So how did the Gossip Girl kids spend their summer vacation? The wicked New York teen soapers spent it growing like weeds (Jenny! Erik! so big!) and meeting British lords and somehow boning older ladies and forgetting how to act (but not how to glower) and meandering their way right back to where we started. This was all evidenced by last night's kinda zippy, mostly fun, but slightly off-tone second season premiere, which reunited us with old and somewhat-changed friends (just like the ends of real summer vacations! oh that strange and ineffable sadness!) and introduced several new stories whose details I'm sure we'll skim, like tiny bugs over deep pools of water, for these first yawning and stretching new episodes. If I sound a little underwhelmed it's only because I think the show's PR machine consistently sets up impossibly high standards for this usually well-written, only minimally well-directed teen soap. How can the show itself ever hope to live up to the genius poster ads, or the scintillatingly brief TV spots? The show itself is fine, good enough even, but the ad campaigns are just so, so much better. Anyway, that media critique aside, things actually did happen! Jenny spent the summer toiling away—like a blonde, statuesque, well-fed Asian child in a factory—for Eleanor Waldorf's clothing line, while that lady who used to be on Law & Order: SVU towered over her, making her sort buttons. But Jenny had a dress and it was pretty in a Lemoncake Stupid Society way and she wanted to go the Hamptons White Party (no not the "cool" Diddy one, the lame and sparsely-attended one thrown by Vitamin Water) so so so bad. Enter the genially useless gay token Erik van der Woodsen, who was still mad at her about something or other but decided to put her "on probation" and escort her to the gala. They got to meet Tinsley Mortimer! But, more on that later. Meanwhile in Humphrey wanna hump hump land, Dan's summer writing internship involved more making out in liberry stacks while Jay McInerney read aloud from a 25-year-old novel than it did actually, you know, writing. See the problem is, these empty girls he was snogging just weren't his muses. That would be Serena (who later on in the episode was dressed in an awfully Grecian, muse-like outfit), his months-long-lost love who disappeared into the summer green abstract of the Hamptons after their relationship crumbled due to murder and lies and drunkenness. Though fired from his internship for not producing any writing, Dan decided to head to the Hamptons to pursue his love and his story. Speaking of that green abstract, give the cinematographer(s) a raise for the beautiful sunlight-through-Hamptons-trees motif used throughout the episode's establishing shots. Just lovely. Not as lovely were Serena's mopey, increasingly who-the-fuck-cares face and Nate's embarrassing attempt at a meaningful character arc: eldersex. OK, hah hah I kid the lady wasn't old, she was like thirty-five. But the story was so wan and weak. It just felt like such a toss-off by the writers, making it even sadder than usual to watch Chace Crawford try to mold his porcelain face into believable facial expressions and say lines like the way real people say them. He tried, though. Even through that ridiculous are-they-trying-extra-hard-to-make-him-gay creamish cardigan of his, he tried. Serena and Dan were reunited at the White Party, of course, and, through a series of unfortunate events, ended up meeting cute on the beach, Serena in goddess/muse mode, Dan looking like a chorus boy from South Pacific. Thus begins another year of living completely not dangerously. As for the most interesting characters, Blair and Chuck, they had another little pas de deux of double crosses and deceptions. Well, OK, that makes it sound a little more exciting than it actually was. Mainly Blair trotted a fake boyfriend in front of Chuck, successfully trying to make him feel jealous and sad. Ed Westwick seemingly forgot how to act over the summer (or maybe he never knew) and said each line with the same kitty cat purr that charmed a bit last season and is now kind of tired and grating. Blair's boy turned out to not be the apple pie-fed all American Princeton/Georgetown boy he'd advertised himself as, rather he is a British lord who, apparently having seen the Julia Stiles epic The Prince & Me (come on Joshua Safran, come on), decided to keep his identity a secret so he could be treated as just a regular filthy rich person. In the end Chuck couldn't say "elephant chew" and Blair left with British McSeersucker. I am, of course, saving the best thing for last. That would be Tinsley Mortimer, a socialite whose mind got up and wandered off years ago, who made a cameo as herself, helping young Jenny's burgeoning Tello's career. She said her few lines not so much woodenly, but as if she were spirited away behind some three inch piece of steel. There was her body and her mouth moving and then there were words, coming sort of sideways out of her. I almost wanted to break it up into its tips and taps, hoping to decipher some submerged battleship morse code message. But I didn't have the time. There's a metaphor for the show in there somewhere, but we'll have to wait to unpack that on some other day. Ultimately the episode didn't quite get the balance between levity and gravity quite right. Moments shifted awkwardly between campy and maudlin (a fine, fine line that this young cast isn't quite capable of treading) and, as always, everything was too easy. Just like the croquet game they played—inaccurately, I may add! you hold the mallet between your legs and swing back and forth! those boys ought to know a thing or two about that!—in which every single ball went through the wicket. Languid ease on a sprawling summer lawn is all well and good, but it doesn't make for arresting drama. Here's hoping the trip back to grimy, sticky Manhattan reignites that wicked flame that was blown out last night, hopefully temporarily, like a Tiki torch snuffed in balmy beach winds.

18-year-old Levi Johnston is the father of 17-year-old Bristol Palin's baby. (Bristol is, of course, the daughter of McCain's newly-appointed running mate Sarah Palin.) Here's what we know about this young buck: the Daily News calls him a "superhunky bad-boy ice hockey player" who has described himself via his MySpace as a "fuckin' redneck." He likes camping and fishing! He's been dating Palin for about a year, but hasn't publicly stated yet that he will marry his pregnant girlfriend. What if young Levi doesn't want to marry? Too bad! We're guessing his hands are tied. After the jump: photos of the teenage hottie.He's also been identified as Levi Wallner by the press. (The statement released by Palin only refers to him as "Levi.") Huh.

UPDATE: Bristol Palin is pregnant, and John McCain supposedly knew.

Horrible piece of garbage Tucker Max has issued a challenge to Gawker. He bets ten grand that we will underestimate how much the film version of his silly book for teenagers who like to watch each other jerk off will earn at the box office. And accuses us of being elitists who presume to be arbiters of taste. Surely, we are elitist, in that none of us consider a ham-fisted frat shit like him who has never committed an honest emotion to paper in any effectual way to be, in fact, a writer. At least that is my stand. I think he is merely a frightened little wuss who has to treat people badly because he thinks his mommy stole his penis. But let's get into his challenge, and my-not Gawker's-response after the jump.

As we wind down this half-day of posting before your Labor Day weekend—summer, she's nearly gone!—we thought we'd pack a little picnic basket for your beach retreats. Can you guess what the main course is? Of course you can! A delicious Dirt Sandwich, lovingly prepared by Defamer video lunchlady Molly McAleer ("One Jell-O per student, buster!"), and full of all the things you love: Mystery plastic surgery mummies! Celebrity sex clubs! American Idol judges in airborne vehicles frequently associated with fiery, accidental deaths! Just promise us you won't go in the water until a good half-hour after consuming. [Watch Video]

Found at the Gossip Girl studios: a script for what appears to be the fifth episode of the teen soap's highly-anticipated second season. And what do the selected pages reveal? Mostly the tortured (and torturous) relationship between sad young literary man Brooklyn Dan and his crusty old mentor, Noah Shapiro. Amusingly, the Shapiro character is introduced by Jay McInerney, in a cameo role, who was once a sad young New York literary fellow himself. His 1984 novel Bright Lights, Big City was a smash hit about "you" (the novel was written entirely in the second person) young ambitious writerly types in the big bad city. It's all come full circle! Enjoy some scans of the script after the jump.

Accompanying an astoundingly sad-on-all-accounts article about former pop singer Michael Jackson (on forgetting that he's turning 50 years old, not 40: "It all went by so fast, didn't it? I wish I could do it all over again, I really do." Devastating) is an image of what the King of Pop may have looked like had he not had alllll that plastic surgery. It's a well done imagining, a believable cross between Usher and Billy Dee Williams, rather than the ghost of Joan Crawford that you see on the left. A rare vision of one's life had a different turn in the road been taken. Unfortunately, Mr. Jackson, I've not seen your childhood, perhaps it's collecting dust somewhere up in that crumbling personal theme park of yours. But an alternate adulthood? Yes, that's right here. [Mail via LA Rag Mag] Click through for larger image.

So Peaches Geldof is moving to New York! And who praytell is Peaches Geldof? Besides the obvious spawn of that Irish new wave guy who might have faded into obscurity had he not gotten enormously rich helping starving African children or something. Well she is an avid cocaine consumer of course. And a socialite with a reality show of some sort in the UK. She missed being born in the nineties by about 200 days, which would make her nineteen, meaning she is off the market right now because she is married to some heretofore unknown "musician" with floppy hair (this happened in Las Vegas of course). She has a sister who is even younger and dumber. And now in the grand tradition she is planning on getting her "fresh start" living in "anonymity" and attending the "educational institution" NYU. Oh yes, and also, "working" at a "pop culture" magazine. Ooooh oooh which one??Nylon, duh. They also gave a column to Cory Kennedy, remember? Anyway, congrats on the gig, Peaches, and welcome to New York. When you find yourself stepping a little livelier and being unfriendly to people that's when you'll know you're home. ThisIsLondon

Ginny-Marie Case wins the prize. While others thumb-type the same old same from the DNC in Denver, she's Twittering her way through labor. "At 4 cm. Epidural is in. Doing well." Tweeting your ob/gyn exam during an earthquake is now officially lame. Ginny, when they hand you your lovely newborn? Put down the phone.

This morning distinguished political commentators Ana Marie Cox, Rachel Sklar and Glynnis MacNichol filed a slumber party-themed video dispatch from the Democratic National Convention in Denver. At the risk of crushing you with intellectual heft I had the video department cut it down to its thirty-two most totally totally crucial seconds. I cannot overstate how much you like need to watch this like right now. And because I was forced to cut some of its meatier moments I have distilled the main arguments after the jump.*
FINDINGS: 1. Michelle Obama's hair is newly "swingy" and thus patriotic. 2. Wolf Blitzer is Batman. 3. Michelle Obama's brother "looks like a basketball." 4. Caroline Kennedy's appearance qualifies her a cabinet position if not the vice presidency. 5. The Obama daughters' appearance qualifies them for residency the White House.** 6. The Brady Bunch is for white people.

One Day at a Time is both the title of a seminal postfeminist late-'70s sitcom and a 12-step mantra, and both apply to its star and recovering substance-abuser Mackenzie Phillips. IMDb lists her as having been clean and sober since 1992, but TMZ is reporting that the actress was arrested today at LAX, allegedly for possession of heroin and coke. She's currently in custody:

Vogue editor Anna Wintour's fashion tyranny was satirized in the book and film The Devil Wears Prada—she's famously dictatorial about how her staff looks and dresses. Her stance, like her own helmet of hair, hasn't softened since: we hear from a salon gossip that the razorlike Wintour recently made a new 22-year-old assistant cut her Rapunzel-like long hair.It flowed all the way down her back, and Wintour requested directly that the girl chop it to below her shoulders. The assistant, who is probably making her age in yearly salary, ran immediatey to Bumble & Bumble. Despite the bitchiness of the request, the word is that Anna was right—the assistant looks much better this way. From Wintour's 2006 biography, Anna Wintour: the Hot Life and Cool Times of Vogue's Editor in Chief:

Though it pains us to say this, we think we may be over Lo Bosworth, the incipient villainess of The Hills' fourth season. When we first met Lo, she was amongst the most breezy members of Hills forerunner Laguna Beach, but there's no place for cute quips on The Hills when out-and-out bitchery will win the day. That, ultimately, is what makes Lo's transformation all the more frustrating — though she has settled into her role as Audrina's archrival for their friend Lauren's attention, her irritating machinations are actually making us root for the blank blogger (and that's saying a lot). With the help of Molly McAleer, we pored over last night's episode and put together a list of the top five reasons we simply can't support Lo anymore. Lo, you're on notice: we're officially frienemies now. [MTV]

Jerry Ford,* the (dapper!) fellow pictured here, is dead at 83.** Ford founded Ford Models, one of the leading agencies in the seventies and eighties that legitimized the industry and gained renown for discovering Lauren Hutton, Christie Brinkley, Rachel Hunter, Vendela and sundry other blonde ubermodeltypes and OMG I totally forgot about Xuxa. Ford is slightly less famed for its canny picking of future Mouseketeer Gone Wild types: the agency represented Lindsay Lohan and Mischa Barton, Ashley Tisdale, Courteney Cox, Ali Larter and ha ha ha we will forgive him for this but Paris Hilton. Because Jerry Ford was the first genuinely decent boss in a business characterized by predatory "robber barons." A lot has changed since Ford's heyday, and not for the better!The robber barons, for one thing, are back. As our anonymous industry friend and Jezebel contributor Tatiana tells us, most modeling agencies these days are glorified human traffickers that occupy a place on the "usury" spectrum somewhere between Payday Loan shops and actual armed robbers. Agencies stick them in overcrowded model apartments and gouge them on rent. When they are not in "demand," they're forced to work for either clothes or nothing at all; when they are in demand, they're forced to walk 28 shows in a week and that sort of nonsense. Ford was different. He instituted a five-day workweek, paid models every Friday even when clients didn't pay up, and ran a practically Victorian institution wherein models weren't allowed to host gentleman callers. I don't even think he knew how to get coke! Obviously all that shit is gone today. In any case, Ford sold out to a private equity firm in December and his son who is still involved in the company is apparently (duh) a modelizer. We welcome any and all old Ford Model cards, hot Courteney Cox pix, links to that cute Lindsay Lohan-Mischa Barton catalog picture that surfaced sometime last year and/or clips of that retarded Xuxa show. Jerry Ford, Man Behind The Models

Newsbreak: Spanish tennis champion Rafael Nadal regrets posing topless for New York Magazine. Look, I didn't actually know who Rafael Nadal was before he posed topless for New York Magazine except that he is an Olympic athlete and now he has broken the record for shortest length of time between the appearance of said photo on newsstands and the supposed expression of dismay that said photo would ever appear on newsstands. "He is fine with being a sex symbol," a "source" tells MSNBC gossip Courtney Hazlett. "but New York took it a bit further than he was comfortable with."* Oh Jesus Christ.Okay, so yesterday we reported how Nadal's nonsubtle Adonisy photoshoot was actually a calculated effort on the part of his corporate overlord Nike to make him more marketable as a pitchman of clothes that are not made of space-aged lightweight wick-friendly flubber or whatever people are supposed to be "working out" in these days.** But Nike has had a lot of problems this Olympics. Namely: it does not sponsor Michael Phelps, it does not sponsor Shawn Johnson, and it does not sponsor Nastia Liukin. You are going to have to trust me when I say this FREAKS THEM THE FUCK OUT. One former Nike executive we know even blames the $19 billion athletaspirationalism peddler's relevance insecurity for its inexplicable Orwellian internet manhunt of the anonymous troll who suggested it forced underperforming runner Liu Xiang to drop out of the games:

Though we may go back and forth on whether we want our MTV, one thing we can all agree on is that we want a Dirt Sandwich. Like your favorite music channel in its heyday, it's packed with pop stars (Britney! Sanjaya!), celebrity antics (Bill Murray skydiving) and even the occasional bit of sobering news (Christina Applegate's mastectomy). And that whole "quick-cut MTV editing" thing? We got that, too. Sit back, put down your remote control, and let Molly McAleer take you on a psychedelic trip through the world of celebrity infotainment that would make even a Radiohead video seem banal. And if you don't watch? Katherine Heigl is gonna point and laugh at you.

Friday is usually a pretty inoffensive day for the Times op-ed page. (Dowd saves her punny schlockicisms for Wednesdays and Sundays, Kristol gets Mondays, and the worst administration actually made honest men out of the formerly-predictable ideologues [Krugman and Brooks!] who run the Friday shift.) But today right underneath Paul Krugman's column about how the plutocracy's geometric accumulation of wealth has caused the merely superrich to consider themselves and their own warped senses of reality somehow normal we have an advertisement posing an intriguing ethical dilemma! "You see a nanny at the park seemingly mistreating her charge," it reads. Then it lists some possible responses.None of them are "Presume that if I am an adult in the sort of park where I can safely assume such a woman is a nanny, than I too am a nanny, and thus inclined to believe any nanny with the audacity to 'mistreat' her 'charge' in public is probably acting in self-defense." But that's not the point. The point is, yes, there is actually a blog dedicated to nanny snitching, and yes, it contains actual photos of black women being, for instance, not "abusive, per se, but neglectful for sure" in the presence of white children, which yes raises many ethical questions I'd rather just sum up as "WTF." So who do we have to thank for this? It's the same classy insurance company that bought the name of that adman who committed suicide after being called a dick by lots of people on the internet as a Google Adwords search term to promote another installation in the same stupid "Responsibility Project" campaign! The whole point of that campaign is allegedly to get people to think about tough ethical dilemmas. The genius of it is that the tough ethical dilemmas are the types experienced exclusively by very wealthy people whose sense of ethics have already no doubt been warped by their sizeable wealth, because those are the types of people who are most likely to think, "Oh fuck, you know what? If all my bad rich person karma isn't already in the park beating my kid I am going to need some INSURANCE." Now That's Rich [NYT]

Ina Fried, the veteran technology reporter and a regular source of good Microsoft dish, is very open about her status as a transgender woman — her CNET blog is titled "Beyond Binary." She knows she's female. But some users of Wikipedia, the online encyclopedia any bigot can edit, aren't convinced. An anonymous Wikipedia user in Knoxville, Tenn. however, refuses to accept hers as the last word on the subject, and has been changing pronouns from "she" to "he" on Fried's listing with repeated edits in the last six weeks. The justification offered:

Unfashionable as it is, we have to admit to loving the Celebrity Right for its candor, combativeness and diligence throughout this year's election cycle. George Clooney can fire off as many "c u L8R, prez" texts to Barack Obama as his mobile plan will allow, but we're far more impressed by the texture of the ideology espoused by the likes of Jon Voight, Dennis Hopper, and now — at last! — SNL alum Victoria Jackson. And by "texture" (at least in Jackson's case), we basically mean the fine, aromatic quality of fresh batshit:

So Andres Martinez, the former LA Times editorial page editor who just sued his former flack girlfriend for her stunning betrayals of his confidence? Maybe totally crazy! As we mentioned this morning, Martinez's suit came after his ex, Kelly Mullens, filed a restraining order against him in DC for stalking her and generally being a psycho. According to her filing, Martinez (who now works for the Washington Post and the New America Foundation) spent months emailing her, her family, and her professional contacts, calling her mom a "whore," inventing a separate false identity, and threatening to kill himself. Yea. Here are some of the most salient allegations, which purportedly quote from Martinez's own emails: The two broke up. Then Martinez allegedly emailed Mullens over and over and over, moaning about his lost love and his bad mental state, and promising to stop contacting her (which she told him to do). But it just kept on, and got worse: