A reader scolded us for missing this story (we were drunk, etc etc) about Brian Grazer's potentially fatal flight to Sundance:

We actually managed to score a pass to the Blender Sessions party on Monday night at Harry O's, featuring the bluntastic stylings of Snoop Dogg, but the venue was so overcrowded that we couldn't get in. When we showed up (admittedly, quite fashionably late after losing track of time across the street at the Palm Pictures event), a bouncer delightfully informed us, "I don't care who the fuck you are, we're 1400 people over capacity. No one is getting in there." We sincerely hope that the thick-necked gatekeeper had a gift for hyperbole, otherwise the like of Tobey ("Fatty McFat Fat") Maguire, Neve Campbell, Thora Birch, Scott Wolf, and, of course, Bishop Don "Magic" Juan risked incineration in the celebrity-packed firetrap. Does the world realize it was one unattended roach away from an incalculable tragedy? The tribute concert, however, would have been spectacular.

We've finally returned to the real world, leaving behind the Xanadu nestled in the mountains of Utah, where regular people walk the same streets as A-list actors, where studio-sponsored free alcohol flows like a development exec's urine over his assistant's spec script, and where a movie premiere is a snowball's throw away at any given time. Why can't we reproduce that kind of paradise in Los Angeles?

Even Oscar-nominated actresses had to doff the occasional lacy underthing before they worked their way up to a nudity rider. The moment the nominations were announced, Sister site Fleshbot (with the help of movie boobie-baring archive Mr. Skin) grabbed the value-sized tub of Vaseline and rushed to uncover some nude screen grabs of Annette Bening, Laura Linney, Virginia Madsen, Kate Winslet, and even dowdy Vera Drake abortionist Imelda Staunton. Yes, even the chick from Vera Drake has shown more skin than Natalie Portman (who played a stripper!) in Closer. We still haven't let Portman off the hook for that one.

When we saw these boots at the Palm Pictures party last night at The Riverhorse, we couldn't even muster any righteous anger. It's cold here, there's snow everywhere, and there's an argument to be made that despite its utter ridiculousness, the yeti fur might serve some practical purpose. (Unlike the miniskirt and halter top some chick was rocking—she got so many evil looks from the women in attendance that you'd think she defecated in their free Cosmos.)

It just occurred to us that the announcement of the Oscar nominations shouldn't be exclusively an opportunity to revel in the pain of the shafted. It's a happy day! Take double-nominee Jamie Foxx (for best leading and supporting actor, but you know that by now). We've got a sneaking suspicion that he's having a grand old time as he watches his salary quote grow by the minute. He's probably buried so deep in a pile of celebratory hookers that he's going to have to start digging his way out tomorrow to make it to the awards ceremony on time.

We are constitutionally averse to blind items, but due to an extremely drunken (again with the booze, we know) promise, this is the only way we can deliver the goods. A little snow birdie told us that when a very well-known television actress couldn't find the driver of her chauffeured car, she, er, "appropriated" the vehicle so that she could make it to a movie premiere party on time. We have no idea what happened when the driver discovered that his car was missing. Happily, the actress did make her party.

The Phototopia blog has some pics of Dave LaChappelle, director of the krumping doc Rize and Sundance's most talked about drunk-and-disorderly auteur. That thing on his head really does look like a badge of honor from his run-in with the cops.

In yesterday's post about Pretty Persuasion, we wrote: "Not too notable, other than the myriad fellatio scenes (both of the boy-girl and girl-girl variety)..." Many of you have written in to correct the egregious error in that sentence, noting that the girl-girl oral stuff is technically known as something called "cunnilingus." We regret the error, and as much as it's a cop-out: We were drunk. We haven't written a sober word in about four days. Haven't you been reading the Sundance coverage?

Special thanks to Choire Sicha (remember him, our incredible guest editor for the week between Christmas and New Years?) for running some commentary for us about the Oscar noms in a timely fashion while we were working on our second or third hour of "sleep."

We're still asleep—heck, we're still drunk—but it's our drunken duty to post the Oscar noms and go back to bed.

We hear that Jerry Bruckheimer bought the feature film rights to this sign on Main Street earlier today for $4.6 million. Expect Icicle! to hit the multiplex in summer 2006. Michael Bay is already in talks to direct.

Couldn't get a signal to post from inside the theater, but we finally hunted down some WiFi access after the screening of Pretty Persuasion, a Heathers-y high school dark comedy with Evan Rachel Wood, James Woods, and Ron Livingston. Not too notable, other than the myriad fellatio scenes (both of the boy-girl and girl-girl variety*) and Woods' hilarious, pill-popping, virulently "truth-telling" (read: racist), Beverly Hills dad in decline. Tries to score too many easy points off Arabs (hey, some of them wear these crazy scarves on their heads, don't speaka the English so good, and don't even know what lesbians are! And don't get us started on the anal sex!). But we digress, we're far too hung over to write a review. The buzz had been pretty good (people love their jailbait blowjob scenes) and the wait-list tickets were snatched up very early. But: eh.

Before the movie started, watched a guy admiring his picture in the paper (couldn't tell, but looked like the NYT) with a friend of his. Didn't seem to be an actor, though. Even Sundance has a theoretical limit to the number of clichés it can support at any given moment.

A funny thing happened on Saturday night as we waited in line to beg our way into the Entertainment Weekly party, where the likes of Casey Affleck, David Schwimmer, Adrien Brody, Tom Arnold (!), and Crispin Glover were hanging out. (We got in eventually. Yay for free booze!) The Apprentice season one champ Bill Rancic sashayed up to the entrance and walked right in with barely a nod to a publicist. About ten seconds later, an enraged staffer stomped out to let loose on her gatekeepers. "Who the hell let The Apprentice guy in? I told him 17 times that he can't be here. He's not on the list, he's not confirmed! He's not supposed to be here!"

Ernie Hudson walked into Defamer HQ (the lounge at Sundance's home base in the Marriott) and embraced a producer type.

Sure, he has a name, but we'll always remember him this way.

As we were walking down Main Street Sunday afternoon, we saw a huge crowd of teenage girls assembled outside the Fred Segal store, screaming "I want to have your baby!" and "You are soooo hot!" Was a Timberlake sighting in the offing? We finally fought our way through the throng to see what kind of pop-star had the YM set in such a lather, discovering that it was Napoleon Dynamite's Jon Heder, the spastic darling of last year's festival, getting the N'Sync treatment.

Just a gentle reminder: We posted a bunch of reports (i.e. an excuse to expense five bottles of vodka and very, very chilly "relaxation session" in an alley off of Main Street) this weekend, so don't be afraid to scroll down and check it all out. We'd hate to think that the torture we put our liver through pounding down Mormon reduced-alcohol-content booze in the name of "man on the street reporting" was all for naught.

A reader submitted this picture and a brief note: "Swag gone wild.....celebrities stealing from the Humane Society of the US.....a charity campaign to save baby seals..."

Today everyone was talking about how Paramount snapped up Hustle & Flow, the pimpin'-ain't-easy-so-I'm-going-to-be-a-rap-star movie produced largely with John Singleton's own money, for $9 million bucks. We caught the premiere screening last night (incidentally, it was the first time director Craig Brewer showed it to the cast), and we can pinpoint the exact moment we knew it was going to sell and sell big: The instant the closing credits came on, a conga line to kiss star Terrence Howard's ass formed. Be the first to smooch the pooper of the breakout star! When Howard was called to the front of the theater by Brewer for the Q & A, an agent type (might've been his) immediately filled his seat and started talking to his girlfriend.