Here's a story! Once upon a time a bad gal-pal told a 16-year-old girl that she knew this rich guy who helped girls become models. (A note from the real world: There are no older men who help girls become models. Except maybe Nigel Barker, fashion photographer and "America's Next Top Model" judge.) And so the girl showed up at this guy's huge house, up at 71st and 5th Avenue. She had brought photos of herself. The guy was wearing a bathrobe! He took her about the house, showing off the chandeliers and the gaudy crystal ball on the spiral staircase, and a statue of a dog and its poop. But oh noes! He also had a massage room!

Got ish? Our girl Tionna Tee Smalls, a noted blogger and author, is here to advise you. Ask away! This week, Tionna heard from some people who can't get over the past.

When it was reported that a couple of hoods had jumped Air America talk show host Randi Rhodes and knocked out some of her teeth, leftists and wobblies cried foul. "Right wing hate machine!" said John Elliot, a fellow host on AAR. Maybe there is one of those but Air America has retracted its claim that she was mugged at all. "On Sunday evening, October 14, Air America host Randi Rhodes experienced an unfortunate incident hindering her from hosting her show. The reports of a presumed hate crime are unfounded." Poor Randi! But maybe, suggests a reader, it was an alcohol crime?

Reports are filtering in that Air America host Randi Rhodes was severely beaten Monday night while walking her dog on 39th and Park. "Rhodes was beaten up pretty badly, losing several teeth and will probably be off the air for at least the rest of the week," writes Talking Radio. Air America, when reached for comment on the listener call-in line, said, "We don't want to feed the inaccurate rumor mill. Also, we don't know." Though the attacks haven't been reported elsewhere, Rhodes' website does mention that she isn't feeling well and has gone as far as creating a little church sign to that effect. Sam Seder is filling in for her. Murky!

In what has evolved into an unofficial Hollywood Woman's Week of sorts—to culminate in a massive bra-burning protest staged around The Grove's dancing waters tonight at 8 (trashing of the Nike Goddess store to follow)—we now turn to arguably the most formidable strata of showbiz vagina-havers: the wives. The LAT chugs along in a cooking-oil-powered pickup with green warrior Kelly Meyer, wife of Universal's Ron, learning much about what Hollywood wives are doing to help save the world along the way:

Know why we are special? Because while Atlantan internet-dating nightmare John Fitzgerald Page only saw fit to address you via an open letter on his website, he sent us a personal message with the subject line, "My official response." It has all the elements that made the original email to a woman who'd rejected his advances on Match.com so attention gettingly douchey, but instead of telling us how fat and ugly we must be because we don't want to date him, he explains to us that we're lucky he's not getting his "legal team involved."

Nightmare online dater and "no fat chicks" policy-haver John Fitzgerald Page has updated his website. "Stalin. Hitler. Bin Laden. John Fitzgerald Page. Somehow, I am ranked at #1. My crime - murder? treason? pedophilia? rape? No, worse. A woman winked at me on the internet. I sent her an introdutory email. She tried to rescind her initial wink by saying we weren't a "personality" match . She ascertained that from my first email without ever speaking to me. Here is my crime. Instead of just letting her float away, I let her know that I feel that if you approach me, you should meet my standards and listed facts about myself." IT GOES ON: "The public hanging of me is making many of you happy. The catch-22 for you is that no publicity is bad publicity. I am getting offers for things - movies, books, TV shows. I have turned down every request." DO READ IT.

Sure, we could all just sit around and gripe about the sorry state of affairs for women writers, directors, producers, and studio execs in 2007 Hollywood, but Glamour magazine, in conjunction with Clinique Happy ("So that you might find the man that will one day make you Happy!"™), have actually done something about it. The concept is simple:

Back in July, DJ Samantha Ronson filed a defamation suit against folks who said she'd placed coke in Lindsay Lohan's car. (For those just tuning in, Lindsay Lohan is a rising young starlet and a staple of wholesome Disney films.) Blogger Perez ("Mario Lavandeira") Hilton's posting said that Ronson "planted drugs that were found in Lohan's car after it crashed into a tree in Beverly Hills on May 26, and that she set up her friend to be photographed while under the influence of alcohol," according to AP. For a defamation claim, she must prove somehow that he acted with malice. Says Perez's attorney: "If Ms. Ronson is attempting to get some sort of relief in court and to show that Mario Lavandeira had any malice, I think she's going to a hardware store for milk. It's just not going to happen." Where did they find this guy? Ms. Ronson also stated that she has never "handled" cocaine.

Hey, remember that wannabe i-banker douchebag Alexsey Vayner and his insanely braggy resume video? Do you recall Eric Schaeffer, the failed writer/director who hates women and blogs about how he can't believe he's still single? Well, what if they met and married and through some breakthrough in medical science had a baby? He would probably grow up to be something along the lines of Atlanta's John Fitzgerald Page, who in addition to working in corporate finance, being a part-time trainer, and being available for work as a "costumed character" or a "stand-in," also somehow finds the time in his day to be a colossal, mindbogglingly douchey douchebag to girls he meets on Match.com!

So, Tuesday night, former Seventeen editor and current girly-empire-building MySpace queen Atoosa Rubenstein goes to ridiculous Lower East Side hotspot The Box. Some trannies were doing a show, with some person of indeterminate gender stripping for a midget and simulating fellatio. (Louche times!) The climax of the act: Shim/herm stands up and has what looks like ejaculate running down his/her face. Atoosa is in a booth right in front of the stage there. And the M.C. says, "See, girls, this is why you should always swallow." And then looks right at Atoosa, and says, "You don't look like you swallow. You look like a guzzler."

Michael Wallent, a general manager at Microsoft, will return to work in January as Megan Wallent. He came out to colleagues as transgender last month, first in person and then by email. Wallent says he encountered nothing but support — mixed, of course, with some awkward curiosity. That's unremarkable. Microsoft is located in the progressive Pacific Northwest, where one's less likely to raise an eyebrow at Wallent's self-discovery and more likely to worry about the politically correct term to describe it. (For the record, "sex change" is considered derogatory by many; the preferred word is "transitioning.") He's unlikely to encounter blatant transphobia on the job. He should worry instead about plain old-fashioned sexism. How will Wallent's developers react when they come to work on January 2 and it hits them: They're working for a girl?

Blogger and author Tionna Tee Smalls is here to help you get your head right. This week she takes on a problem that has nothing to do with romance: getting treated like crap by one's employer! We're all ears. Got a question for Tionna? Ask!

Even though Showtime's Weeds doesn't lend itself to fun gimmicks like fountains bubbling with the blood of the freshly slaughtered, the series is doing what it can to lure in new subscribers with promotional stunts of its own, like casting a recently decoupled Olsen Twin as a fledgling drug-dealer who believes Jesus has sent her forth to get the world really, really high.

One of the things about being a stay-at-home writer is that you have perhaps a little bit too much time to peruse and write blogs! We were reminded of this by chick lit author Jennifer Weiner's rant in the comments of the Times' 'Paper Cuts' blog, which she continued on over at her own blog 'Snark Spot' (really). She has a bone to pick with an author who'd yearningly mentioned her books' consistent presence on bookstore shelves. "Be careful what you wish for, oh shelfmate o' mine! If you wrote chick lit—provided it was any good—you would indeed find your books on the shelf of most every store. But your books would not be reviewed twice by the Times."

"I will be the first to say that I have had a charmed life. I get to travel to places and have adventures that most people don't. I get to design handbags and walk runways. So why not write about it?" asks 21-year-old William Randolph Hearst estate heiress and Heatherette muse Lydia Hearst. Well! Because you're not a writer? Though we suppose that has never stopped anyone before. Also, Lydia has some unexpected pearls of actual wisdom to disperse. Unsurprisingly, though, they are set into the same Page Six Magazine column-jewel as several totally Kenneth Jay Lane fake pearls of complete and utter retardation. Which is which is for you to decide.

An ex-Glamourite fills in the blanks for us regarding former beauty editor and blogger Ashley Baker, whose "racist" hair statements seem to have made it not possible for her to keep her job. Ashley's straightforward writing and weight-honesty may have been honorable, but those assets don't seem to have engendered her fellow employees' loyalty.

After months of tsurris and anxiety, last night's finale of Top Chef was sweet vindication and much needed reassurance that all is right in the world. Hung, a villain to some but a hero to us, won the title of Season Three Top Chef. (Also, weirdly, he shared what seemed like a passionate kiss with Food and Wine's Gail Simmons.) The episode was noteworthy for more than that! The show was also an argument against the democratic process. Wait! For the democratic process.

Needless to say, tonight's "Top Chef" finale is one of the biggest moments of our lives. (That chart should make things perfectly clear just how big.) But does tonight's show have wider, more geopolitical ramifications?

Hey, strippers, wanna max out your earnings? Stop taking birth control! That's the conclusion drawn from a recent University of New Mexico study showing that exotic dancers "made about $70 an hour during their peak period of fertility, versus about $35 while menstruating and $50 in between." Pill-popping pole performers, however, averaged almost twenty dollars less than their nonspermicidal-wombed colleagues, which the study suggests is a result of the pill's "hormonal cues indicating early pregnancy." To research this very important subject, psychologist Geoffrey Miller "tapped the talent at local gentlemen's clubs and counted tips made on lap dances," which, to us at least, makes Geoffrey Miller perhaps the greatest psychologist ever. If you can convince someone to shell out grant money so you can spend your afternoons hanging out with Dakota and Stormee at the Titty Trap you are pretty much tops in your (or any) field.