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With her latest stab at relevancy—a new single and a VH1 show—Jessica Simpson is yet again being shoved down our collective gullet. It’s time for this uninteresting, talentless person to take a hike. Forever!

I usually scoff at people who criticize celebrities by saying, “They’re just famous for being famous.” But Jessica Simpson is something worse—she’s famous for trying to be famous. She isn’t defined by any quantifiable event, talent, or success, but by a constant striving, one that often leads to disastrous failure. The same came be said for “Who We Are” her new single (below), which is a indistinguishable amalgam of pleasant electronic bleeps that will float across your brain as amiably and forgettably as a cloud in a bright sky. It’s the theme song for her new show, The Price of Beauty, that starts next month on VH1 and which features her traveling around the world trying out beauty regimens from different cultures. Not a bad concept if we weren’t so sick of seeing her face—plastered over with cosmetics—glaring back at us in the televised version of hell.

When she started, she was just another big-breasted, blonde Britney Spears impersonator with a good voice and very determined father. She had some moderate success thanks to corporate marketing and a naive female fan base, but none of her early hits are that memorable.

We probably would have been rid of her by now if it weren’t for a little thing called reality television. In 2002, MTV debuted Newlyweds, an “inside look” at her recent marriage to boybander Nick Lachey. Her ditsy persona (or was it her real personality?) took off immediately and America tuned in to see her latest bout with sitcom stupidity and her grappling with various food-related mysteries, like what kind of animal a Chicken of the Sea is and where Buffalo wings come from.

Simpson quickly morphed into a marketing robot, hawking pizza and dubious skin care regimens. With the sound of cash registers echoing in her voluminous hair, Americans soon forgot who she was. You never said, “She sings that song,” or “She’s the star of that movie.” You said, “Oh, she’s the stupid girl from MTV.” For a while, Simpson was everywhere and we had no real idea why that was, other than we were told to like her and she was busy pawning stuff off on us.

She tried to be more than that, sure. She wanted to be a real star who could do things other than pitch unnecessary corporate goods. But her albums soon stopped selling and she skipped from dud to dud, trying to act in Dukes of Hazzard and something ineffable with Dane Cook. Then, like Jean-Claude Van Damme before her, her flicks went direct to DVD. She tried to make the switch from pop to country, but even stupid Christians in the Bible Belt didn’t want her at that point. Like a rotten tomato stuck behind the crisper, she was starting to stink up the joint, but no one could clean her out.

Why? Blame the Celebrity Industrial Complex! Even though we were no longer interested in her entertainment products, she’d started a career as a professional girlfriend, going out very publicly with musician John Mayer and then Dallas Cowboy Tony Romo. The rumors are still swirling that she’s inexplicably dating Smashing Pumpkins singer Billy Corgan, which would be the most interesting thing she’s done in five years. And when she needs a little career bump she hits the cover of Vanity Fair or Oprah—not to talk about a project, but her personal life. We find it hard to care about either.

Now she’s back for another round through the publicity cycle, as if she might have something new or interesting to share with us. Sorry, Jessica, you don’t. You’re like that sweater we once bought on sale hoping that we would one day fit into it, but we suddenly realized that we will never wear, no matter how hard we try. You won’t ever fit us and it’s better that we donate you to charity and clear you out of the closet. Because we only have room for so much, and newer, prettier things have come along that we like. Yes, Jessica we’re getting rid of you. And since we barely even wanted you in the first place, please do us the courtesy of staying away.

[Image via Getty]

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Sarah Killen, the “someone” Conan “decided to follow at random,” got 17,000 follows, a wedding dress, shoes, an iMac, and raised $2600 for cancer. She also appears to be unaware that Conan is no longer on TV.

Popeater interviewed Killen—or @LovelyButton, as she is known on Twitter—who says that, before he followed her, Conan wrote to ask if it was OK.

If you could send Conan O’Brien a personal message, what would you like to tell him?
I’d tell him that he’s changed my life. Even if the hype stopped now, the last couple days have changed the rest of my life.

Have you been getting any other swag?
We have an iMac computer now. A guy from Hornblasters, a Florida-based online retailer, contacted us and gave us the brand new iMac… I’ve also been getting lots of donations for the 3-Day Walk for the Cure, which helps raise money for breast cancer research… I was going to do the walk and didn’t know how I would raise all this money. I got $2,600 in a couple days.

You started with three fans before he followed you, correct?
Yeah. Three followers. Now I’m up to 16,000+ in just a few days.

Such is the power of fame, even when it’s secondary. Sarah’s upcoming wedding just got a big upgrade, and she is inviting Conan.

I’m getting married on September 25, and we didn’t know if we would be able to afford it. Now I’m getting custom made shoes and a dress from Kelima in New York. They offered a gown in exchange for promoting their favorite charity, the Children’s Hunger Fund. We’re getting a limo, Classic Creations is giving us wedding bands and there’s a vineyard in California sending us wine. We’ve got it all covered now…

Is Conan invited to your wedding?
Absolutely. My fiance wants Conan to be his best man. That would be really cool. And hey, if he wants us to come on his show, we’d get married on there. That would be fantastic.

I’m not sure who should break the news about Conan’s show to Sarah. [Popeater]

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Twice, actually. Admittedly for about seven minutes in total. But it still counts as the first intrusion in 15 years. Here’s how I assumed various guises, bypassed half a dozen checkpoints, and ended up making chitchat with Rupert Murdoch.

To shamelessly self-promote for a moment, the Vanity Fair party has only been gatecrashed once, at least according to ex-VF staffer Toby Young: In 1996, a reporter for Star magazine brought a pig on a leash and claimed it was the same animal that had played Babe. But that was 15 years ago, and security measures have been stepped up since then. This year it was rumored that, in addition to the scores of regular security guards and bomb-sniffing dogs, there were undercover ex-CIA agents on hand to keep the A-listers safe and the riffraff out. (It’s possible. The security people scared the crap out of me.)

Sadly, I didn’t get to experience much of it. I spent about seven minutes inside the party over the course of a nine-hour ordeal.

To prepare for what’s often described as the most exclusive party on the planet, the police closed down a lane of Sunset Boulevard. Only those with official passes were allowed to drive up to the Sunset Tower Hotel (which is where the party was held). The initial three or four checkpoints were manned by cops. I counted four or five different Vanity Fair checkpoints on top of that, as guests wended their way across the red carpet. The cops blocked off all the surrounding streets, too: the rented Gawkermobile was towed when we parked nearby. Inside the hotel—and all around it—were at least 50 plainclothes guards, each with an earpiece and wrist radio. They were stationed at every vulnerable point and tracked every person who walked in the building.

But. The security is only put in place at around 5pm. Which is why, at 3pm, I walked up to the door and told the one guard that I was there to meet someone in the lobby. I then stole a Vanity Fair-branded umbrella and told the concierge that I had to deliver it immediately to someone in the party area. He believed me, against all odds.

Inside a translucent marquee stretched out over acres of cream suede couches. “VANITY FAIR” was spelled out in 15 foot letters on a hedge that towered overhead. But the place was empty. I just had to find somewhere to hide.

Then a hand landed on my shoulder. The guard was muscled, moved like a soldier, and displayed the menacing courtesy of someone who knows he can kill you with a spoon. Luckily, he got distracted by messages on his earpiece for a moment and he let me go.

I walked into another party room, which was laid out for dinner. This picture, below, sucks because I was immediately kicked out again by another guard who had apparently seen me move from room to room.

What followed were endless hours hiding in the hotel’s stairwells. That garnered these pictures of the red carpet and the marquee. Because there was nothing else to do except count the tiles and text people.

At around 10pm I decided to venture out and check the staff area for opportunities. I found two passes lying abandoned on a table—one expired red pass for now-departed construction workers, and the other that belonged to some dude. (These pictures were taken in the staff bathroom, by the way.)

My dilemma was that I looked nothing whatsoever like Johnny Darakdjian, the man who was unfortunate enough to leave his credentials lying around. So I decided to use the expired red pass and pretend I was checking in on something. I stepped out of the elevator around 11:30pm and noticed Anjelica Huston sprawled on a couch talking to a younger man. “Reeeaaaly?” she intoned coyly to her companion as I sailed past her and she turned to look at me, arching an eyebrow.

Later, Rupert Murdoch told me he liked the hamburgers Graydon served up (not personally), from In-N-Out burger. When he asked who I was working for and I told him Gawker, he immediately explained that he didn’t talk to the likes of us. Captain Chesley Sullenberger was more hospitable. He, too, was a fan of the burgers, and he also said that all the stars were “so nice.”

But I really didn’t get to experience much of it. Crash number two didn’t last long.

“Excuse me sir, can I help you?” a smart, polite and very large man inquired.
“I was asked to go and check something inside.”
“But this pass is no longer valid.”
“Ah. Well, my other one is upstairs. I’ll just go grab it.”

I actually went downstairs to try and steal another pass with a more plausible picture on it. This time they were waiting for me.

“You,” said a short, efficient-looking man in his 30s with a fresh buzzcut. “Show me that pass.” He examined it, and turned to a colleague. “You’re done. Follow me.” They escorted me from the building, onto the street. I was walking away when buzzcut came after me again, wielding the pass.

“Where did you get this?”
“I found it.”
“Did you pay for it?”
“No.”
“Did someone give it to you?”
“No.”
“Are you lying to me?”
“No.”
“Right. Get the out of here. Now.”

He turned to his right and caught sight of a man, who I realized as I walked away was the very Johnny Darakdjian whose pass I’d stolen.

“You!” buzzcut shouted.
“You’re done. Get the hell out of here. You’re done. You sell this?” He held up the pass.
“No! I didn’t! I didn’t!”
“Get out of my sight.”

Johnny continued to protest as I broke into a run around the corner. Coincidentally, I ended up bumping into Kevin, the homeless guy who’s been around Hollywood trying to turn Oscar weekend into cash. I asked him how it was going.

“Shitty. All these millionaires and I got nothing.” I tried to walk up the street but the LA Sheriff’s department had apparently been told about me. “You’re not going anywhere. But have a nice fucking day.”

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Well, how do you like that. After a wild and shaky season, our favorite (and, sadly, only) polygamist drama ended its fourth lap in thrilling and moving fashion.

Yes, I said thrilling and moving! If you didn’t feel some sort of swell of the heart or catch in the throat or pound in the chest or something as the wives all publicly clasped hands and the wind blew their hair (where were they?) then you are a soulless robot zombie from the planet Zorbot. (Is that where Jesus and Moroni live? I don’t remember my theology.) It was great! It was exactly where this ridiculous carnival season needed to end up. I’m beginning to think that the craziness of the storylines this season was the whole point. The juggling and lying and all that needed to reach a fever pitch, so decisions could be made and partnerships ended.

Ended?? Barb sorta broke up with Bill last night, didn’t she? I know in the end she grabbed hands with the family and all, but I think that was just for show. When she said “I needed you for twenty years and I don’t think I need you anymore,” that sounded pretty final, didn’t it? I suppose we’ll have to wait until next year to find out. But of all the shifting narratives of each of the three wives seeming to contemplate leaving the family, that it ultimately turned out to be Barb who made the big decision was supremely satisfying. It had shades of season two, I believe, when we last saw Barb struggling to accept her place in this strangely unequal marriage. Jeanne Tripplehorn did fabulous work as always — I hope somebody somewhere gives her an award. But, they probably won’t.

Speaking of good lady actresses, Sissy Spacek! What a strange, quietly sad character her Marilyn turned out to be, eh? I’m not sure I quite got why she had such an emotional attachment to Bill and his various infidelities, but that doesn’t really matter. Mostly it was just a joy to watch Spacek do what she does so well and to see a ballsy woman throw Bill’s arrogance back in his face. Though, it was kinda strange that the writers chose to have the one woman who ever really stood toe to toe with Bill become a crying mess in the end. That said, it was completely terrific when she said that his polygamy was just another “excuse to fuck around.” Because, yes, that’s exactly what it is. Joseph Smith was a known philanderer who invented the polygamy revelation because he couldn’t keep it in his pants. Yay men!

It doesn’t seem like Spacek will be back in any capacity next season, which is a shame. Now that Bill has won the election and come out of the triple-wide closet we’ll have to deal with more political plotlines, but I’m assuming it will all be of the local variety. Ohh and will they move to that big creepy house on the hill? That sounds like trouble to me, going from three safely separate homes to one large shared one. I feel like intimate nights or whatever would be wayyy more awkward. But that’ll be fun to watch, hopefully! The creepy house on haunted hill filled with unhappy public polygamists.

The second most exciting thing to happen all episode was that Mary Kay Place done gone wild. She basically burned JJ and his weirdo bewigged wife alive. Wasn’t that horrifying? I mean, the whole storyline was horrifying. Turns out that JJ was trying to make a pure race by taking Wanda’s eggs and putting them in other ladies, like Adaleen, and then fertilizing them himself. So incest, basically. There were reports coming out of the creepy Kansas compound (I think based on the real-life creepy Texas compound) about inbreeding and developmentally disabled children and it seems that JJ was the source of a lot of it. So, yeah, he’s gross. And now he’s probably dead, as Mary Kay and Chloe staged a daring scissor-stabbing escape, and then Mary Kay tied JJ and his wife together, doused everything with gasoline, and set the whole doctor’s office of horrors ablaze. I’m so glad they didn’t kill her off. She may be my favorite character on this show. Let’s get a spin-off. Adaleen!

Goodness, what else. Bill got Adam Beach and his dad fired from the casino because they were allowing meth to be sold on the floor. This made Barb sad and mad and ultimately caused her to say she wants out. I mean, that wasn’t the main reason, but it didn’t hurt. Don’s kid is angry at the Henricksons because everything’s been messed up for his family since Don was made to take the polygamist fall a couple of episodes ago. Ana and Serbian Matt LeBlanc are still tangled up in all of this, even more so now that Margene made her creepy confession that she has a crush on Balkan Eddie Cibrian and Ana was all “Whatever” and the three of them did a weird hug thing. A new plural family is born!

OK, that’s basically it. I think the finale episode helped to make up for the odd messiness of the past few episodes, and brought this season where it needed to go. Don’t you feel like the wagons have circled a little and next time everything won’t be as spread out and stretched thin as it was this season? Well, that’s my feeling at least. Who knows what will actually happen. I’m happy that, despite a wobbly run, I still can’t wait to find out.

Oh and Nicki straightened her hair. It looks good.

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Did you miss the Oscars last night? Catch up on what you missed with clips of the 10 most memorable moments, pics from the red carpet, Gawker.TV’s five-minute Oscars highlight reel, and our official Oscars post-mortem.

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Everyone likes watching the Oscars at a party, and we’re having our very own! It’s going to be here in the comments section. You’re invited to come talk trash about Hollywood. Why? Because we like you, we really like you.

Why sit alone and yell insults at Sandra Bullock through the screen? Why go to a party with your lame friends who haven’t seen a movie in the theater since Paul Blart: Mall Cop? Why wait for Us Weekly to decide who was the worst dressed? Please, step on into our virtual Oscar party and talk about everything Oscar-related right here on the internet!

For those of you who haven’t done this before, here is the drill. We’ll we watching the red carpet arrivals starting at 7pm on E! and the Oscar telecast on ABC starting at 8pm. We’re going to be leaving our reactions to the show, the winners, the losers, the outfits, Julia Robert’s hair, the creepy “this is who died this year” montage, and the rest in the comments section. We invite you to do the same by typing something fun in the little white box below next to the “Share” button. Click that button and your comments will go live, with no seven second delay. How dangerous! Keep refreshing this page to see all the new comments and the replies to your comments. It will be like we’re all sitting in the same room sharing quips, highballs, and a lovely bruschetta.

We’re going to keep doing this until your local news starts around midnightish, so we’re in it for the long haul. We hope that you’ll join us and that good things happen this evening. If not, well, Sandra Bullock winning an Oscar isn’t the worst thing in the world, and we’ll find some way to make it through.

All right, see you all in the comments!

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We snuck into the Weinstein Oscars party by entering through the service entrance and hiding in the bathroom. It ended with us eavesdropping on Harvey—who introduced his kids with “these are my fucking children”— and getting banned.

From Tom Ford’s presence anyway.

We got into the Weinstein Co. pre-Oscars party, which was held at Soho House, by sneaking in through the service entrance and jumping into an elevator, then hiding under a set of stairs and in the toilet until it was safe to emerge. Several conversations with staff were involved, too. Thank fuck it was raining because you can always talk about the weather. Our entrance was ultimately five times faster than it was for the genuine celebrities who had to wait up to 30 minutes and deal with cameras.

We mainly enjoyed the raw bar (see above), opulent oyster canapés and free booze. By the end of the night we couldn’t count the A-listers drinking and cavorting. But we’ll give it a go: Leonardo DiCaprio was trying, wildly unsuccessfully, to hide under a baseball cap. Adrien Brody was making out with some girl in a white dress by the bar. Jake Gyllenhaal was in an intense conversation by the couches. Olivia Wilde was walking around looking heart-stoppingly marvelous. Scots Dougray Scott and Gerard Butler were being Scottish. Ryan Gosling strolled in as the place was closing. Woody Harrelson gave us rolling papers, Kevin Connolly tried to push past us at the bar, Zachary Quinto rocked an awesome trench coat and Tom Ford promised to send us a suit. Although he never took our address, perhaps because, when we asked him about the scandal of the Weinstein Co. selling A Single Man as a not-gay movie, everyone freaked out and we were banned from his presence.

We also did some eavesdropping. Gabourey Sidibe was talking about some guy who, it seems, is stalking her. Harvey Weinstein talks only in ridiculous big-shot clichés. At one point he was walking past the couches on which his kids were seated, gestured to them and said, “These are my fucking children.” Later he was overheard telling some enormous dude that “if you come to my place, you better fucking respect me.” Towards the end of the night he stopped Brian Geraghty, young star of The Hurt Locker, with the two simple, career-making words “you’re next.” Harvey is also happy that Laurence Fishburne likes some new script they’re working on. He did not use the word fuck, but we’re sure he meant to.

[Unauthorized photos, taken at great peril, by Ray LeMoine]

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Last night Los Angeles was drained of star power because super-agencies WME and CAA had house parties with ridiculous security. Things we discovered: bribing people is harder than you think, security guards are scary and we belong among the dregs.

We had high hopes of breaking into CAA partner Bryan Lourd or WME honcho Ari Emanuel’s house parties. We drove down leafy roads among mansions worth tens of millions of dollars with various cunning, Mossad-esque plans. We even had a ladder in the trunk. And then we pulled up outside Bryan Lourd’s house to take this innocuous picture of his front door.

Lourd represents, or has represented, George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Sean Penn, Robert De Niro and Tom Cruise among others, so we figured that it was worth being brave to sneak in and surround ourselves with the mega-wattage of true Hollywood. We had visions of laughing with George about our antics. Drinking with Brad. Getting De Niro to say “you talking to me” on voicemails to our mothers.

And then two angry, Blackwater-looking security guards in khaki fatigues and windbreakers, a Swiss Guard if you will, sprinted at high speed down the road towards us shouting things, doubtless about the pre-eminence of CAA in Hollywood life and the many achievements of Bryan Lourd. And we shat ourselves and drove away. But not before trying to bribe a valet from Chuck’s Parking who was snoozing in a van nearby. “I can’t get you in,” he said, plainly. So we asked if he could text us updates on whose cars he parked. “No.” Window rolled up. Even CAA’s Oscar party valets take the oath of omerta.

And then we found our true position in life at the OK! party. Where we hung out with… Audrina Patridge. Who we were trying to get as Gawker’s LA intern. “It’s Oscar weekend though, you know,” her publicist said, mysteriously, since we don’t think she’s nominated or attending. Kendra Wilkinson also told us she could not gain valuable work experience because she is under exclusive with E! for the Oscars. Other people had bad hair. Rejected by everyone else, we felt a kinship with them that cannot be put into words.

[Top photo via Getty Images; all other photos by Ray LeMoine]

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We interviewed two cocaine dealers—one who deals with young Hollywood and one who looks after the old-school connoisseurs. They both expected business to double, but for very different reasons.

“Larry” (not his real name, unless it is and we’re double-bluffing) deals to the upstarts and whippersnappers and says he expects business to double this weekend because “lots of the young actresses like to stay wired all day. It’s like coffee to them.” He’ll clear five figures, he thinks. But then coke tends to the grandiose, so who knows? “You’d be surprised how much coke these people do out here. Way more than New York.”

“Barry” (also not his real name, unless we decided that the rhyming real names were so implausible that it was better to use them) deals to the older, more world-weary set up in the Hills. He says they tend to restrain themselves for the rest of the year. “But this is Oscars fucking weekend. I don’t care who you are—if you win a fucking Oscar you’re going to celebrate.” He refused to put a figure on his increased take.

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Panic swept over Berlin’s Grand Hyatt today when a group of burglars carrying Kalashnikov assault rifles waltzed into a European Poker Tour tournament and made off with $1.2 million, before a live television broadcast. UPDATED

Four robbers burst into the hotel while two stood guard by the entrance on Potsdamer Platz, a major public square, AFP reports. Apparently some of the footage made it on the air. Here, horrified gamblers run screaming from their table. They are so scared, they don’t even peek at their competitors’ cards.

The five-day tournament had 1000 competitors and a jackpot of one million Euros. [AFP] [AP]

UPDATE 1: German website Bild offers photos of the robbers, wearing masks and wielding huge knives. Click “fotogalerie” on the left-hand side to see photos from the “Überfall auf promi-poker-turnier,” which I am told is German for “holy crap this is scary.” [via Gawker.TV & blackdevil]

UPDATE 2: A second video purportedly depicting the heist has emerged. [via Gawker.TV & blackdevil]

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