OK, this time, it could be legit. Accepting the Cecil B. DeMille lifetime achievement award for her old friend Woody Allen (who doesn't do award shows), Diane Keaton was bleeped for saying, "Goddamn," and who knows what else. She then burst into song — "Make New Friends," to be precise. The song is a Girl Scouts anthem, which could be real deep shade thrown at a man whose taste in younger relatives is well known. Or maybe she's drunk. Or maybe she's just an eccentric veteran actress who felt like singing a song.

She certainly wanted you to think she was plastered. Nice martini glass!

Legendary actress Jacqueline Bisset just picked up the Golden Globe for Best Supporting Performance in a Series, Miniseries, or Television Film for her work in the BBC/Starz series Dancing on the Edge. It took Bisset almost a minute to get to the stage after her name was announced, and then, once there, she spent several more seconds attempting to form words. Lip-smacking, a censorship fail (she slipped a "shit" through), and a message to the haters ("Go to hell and don't come back") ensued. They attempted to play her off, and she just refused to listen to the music and went right on babbling. What a woman.

Interest in celebrity culture has been "crucial to the evolutionary success of our species." That's right: reading Defamer just might mean you're more evolved.

You know what they say about retarded celebrity baby names: They always come in threes. Geena Davis did her part after Gwyneth's star turn by squeezing out twin boys, then saddling them with the names Kian and Kaiis. On any other day, we might have harped on the matching K names, the superflous "i" jammed into the latter rugrat's name, and speculated that she's consigned the kids to at best a Doublemint commercial and at worst a career at Chippendale's. But we'll leave Davis alone. She clearly choked under the massive pressure to come up with something truly asinine after Paltrow's breathtaking achievement in produce-department nomenclature.

Fresh off its first-to-press victory in the Graydon Carter sweepstakes, the NYT delivers another huge scoop: Out of work screenwriters infest LA's coffee shops.

Did you ever have the sneaking feeling that behind the face of your favorite actress was a matrix of circuitry and a tangle of wires? Worth1000.com has a gallery of celebrities Photoshopped into cyborgs. Chilling. And, disturbingly, kind of hot. We're overtaken with an urge to proposition our blender.

While pinky-membered hubby Arnold is busy governating and shilling for wacky, Japanese concerns, California First Lady Maria Shriver will sell jewelry depicting the state's landmarks, such as the Golden Gate Bridge, the Hollywood sign, and carvings of actors getting blowjobs from hookers that they may or may not know are trannies. Click the image to the left to see the bracelet in all of its glory.

...A delusion that they're going to make it in this town and prove their drama coach back in Skokie wrong? A pair of enhanced breasts that make men wistful for beach balls? No, everyone has a car, silly! The new L.A. Weekly dedicates itself to the city's love affair with the automobile. Pick up the LAW's car issue and you'll learn fun facts like the BMW 760Li is known in Hollywood circles as the "Jew Canoe," or pour over articles with subtitles like "The Blinging of Los Angeles." But don't let all of the car coverage let your four-wheeled passion get too heated. No one wants you singeing your "gear-shift knob" on your ride's tailpipe.

What happens when your glossy magazine tries to throw a party filled with celebrities and nobody shows up? You still have your shitty party, and pretend to be thrilled that Jonathan Silverman took time off from watching The Single Guy reruns on A&E long enough to drink your free booze. An attendee details the low-light carnage at last night's Los Angeles Confidential magazine's party at—yes, you're reading this correctly—a Beverly Hills Mercedes dealership. Note to L.A. Confidential: This crowd would've chewed off your arm for a cash bar at Hollywood Geo.

"Seriously, honeybunny. Did that motherfuckin' frog look at you? Because I will fuck that Gallic escargot motherfucker up, okay?"

Is this the face of someone who gets into a standoff with a SWAT team? Greg Burson, the voice actor behind cartoon characters such as Yogi Bear, Bugs Bunny, and Elmer Fudd, had an intoxicated showdown with the LAPD last night after a possible kidnapping call brought police to his Los Angeles home, according to the NY Post. The standoff ended without anyone getting hurt, although one of the women Burson was holding in the house said he had guns. Thank God The Simpsons cast got what they wanted, because an incident with Homer would have certainly ended in bloodshed.

This week's huge Electronic Entertainment Expo (E3) attracts the area's civilian nerds for the video game convention and Hollywood's celebrity lushes for the boozy parties. A reader sends this report from last night's star-studded Playstation 2 event at the Mayan Belasco Theater (you'd think that Sony was debuting a high-end vodka for all of the drunken antics going on):

The Edmonton Journal's Misty Harris examines the phenomenon of anonymous/pseudonymous supposed-celebrity bloggers such as Rance, asking pointy-headed types like a sociologist, a pop-culture-expert college professor, and a "noted expert of celebrity fandom" why the famous might want to engage in stealth-blogging. Predictably, they come up with the sort of goatee-stroking jibber-jabber we'd expect to hear from such experts: they want to project characters and court intimacy with fans, and so on.

For those of you who would accuse us of suggesting that Los Angeles is entirely populated by B-list actors, wannabe screenwriters, and obscenely rich producers hiding behind electrified fences in Bel Air: We now have an account that proves that L.A. has at least one professional basketball coach and one crazy homeless guy:

Perhaps the only thing creepier than our America's recent obsession with the jailbait movies dominating the recent entertainment landscape is some guy applying practical mathematics to the quantitative comparison of said jailbait stars' talent levels. Blog The Snoozeletter crunches the numbers:

Poor Scientology. Kabbalah's the inclusionary spiritual inspiration society* getting all the press these days, supposedly marrying off Demi and Ashton, inspiring Britney to get gibberish Hebrew tattoos, and hawking Madonna's awful children's book. But L.A. Voice's Mack Reed spent his Mother's Day brunching at the Scientology Celebrity Centre, sampling the decor, and somehow escaping without a strange urge to give John Travolta ten percent of his salary:

Are you like the roughly one million, bright-eyed ingenues who arrive in the fine city of Los Angeles each day, and want to make it in Hollywood? If so, don't unpack those suitcases just yet! You can hop right back onto a plane and fly to New York to attend actress Illeana Douglas' Knowledge Now seminar on "How To Make It In Hollywood."

With tonight's hour-long finale of sitcom and Bonafide Cultural Phenomenon Friends, we fully expected the critics to work themselves into a lather explaining What Friends Meant. We were not disappointed.