day.

We're hoping Benjy might provide more detailed guidance. In the meantime, we hope you'll join us in getting crunked, as the kids say, in honor of Widdicombe, Post editor Col Allan, and, of course, King Rupert Murdoch.

Or, you know, don't. 'Cause they're just a bunch of convicts, anyway.

Autralia: A Different Light [Australia.com]

Out Professionals, apparently "the nation's oldest and largest gay and lesbian business network" (one presumes it was this organizations Los Angeles chapter that coordinated the downfall of Michael Ovitz), tonight hosts "The Art of the Interview" with bicycling Voice gossip Michael Musto and stumbling News gossip Ben Widdicombe.

They'll be speaking at the Gay Center on West 13th Street, and it'll be your chance to learn how to elicit gems like "New Yorkers will probably rejoice that I go there" (as Widdicombe coaxed from a 72-year-old fashion designer for his most recent Gatecrasher column) and "I haven't seen Bareback Mountain" (as Phillip Seymour Hoffman says in this week's La Dolce Musto))).

One tip, tho: You'll want to get there early, as there's a cocktail hour first, from 6:30 to 7:30. It features "beverage bargains," and we're quite sure you'll want to be well lubricated before Widdicombe and Musto start fighting over the last discount Cosmo.

The Art of the Interview [Out Professionals]

What does matter, however, is what Hauslaib is up to now. As far as we understood it, editing Jossip was his main job, with extra income obtained by some occasional paper-shuffling around Radar. But now it seems Hauslaib has a new career plan, one far more lucrative: being Daily News gossip Ben Widdicombe's full-time ass-candy. It's the trajectory of champions.

Corynne Steindler Rides the J Train [Jossip]

[George W. Bush has] stimulated commerce by cutting taxes for small businesses, and he's defended the role of faith in American society by challenging Roe v. Wade, limiting government funding of stem cell research, and supporting a Constitutional amendment defining marriage between a man and a woman. [Nov. 2, 2004]

And:

The favorite cackle of critics of America and of Bush is that history will condemn their actions.... [L]et the new anti-Americans have their say now, because history will remember them with the same distaste as it remembers the isolationists of World War II, while America continues to be an agent of change and a bearer of liberty. [Mar. 11, 2005]

And, of course:

It is essential that we keep the government out of our daily lives and that we continue to fight terrorism around the world. It is essential that judges who interpret law rather than public opinion be appointed. [Nov. 2, 2004]

Also, if The Temp says it, it must be true: It seems Young Alito attended Colgate but has since transferred to UVA. And so we apologize to Widdicombe for stupidly and naively, as his colleague pointed out, suggesting he'd ever confuse his twinks.

Earlier:
Colgategate: Does Gatecrasher Confuse His College Boys?
Colgategate: Another Burger Drops

First, God made the heavens and earth. Then came Arby's, followed shortly by Carl Jr. and other inferior brands of fast food.

That he is a connoisseur of fast food is not a problem. (In fact, it, once again, redounds to his — and his father's — benefit, in our opinions.) The problem, however, is which fast food he prefers. Best we can tell from profiles of his father, Phil Alito was born and raised in West Caldwell, N.J. And we can assure you — speaking with some experience — that no one from Essex County, N.J., would ever cite Arby's and Carl's Jr. as their favorite fast-food spots. Jimmy Buff's and White Castle, maybe. Hot dogs at Stewarts and sloppy joes, maybe. Hell, even McDonald's and Burger King are plausible.

But here's the thing: There is no Carl's Jr. in New Jersey. (And almost no Arby's.)

The Forum [Colgate.edu, cached]
Earlier: Colgategate: Does Gatecrasher Confuse His College Boys?

According to [Alito's] editor's profile on the Web site of Colgate's student newspaper, The Forum: "I became interested in politics and got involved with Gary Condit (not like that). I served as a parking aide to Nancy Pelosi (I won't even start on her), but was fired when Barbara Boxer came onto me." Since when did college kids get so picky about sleeping with senators? No wonder the country's going to hell.

It's cute, and it suggests a family perhaps not predisposed toward fire and brimstone. There's just one problem, as slutty sister Wonkette noted this afternoon:

His comments have been scrubbed from the Colgate website and the current Phil Alito attends the University of Virginia, ensconced in a college-within-a-college on Monroe Hill. He's cleaned up a bit, too. And maybe changed the color of his eyes? We're not saying the Colgate Alito on the left is a different person than the UVa/White House Official Photo Alito on the right, we're just saying that the one on the left has a better sense of humor.

Sure there must be some explanation — a transfer? some sort of dual-degree program? indentically named cousins? Knowing how quickly Widdicombe can lose control of himself when confronted with reasonably attractive college-aged boys, we asked perhaps misled gossipeuse about Wonk's charge. His reply:

Sorry, I don't read Wonkette.

Which is not exactly a Millerishly stirring defense. And that may, in the end, be a good thing.

The Alito Offspring: A Blogger Investigation [Wonkette]
A Bride With Something Borrowed? [NYDN (last item)]

With Yellow Feathers in Her Hair [Uffish Thoughts]

Just like that, a new generation of gossip columnists are unleashed. You decide: is this coincidence the free tabloid market in action, or is it a carefully schemed bit of faux-competition, a calculated frisson of two gossip frenemies in action?
Elisa Lipsky-Karasz [NYP]
Extra, extra! [Michael Musto]

Not that I really blame him. Every other day of the year, his job sucks. Saying no to would-be fashionistas for even one day is probably enormously gratifying. And maybe next year, if he works really hard, he'll get to be the condescending door boy at the [secret undisclosed] Balenciaga show!

I'm not a fashionista at all, but I've discovered that it's basically impossible to write about celebrities and New York media without being somewhat aware of what's happening in the fashion world, so I decided to suck it up and make some attempt to go to something remotely 7th-on-Sixth-y. Project Alabama's Friday night show seemed appropriate because the designer, Natalie Chanin, is from Alabama—as am I—and her entire line consists of pieces that are handmade by Alabama quilters. I've been harboring a conspiracy theory for months that Alabamians are taking over New York, and this just seemed like more damning evidence.

I got the "if you must" nod from the door boy and headed up the stairs of Bowlmor Lanes to the main floor. They did the actual show shortly after the party started and I missed it. (The only thing I do fashionably is arrive late.) The models were still running/stumbling/dancing around in various Project Alabama creations accessorized with fishnet stockings, Marlboro reds, and nondescript hipster boy hanger-ons that were frequently removed or exchanged for new ones.

I grabbed a much-needed glass of wine and tried to appear approriately self-absorbed and vapid. Page Six columnist Richard Johnson was enthusiastically bowling in a lane a few yards from the entrance, stopping every few seconds to shake hands or air-kiss an acquaintance. (Wife Nadine's PR firm was managing the event.) Johnson, in system-administrator casual, looked even less hip than I did and I briefly felt more secure about my choice of 1999 Diesel and three-year-old Moschino, which had been determined largely by laundry done—or not done, rather—in the five days prior. (My recent transition from the hedge fund world to the lucrative world of freelance journalism has adjusted my fashion tastes for available disposable income, and now run more toward Gap Clearance Couture and this season's East Village Thrift Store.)

I actually liked Chanin's stuff, although the pieces all have the trademark unconventional stitching which makes it impossible to fathom buying more than one item. There are different designs, but only one "look." The seams are on the outside of the jackets, corsets, shirts, etc., and the loose threads are left hanging. My Alabama grandmother would be horrified at the needlework, which in some adolescent way, probably explains why I thought they were cute.

The only real "Alabama" fashion on display was the ubiquitous "truck driver" cap—the baseball caps with the mesh backs and the foam fronts most popularly worn in John Deere green, with the actual tractor-company logo. I wish this stupid trend would die. I've started making mental notes of places spotted and number of occurances. Three at the Project Alabama show. Two at the Vice party at Sweet and Vicious for [That Band Whose Name I Can't Remember] that Natasha Lyonne left to go hang out across the street at Cafe Lebowitz with non truck-driver-capped people like Yoko Ono.** And, of course, the daily infestations of truck-driver-capped hipsters in my East Village neighborhood. In other parts of the country people are unironically wearing the same hats as they gingerly place their Remington 700 rifles into the gun racks in the cabs of their four-wheel drive pickups, aligning them perfectly with the Confederate flag stickers that say "Heritage; Not Hate." This alone should make New Yorkers feel ridiculous about wearing them, but apparently it doesn't. Drunken people in bowling alleys, incidentally, also remind me of Alabama, but in an entirely different way.

The popularity of the horrendous truck-driver caps seems to be the cyclical result of the usual Veblenian fashion world economics where lower-class fashions imitate upper-class fashions—until the lower-class fashions start looking a little too much like upper class fashions and the elites start imitating the lower classes to differentiate themselves from the bourgeois scum. Or maybe people are just tasteless and stupid.

The DJ started playing a weird mix of "Sweet Home Alabama" and various dance anthems that basically consisted of stopping one song abruptly and starting another one, then repeating. It seems the "mix" part of the "mix" concept was completely lost on him. Lynyrd Skynyrd in a New York dark bowling alley crawling with 20 Debbie Harry look-alikes, one Debbie Harry (or so I'm told), and an assortment of stilettoed fashionistas, drag queens, fashion "journalists," and "industry" people was too surreality much for me. The black lights and the balloons were getting to me as well. I grabbed my coat, said hi to Ben "I'm boycotting fashion week!" Widdicombe on the way out and headed to an East Village bar to have a much more enjoyable four-hour round of drinks with a friend who subsequently suggested that it might be a good idea for me to recover my southern accent. (You first, Tennessee boy.)

**It recently occured to me that when I do spot celebrities, I should perhaps note as much on Gawker.

Missed first time round: a profile of the Aussie guys behind Chic Happens, the fashion industry gossip site. These were the guys who posted up a synopsis of Plum Sykes's new novel. Even after Miramax, the publisher, intervened, the text was available on the Google cache, but it's now disappeared.
Interview with Ben Widdicombe [Guardian]
Chic Happens [Hint]