With Aaron now out of the picture, and her children having either flown the coop and/or waging bitter tabloid battles against her, rumors have arisen that Candy Spelling is looking to dump the famed 56,500-square-foot Holmby Hills mansion the family has called home since the late 1980s. TMZ.com was first to report the estate was on the market, priced at a Sultan-friendly $150 million, but a quick denial was issued, and TMZ updated their story, specifying it was a "pocket listing." (Which, from as best as we can gather, is a listing on the downlow.) Today's LAT addresses what a sale like this would mean to the obnoxiously overpriced real estate market:

As Tori Spelling continues to sit shivah for her departed father in her own, special way (less garment rending and low-seat sitting, more fabulous Us Weekly cover exclusives!), the woman who once pampered Tori with artificial snow and the finest midget fashions, mother Candy Spelling, has issued a statement in response to Tori's claims that she was never notified of her father's death. (Warning: Those among you with any lingering shreds of human decency should proceed with caution.)

Lest Aaron Spelling capture all of the deceased showbiz veteran attention, we take this moment to also mourn the passing of Moose, better known to millions as Eddie, Frasier's Jack Russell terrier. (He was also the title character in My Dog Skip, making him a handy, rarely used card to pull out in matches of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.) Like something out of a Wallace and Gromit movie, the talented, mischievous Moose could steal an entire scene from under Kelsey Grammer's nose with nothing more than dead silence and subtle cock of his head. His trainer, Mathilde Halberg, shared how he managed to shake the stigma of being a convicted cat-murderer and go on to become the toast of Hollywood:

By now surely you have heard that Aaron Spelling, the TV-producing giant who popularized cruise-directing cupids, wish-granting midgets, and John Forsythe's disembodied, mission-deploying voice, died Friday evening at the age of 83, after having a stroke last weekend. In order to help you make sense of the LAT's considerable Spelling R.I.P. coverage, a round-up:
· Their obit relates some of the dramatic highs and lows of Spelling's life. Among the lows: A Variety headline that read "Aaron Spelling's Dynasty is Dead," with no quotes around "Dynasty," and being called a "Jewbaby" in his youth. (Little known fact: Charlie's Angels' original title was Stanley's Jewbabies, but network suits bristled at the ethnic implications.)
· 7th Heaven creator Brenda Hampton, a show executive produced by Spelling, shares some of his more intimate quirks, including his habit of calling everyone "lover," and his bourgeois tastes (he liked Chinatown knockoff-wear and In-N-Out burgers).

A small plane accident has claimed the life of Peter Tomarken the wry, affable game show host who warned countless times not to Press Your Luck too far, lest you lose everything to those tiny, malicious red demons known as "Whammies":

The weekend saw the passing of two great figures from the American comedy pantheon: Don Knotts, known for brilliant caricatures of nebbish self-effacement, and Darren McGavin, a versatile actor best remembered for his cursing, authoritarian though equally ineffective turn as Ralphie's "Old Man" in A Christmas Story. The two would have made the perfect comic pairing, and sure enough, they did appear alongside one another in two lesser known Disney movies from the 1970s. Though Barney Fife is arguably Knott's best role, for us, it's the swinging and sniffing leisure-suited landlord Mr. Furley with which he will forever be associated. With John Ritter, Norman Fell, and now Knotts gone, we can only imagine Richard Kline, aka Larry, is feeling the uneasy combination of relief, melancholy and isolation that comes with being Three's Company's last surviving male.

A moment's silence, please, for the passing yesterday of Shelley Winters, an actress who quickly and cannily found her niche in the Hollywood casting pecking order (dumpy, loud, shrewish broads) and rode it to a five-decade career and two Oscars. But while most obituaries remind us merely of her many unforgettable screen performances in classics like A Place in the Sun, Stanley Kubrick's Lolita, and The Poseidon Adventure, it's the NY Times that highlights the other role for which she will long be remembered: Insatiable, bed-hopping man eater!

Veteran character actor Vincent Schiavelli, aka the morgue-visiting science teacher Mr. Vargas from Fast Times at Ridgemont High, died of lung cancer yesterday at the too-young age of 57. He was a man whose name you may not remember but whose face you most certainly could never forget. His large, droopy features, at the same time kindly and creepy, conjured someone you might sooner meet wandering the spiraling staircases of a medieval Romanic monastery than the sunny streets of LA. From the NY Post obituary:

We're a little late on these death notices, but we thought that if we threw in this headline about the already-deceased Lucille Ball, we might trick the Celebrity Reaper into thinking he's already claimed the inevitable third victim before he ruined someone else's weekend.