Yet more from the ongoing custody battle between Charlie Sheen and Denise Richards, which began as a shame-free environment, and has quickly degenerated from there: Richards has now employed a former nanny to make several nauseating allegations about Sheen inappropriately touching his daughters. Not that he's all bad: She also acknowledges that Charlie has made an effort at mending fences, particularly with the following retraction:

As the hung Phil Spector jury, sufficiently confused by the judge's introduction and subsequent retraction of instructions, retires again to the jury room to resume deliberations (this time armed with 12 foam marital-therapy bats), a mini-controversy has erupted:

Highest paid pom-pom-fetishist in television Charlie Sheen appeared in family court yesterday, defending himself against ex-wife Denise Richards, who sought to have overnight visits with their toddler-aged children revoked. As evidence, she once again warned the judge that they could be irreversibly scarred after stumbling onto his now well-known stash of bookmarked pep squad internet porn pages:

This morning brings news that will sadden and shock Hollywood (OK, perhaps it won't exactly shock anyone), as universally beloved, pub-crawling, America-saving rogue Kiefer Sutherland was popped for a DUI last night in West L.A., having reportedly fallen prey to the trap that has claimed untold celebrity lightweights unfit to freshen up his whiskey glass: the illegal U-turn in the sightline of a waiting police cruiser.

Director John McTiernan, of Die Hard, Predator, and paying Anthony Pellicano to illegally wiretap his Rollerball producing partner fame, was today sentenced to four months in jail after a judge decided not to allow him to withdraw his guilty plea based on his new attorney's attempted "my client was too jet-lagged/drunk/medicated to know what he was saying when that FBI agent grilled him" defense, according to the LAT:

To be honest, we thought the Bahamas' authorities had undertaken their Daniel Smith inquest months ago, having concluded that the substance Howard K. Stern was spotted nervously disposing of down a hospital toilet moments after Anna Nicole's son's suspicious death must have been jars of his own collected tears, in anticipation of the strength he'd be required to show in the weeks to come. As it turns out, the much-delayed inquest is just about to get underway:

What we had presumed would take a matter of hours—the handing down of a guilty verdict upon Phil Spector, after an endless parade of witnesses took to the stand to testify about his gun-toting and woman-hating rock n' roll-pioneer ways—is now dragging into its second week, the jury still deadlocked 7-5. To muddle matters further, Judge Larry Paul Fidler has revoked a highly technical instruction that rendered the hung tribunal (and us) thoroughly confused. The defense is now asking him to clarify what it is he meant when he said that Spector didn't need to be holding the gun to be found guilty of murder:

Disgraced flashcore mogul Joe Francis, currently occupying a cell at the Washoe County Detention Center outside Reno as he awaits trial on tax evasion, appears to have taken full advantage of the facility's popular Inmate Web Development program and fashioned an impressive internet presence for himself. Starting today, Meet Joe Francis lends the visionary behind the Girls Gone Wild drunken co-ed tittie-baring empire a platform for everything from a 10-page legal defense to a personal biography in which he nostalgically recalls first jobs, first cars, and first prom dates rendered drunk enough to capture topless with a Polaroid. News of the launch came through the following e-mail, in which Francis urges his outrage-deficient friends and colleagues to help reverse a travesty of justice foisted upon an honorable man guilty of nothing more than loving a good time:

And whatever became, you've not asked yourselves, of Sean Stewart—that puckish heir to the Rod Stewart fortune, who enjoyed a brief moment of notoriety by capitalizing on his boyish good looks and third-grade reading comprehension skills, only to see his leisurely world come tumbling down around him thanks to some hurled masonry outside a Hollywood Hills party? A judge has ruled the case will go to trial:

The Phil Spector jury still sits deadlocked, one faction firmly convinced the pouffy-wigged eccentric shot Barbarian Queen star Lana Clarkson in the mouth, the other feeling Spector was merely the victim of a convoluted self-murder plot for which he'd unwittingly provide a suicide-friendly foyer and firearm. Presiding Judge Larry Paul Fidler, meanwhile, in his ongoing attempts to shake some clear-minded consensus into the divided group, has opted not to offer the option of a reduced sentence of manslaughter:

· Simpson was released today on $125,000 bail. He also had his passport confiscated, though he'll be able to travel within the U.S., by air, rail, or very slowly moving SUV. [Reuters]
· Simpson's lawyer Yale Galanter said his client would enter a plea of not guilty to the charges, which, by way of review, are "conspiracy to commit a kidnapping, coercion with a deadly weapon, burglary while in possession of a deadly weapon, conspiracy to commit robbery and two counts each of first-degree kidnapping with use of a deadly weapon." [LAT]

Shocking a world that expected it to return the first ever official "So fucking guilty. I mean, come on, look at that guy!" verdict in the history of American jurisprudence, the jury in the Phil Spector murder trial today instead informed the court that it was unable to reach a verdict in the case. Perhaps suspecting that a number of his jurors had somehow been exposed to the mesmerizing, reasonable-doubt-instilling stare of Team Spector's sad-eyed Great Dane, Judge Larry Paul Fidler sent them home for the day, hoping that they'll return in a more unanimously decisive mood tomorrow. Reports the LAT:

A reinvigorated Fred Goldman, eager to capitalize on his $33.5 million 1997 civil suit ruling against O.J. Simpson, was undoubtedly pleased to learn If I Did It—the hypothetical double-murder confession whose ghostwriter claims is anything but hypothetical—is a hot enough seller to garner a second printing. With Simpson's promotional tie-in of an arrest, Goldman's eyeballs again transformed into spinning dollar signs, as he hoped a judge would award him the much-contested memorabilia at the center of the Palace Station armed robbery—a request the judge rejected:

Out from the ranks of Britney Spears' security detail—a platoon of handsome, tight-lipped mannies who obligingly intervene whenever they stumble upon their boss inadvertently tossing an infant son into the dryer with a basket of wet bikini components—rises a lone voice: Tony Barretto, a gargantuan, 28-year-old father of two, was assigned to protect the fallen pop star from the time she left Promises in March until May 17 of this year. In that time, he claims he witnessed Spears engaged in all manner of illicit and naked-making activities not befitting a mother, which he was prepared to describe for a judge at yesterday's custody hearing:

You were likely unable to focus on anything since we alerted you to the fact that Kevin Federline's life may be in danger: a distressing scenario that conjured the image of a coldblooded assassin silently stalking the lovable pimp as he lay unsuspecting on his couch, improving his already ridiculous Major League Baseball 2K7 game. And then there was the question of method: Would it be 45 caliber hollow point bullet, choke wire, Escalade bomb, or Gay Vito-brand pool cue? Thankfully, none at all, as Us magazine reports that the threat was deemed not credible by the FBI:

We're still in a mild state of shock, having learned that someone—anyone—would want Kevin Federline snuffed. But that appears to be the case, as Entertainment Tonight is reporting that a price has been put on K-Fed's head:

In time to find himself the subject of Emmy acceptance speeches delivered by extremely grateful late night talk show monologue writers, itinerant golfer and bestselling confessional co-author O.J. Simpson was arrested late yesterday morning for his alleged armed robbery of a sports memorabilia dealer in a Vegas hotel room Thursday night. A round-up of the latest developments:

As much of the world spent their Monday evenings funneling turpentine into their ears, hoping the primitive technique might somehow wash away the indelible vision of Larry Birkhead and Howard K. Stern engaged in "a compromising, intimate position," the two men figuring most prominently in the outrageous claims made by Rita Cosby's new book have begun to fight back. A round-up:
· On a Larry King Live guest-hosted by TMZ's Harvey Levin, Birkhead again dismissed the allegations made in the book, insisting it belongs next to "Harry Potter in the fiction aisle," among "similar, made-up acts of wizard-on-wizard depravity." [transcripts.cnn.com]

Perhaps more acutely aware of the personal peril that comes with Hollywood-pretty-boy status following yesterday's disturbing report about Brad Pitt's chilling near-hugging by a crazed Italian fan, actor and recent UN Peace Day ambassador Jude Law was arrested Tuesday after allegedly assaulting a photographer near his home in London. While the official police statement following the incident declined to name the star, its curious description of the attacker as "a 34-year-old man from Maida Vale so handsome that this officer found himself secretly wanting to grab a camera and see if the appealingly boyish rogue would rough me up a bit if I asked to take his picture," a slip that allowed the British tabloid press to make a positive identification of the paparazzo's celebrity assailant.

Nothing says "I'm just doing this out of the goodness of my gentle heart" than throwing a temper tantrum over someone allegedly walking off with your charity idea. Such is the tangled, twisted web Geena Davis seems to be weaving; the details are admittedly a little confusing, but according to USA Today, Davis appears to be suing two Minnesota residents for selfishly hogging all her philanthropic glory: