Ariel "Ari" Z. Emanuel is a powerful talent manager and head of the Endeavor Agency. Emanuel is a dedicated activist and passionate opinion-haver; his pet causes include environmentalism, criticism of the Bush regime, and Mel Gibson blacklisting advocacy—all of which he's blogged about in an ongoing column at The Huffington Post.


Assistant beer pong is a competitive drinking game played between teams of Hollywood assistants. It involves the bouncing of ping pong balls into a triangular formation of beer-filled cups, leading inevitably to sloppy inter-agency procreative activities.


Baby eating (also called baby gobbling and newborn munching) is the consumption of fresh nurslings by CAA agents (see: CAA Death Star). An ancient agent delicacy, their fleshy infant meat is said to enhance negotiation potency.


Bee attacks are an infrequent but repeat occurrence on studio lots, resulting in no known executive deaths or stings. Some consider the swarms to be a harbinger of the coming End of Days (see Apocalypse, pop culture).


Ben Silverman Threat Level is a color-coded threat advisory scale alerting Defamer readers to NBC rock star/co-chairman Ben Silverman's impending shitcanning, due directly to his failed efforts to lift the network from last place by resuscitating 1980s junk entertainment about talking cars and steroid-addled pugilists.


The Butterscotch Stallion is a nickname coinage for popular comedic movie star Owen Wilson, used first in a PrivacyWatch submission, and quickly championed by this site as the definitive Wilson nomenclature. As you can see from this magazine cover, it stuck.


The CAA Death Star is the name Defamer gave to the agency's new headquarters in Century City. Commissioned by partners Richard Lovett, Bryan Lourd, Kevin Huvane, Rob Light, David O'Connor and Rick Nicita, the planet-sized superweapon and agenting station was designed to obliterate everything in its path, while at the same time offering agents a more feng shui-friendly work environment.


Cokepants refers to the blow-filled slacks worn by high-profile shock starlet Lindsay Lohan after being stopped by police in 2007 for commandeering a Denali, then proceeding to take its terrified hostages on a high-speed chase through West L.A. She would later deny ownership of the lo-rise narcotic-vessel.


Commenters are Defamer's illustrious, if tact-deficient, feedback-driven readership. At best, their searing wit and valuable insights can often improve upon a post; at worst, they can cause a fallen teen idol to plummet to all-new depths of utter hopelessness and self-loathing—particularly when their questionably motivated, Marlboro-huffing assistants read them to them out loud.


Defaker was an ill-conceived online marketing tool based on Defamer, and used to promote Aaron Sorkin's short-lived network-sketch-comedy-show drama, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. Among its many strategic missteps, it allowed for user comments, leading network-planted plot points to stand alongside viewers' savage critical assessments of the poorly received series. (See also: "Aaron Sorkin, I'll be seeing you soon! Posted by: Crack")


Entourage Acknowledgement refers to an episode of the popular HBO comedy, in which agent Ari Gold is led to Defamer by his assistant, Lloyd, thereby lending the site added legitimacy and prestige by merely being mentioned in the same breath as dialogue like, "Is that smirk for me or are your Ben Wa balls shifting?"


Fauxteurs is a Defamer coinage referring to a breed of highly successful and unapologetically commercial Hollywood director, whose rise to prominence has as much to do with preternatural self-promotional gifts as it does with delivering eye-pleasing phoned-in hackery under budget and on time. (See related articles Casting Couch, Starlet-Stuffed Hot Tub Orgy at Bob Evans' Place)


The Grove Trolley is a nostalgic attraction of a popular outdoor L.A. shopping mall, and a useful means of making the 80-yard trek from Banana Republic to the dancing waters if you're pressed for time.


The Gays are an influential show business minority majority, whose tastes and proclivities have steadily encroached upon the once heterocentric Hollywood norm. Their influence can be felt everywhere from televised dancing competitions to this year's Oscars, where host Hugh Jackman offered Nixon-channeling also-ran Frank Langella an impromptu lapdance, as a half-dozen Indian children looked on in utter confusion.


Grazerhead is the official headshot of Brian Grazer, sent to us by Imagine Entertainment with instructions that it accompany any posting about the highly cultivated superproducer. It grew steadily in size until eventually emancipating itself as a self-sufficient superproducing entity in early 2008. It was later co-opted by greedy corporate interests, who plastered it on everything from Halloween masks to suntan lotion bottles.


Orphan collecting is a popular hobby adopted by A-list celebrities in the early 21st Century. It involves scouring the globe for rare and wonderful specimens, which they then trade amongst each other, either by bartering them, or by using them as collateral in competitive orphan-collector games like Orphan Bowling and Orphan Poker.


Kiefer sightings are the rarest and most precious of all Hollywood PrivacyWatch sightings. They occur in dive bars near or around the trendy Silver Lake area of Los Angeles, and frequently involve the very inebriated star of 24 leading a crowd of strangers in a rousing chorus of Pogues and/or The Clash songs, followed by a shrub attack.


The Pop Culture Apocalypse is a doomsday foretold in the Book of Reservations. It states there will come a day when Hollywood produces nothing but irrelevant boardgame movies, unnecessary remakes, and disappointing sequels, and will test Mankind's crappy-movie-loving nature by the loosing of Satan* to rain hellfire upon our multiplexes. (*Or Lisa Rinna, depending on scheduling availabilities.)


Strike Baby (also the Incredible Picketing Baby) rose to prominence during the devastating WGA strike of 2008, quickly becoming a potent symbol of union solidarity. Also, her poopie-diapers offered a pungent metaphor for AMPTP president Nick Counter's enduring weinerdom.


Antediluvian Viacom Potentate™ Sumner Redstone and Future Galactic Dictator™ Les Moonves are immortal and all-powerful media Siths overseeing one of the world's most influential and far-reaching entertainment multiconglomerates. Both possess laser vision, mind-control skills, and cartoonishly outsized male members.


Sundance Fever is a viral infection that afflicts mainly bloggers and film journalists at independent film festivals; it is exacerbated by cold temperatures, high altitudes, and incredibly douchey looking hipsterbears who dance on podiums. As there is no known cure, health professionals recommend covering the symptoms with as many complimentary Absolut Mango cocktails as your body can hold without actually losing consciousness.


TOMKAT is an acronym. It stands for Thetan-Operative, Moppet-Kidnapping Android Twosome.

We hope that was of some use to you.

Now for some parting thoughts:

I found Defamer while chained to a desk at Lions Gate (this was before the studio had sold the space in their name for a cool $30 mil to a gullible Saudi prince with Hollywood aspirations), and had I not discovered Mark Lisanti's sprawling online epic , I really don't know if I would have made it through. Mark gave me a gigantic break and I'll always owe him one for it. He's also the funniest person I'll probably ever know, and sharing the echo chamber inside Mr. Defamer's head with him for three years was just about the greatest experience ever.

STV and Kyle: You guys are hands down the best there is, but I won't go on and on about it because we're going to continue working together, and that's like the old romcom cliché of having really hot sex with someone you meet in a bar, and then running into them in the elevator the next day at a new job and realizing they're your new blogging partner. Or something. I don't know—that analogy went off the rails somewhere.

Matt and Julie, I never tire of your hilarious takes on Baby Pirates and Dogs with Human Children and various other obscure cable reality shows I'm still not entirely convinced exist. To the GM gang past and present, thanks for your tireless help and virtual companionship. Molls, I miss ya dearly. Nick, my life will be all the emptier without your daily memos filled with indecipherable traffic charts. Oh gosh, the orchestra is starting to play me off. Who am I forgetting? My family, my stylists, my Restalyne hygienist, and..and..and—

Oh yeah! You guys—the sharpest damn readers anywhere. I might not know what you guys look like, but coming to work every day was like being in the best writers' room on the lot.

This isn't goodbye. This is just another beginning.

- Seth

For starters, Defamer isn't going anywhere. True, it's undergone a series of drastic physical transformations over the years—starting out as a skinny, fresh-faced L.A. dirt rag, growing eventually into a full-service showbiz-skewering media hub, and now evolving into its current incarnation as Gawker's Hollywood dispatch—but you can still come here daily for all your salacious showbiz gossip needs.

But if it's specifically the voices of outgoing editors Seth, STV, and Kyle you seek, there is another option coming down the pipeline. This Spring, the three of us will have the pleasure of launching—or rather re-launching—Movieline magazine as a pop culture site: Movieline.com. For the new generation of studio stapler-dodgers among you, Movieline was a must-read back in the '90s—a Cahiers du cinéma on crack that was unabashedly in love with the movies, but never reluctant to stick it to the Hollywood Man. We think it's time to bring it back, with a wider breadth of pop culture coverage. Shoot us your e-mail addresses for updates about the launch.

Choices! Everybody loves choices! High five!

• Movieline.com

As a result, Defamer is being absorbed into the company's power-crazed flagship title. Defamer posts will now appear under http://defamer.com/, while simultaneously feeding into the Gawker homepage.

Gawker's managing editor Gabriel Snyder, a former West Coaster who covered Hollywood for Variety and W, will oversee the transition. As for your trusty Defamer team, we've opted to explore new horizons. Stv, Kyle, the McCluskey Twins, and myself will be here through the remainder of the week. Watch this space for exciting announcements on what's to come.

Questions? Observations? Muffled sobs? Leave them in the comments. Media inquiries: Ask Mr. Denton directly. (Read his take here.) Gawker is hiring someone to cover Hollywood gossip. Applications, and all other matters, to Gabriel.

We now encourage you to get your Oscar drinking on early, in anticipation of our liveblog at 8 p.m. EST / 5 p.m. PST. It seemed a timely and fittingly spectacular way to go out—by plunging the illustrious trophy into my gut head-first, in one final, savage act of Hollywood harakiri.

- Seth

So we'll take a moment to remind you that you always have the option to read Defamer in the more traditional, "chubby" layout. All you need to do is select "Expanded" view from the dropdown menu near the top of the homepage, instead of "Condensed." See? All the content, none of the clutter. It's like an Angela Lansbury-administered sponge bath for the mind.

According to this report from a very reputable news source, Gawker is looking to turn us out like a teenager on the hard streets of Bangkok sell us to a third party, who might have better access to the high-voltage cattle-prods required to elicit the necessary daily output from your favorite ragtag group of cultural provocateurs.

We suppose this is the part in the pitch where we flaunt our impressive statistics, like anatomical measurements in a Craigslist Casual Encounters ad. But let's face it—everyone makes that crap up, anyway. Just take our word that what you see is what you get—and since our recent lap band surgery, what you see has never looked better! So no chubby chasers, OK? That's not our flavor anymore.

Interested parties whose fortunes were not affected by the Madoff Ponzi scheme should contact Gaby Darbyshire.

Happy cutthroat outbidding!

Sincerely,
Your Raise-Needy Friends at Defamer

While you graciously said nothing, even as our waists expanded to genital-obscuring sizes and we started to shop at the "telecommuter leisurewear" section of Lane Bryant, we knew in our hearts that something needed to be done. Well, voila! And welcome to the new us. Don't worry about how we achieved it, just tell us we look amazing.

If you're wondering how this affects your daily Defamer read, it only enhances it, offering easy, skimmable access to a whole 24-hour posting cycle.

Some things to look for:

· Regular posts now have shorter ledes, and smaller, bolded headlines.
· High-priority stories will be designated "top" stories and get large headlines.
· If all you see is a line of text and a topic tag in a grey box to the left, go ahead and click it. A full post awaits you, and all the delights that entails. (It merely means we've exceeded the 35-word first-paragraph limit, resulting in a painful but not lethal jolt to our ankle-shackles.)
· Breaking, super-duper high-priority stories are designated "alert" stories, and will appear on a black background with white text, with an even larger headline. If you submit your e-mail address in the sidebar on the lower-left, these stories will be e-mailed to your throughout the day. Don't be left out of the cafeteria gossip!

Still with us? No? You're confused and hungry, and all this technical jargon is holding up the delicious babies-and-lox spread in the conference room? Well, we think we can help you, too:

· You see the menu bar at the top of the page, where it says "View?" By merely choosing the "Expanded" option, you'll get the chubby Defamer layout you're accustomed to.

What have we left out? Ah yes, those adorable little icons to the right of each headline.

· The clock, as you might have guessed, is a visual representation of time, i.e. when the post went up. In more recent posts, the clock will turn a deep shade of pink, probably out of embarrassment.
· The little fireball that wandered in from Donkey Kong tells you how many people have read this post. It lights up at 10,000—which in turn starts a Rube Goldberg contraption that delivers us a nourishing food pellet. So please, make every post reach 10,000! Our tiny new stomachs can now only handle portions the size of a kalamata olive.
· The dialogue bubble icon indicates numbers of comments. That fills in once 100 people have commented on a story—so there's some incentive for you, too.

Well, that about covers it! Wasn't that fascinating? If you find you're running into trouble with the new layout, send in your bugs, comments, complaints, and suggestions to Gawker Media Tech, or to us. Our 24-hour service hedgehogs are awaiting your calls.

He was promptly crisped. New Gawker intern James Frey was dispatched with a spatula to take care of the issue, and we understand things are running to speed. That is all. [Defamer Diary]

If you follow other commenters by clicking the heart beneath their user name, turning it red, all their comments will appear in their full, singeingly witty glory. (We can also solve the problem by awarding you star status, which also gives you top priority; we promise to do more of that around here, just as soon as we receive the cupcake gift baskets you have undoubtedly already called in for delivery.) Also, if you haven't yet discovered the exciting "Feedback" link at the bottom of our homepage, we invite you to do so immediately. Simply inputting your Defamer-related frustration or suggestion will whisk it off via pneumatic intertube to HQ, whereupon one of our 24-hour service hedgehogs will instantly leap into action to address it. That is all! Carry on.

Matt McCluskey and Julie Miller are writers who live in Silver Lake with two tortie cats. Currently, they are dealing with their collective fear of death and actively managing their darkly comedic impulses.

They'll be contributing on several new features we'll be sliding down the post-pressing belt in the coming weeks, beginning today with Defamer Horoscopes, your weekly astrological forecast. Should you get that breast enlargement? Sleep with your producing partner's girlfriend? Hog credit on a project? Let the stars—and McCluskey & Miller—guide your way!

Well, here it is: The Last* Post. As it's getting late and no one wants to be stuck here when there's a perfectly good happy hour at which you should be drowning your end-of-week pain, it's time for the Goodbyes, the Thank Yous, and the Boozy, Andre-Fueled Reflections:

My time here at Defamer has been a life-changing experience, in every possible sense. Before we started the site back in 2004, I'd never had a paid writing gig, and now I find myself moving on from one that I've had for nearly four years—a run that was made possible by our readers. (And by this mysterious "Nick Denton" character who continued to sign the paychecks.) So thank you, all of you, for your tips, your hilarious comments, your support, your wasted productivity. Whatever I get to do with myself from this point forward is because you kept showing up here every day. Did I just get through an entire paragraph using only sincere words? Blogging may have stolen my attention span and much of my sanity, but it seems it hasn't destroyed my ability to learn a new trick on my way out the door.

Next: nothing I can say here can possibly equal the incredibly generous thoughts that were written (and expressed in video form—um, wow), but my first words of thanks have to go to Seth Abramovitch, who for the last two and half years or so has been the best co-worker I could have ever dreamed of having: Incredibly funny, massively talented, and just generally a great person with whom to spend 12 hours a day.

Most of all, what I'm going to miss about this job is the roughly 15,000 IMs it requires to complete our daily shift down in the blogging salt-mines; in fact, I treasured our time together so much that I've already changed my screenname and put him on my AIM ban list so that we can't taint what we've shared. Gonna miss you, old pal from the Great White North, and if the INS comes calling, it wasn't me who tipped them about that green card you bought at that head shop on Melrose. And enough already with the boombox-under-my-window thing. I get it, you'll miss me. (Also: You're supposed to play "In Your Eyes," not "Sledgehammer." Fucking A, guy, what kind of teenage years did you have?)

Moving right along to the rest of our rapidly expanding Defamer Family: "Old Molly" McAleer, you've been with us since August, and already it feels like we've spent a blogging lifetime together. (In the best possible sense!) I'd apologize for dispatching you to Hollywood Blvd. with that camcorder of yours so many times, but I know you never really minded, especially once you learned to enjoy the "accidental" gropings by Handsy Spider-Man and The Pantsless Terminator. Mark Graham: We've been friends since the days when we had to press our posts into soft clay Blogger tablets with primitive, wedge-shaped implements, so it feels like we've somehow come full circle by getting to work together these past six weeks. More fun awaits you on the go-forward, obvs. "New Molly" Friedman: Good luck with this bunch of lunatics. (I also mean that in the best possible sense.) "Interns" Kerry and Megan: Thanks for sticking with me since the very beginning, and somehow lasting all the way until the end.

Those who have served time on the bridge of the Gawker Media Mothership: Nick, I'll always be grateful to you for turning over the reins to me and letting me figure this all out as I went along, asking in return only that I fear and worship you in equal measure, and answer the occasional e-mail suggesting I more fully explore the issue of John Travolta's massage etiquette . And thank you for never pressing that button that would have detonated this explosive collar. Can I take if off now? Choire Sicha: You helped me get this thing off the ground, have always been around when I've needed to bitch, and have been a great friend and mentor. Yes, the word "mentor" makes you sound old, but tough. You are much, much older than me. Much! Lockhart "Not Your Real Name" Steele: You always had my back. And now you're well on your way to being the kind of blog emperor/tyrant I always knew you could be. Also, that's not your real name. Noah Robischon: Your seemingly endless patience with me was much appreciated, and I have no idea how you continue to get your job without the assistance of clones. Fellow editors from other Gawker-brand blog titles, both past and present: It's been a lot of fun working with you. Twenty-five years hence, let's meet up in Denton's long-abandoned SoHo loft and compare war wounds.

If there's anyone else I'm forgetting, I'm sure I will remember once the hangover from this Andre-bender fades, and I promise to personally—personally!—make amends.

It's been amazing, really. Thank you all.

—Mark Lisanti

[*"Last" is a really tricky word. See you in three weeks! And one more thing: Please stop calling it "The Defamer." There's no definite article involved. There, I finally got that off my chest!]

Mark: Yeah?
Grazerhead: Hey, buddy.
Mark:: Hi?
Grazerhead: It's Grazerhead!
Mark: Oh! Hi!
Grazerhead: So...big day, huh?
Mark: Yeah, I suppose it is. [a deep, soul-weary sigh.] I suppose it is.

Grazerhead: So what's up next?
Mark: You know, a little of this, a little—
Grazerhead: That's great, just great. So listen. Did you get that totally yum basket of Mrs. Sprinkles red velvet cupcakes I sent over?
Mark: Let me look...so many baskets... Nope.
Grazerhead: WHAT THE FUCK? I told my assistant's headshot to MAKE FUCKING SURE THAT GOT DONE. You really can't count on anybody in this town, you know? What am I supposed to do, personally keep track of every goddamn basket of fucking baked goods I need sent out? I am very fucking busy GlamourShot™!
Mark:: Really, it's totally unnecessary.
Grazerhead: [yelling slightly muffled by a hand loosely placed over a receiver]: Bethany! You are so fucking fired—no, check that, you're DEAD and BURIED in the DESERT— if that guy at Defamer's face isn't fucking covered in sticky, delicious red-velvet residue in the next twenty minutes! I don't care if it's breakfast time! DO IT NOW NOW NOW! Sorry. Still there?
Mark: Always.
Grazerhead: Look, let me make it up to you. My cultural attaché is putting together a thinktank with a photo of Stephen Hawking, a watercolor portrait of J.D., and a doodle of Albert Einstein's brain I made on a yellow pad. Let's get you in there, too. It'll be great networking.
Mark: I'm flattered. Really flattered. But I'm going to have to pass.
Grazerhead: You're kidding. Dude, we can get a bronze bust of Russell Crowe in there too, no problem, if you want more star power.
Mark: I can't. Listen, this is a little awkward, but as long as I have you on the phone, I might as well tell you...
Grazerhead: OK?
Mark: I have to retire you today.
Grazerhead: [a beat.] OK...
Mark: It's nothing personal. It's just time.
Grazerhead: But I got you this for your last day:

Mark: Um. Wow. You really did your research. [a beat] Still...we have to do it. It's time.
Grazerhead: I'm not the kind of idealized representation of an already-handsome guy to take no for an answer, you know.
Mark: I am well aware.
Grazerhead: If I have to have someone break into your home and leave framed versions of me all over the place to remind you of What. A. Huge. Mistake. You're making. every day for the rest of your life, I will.
Mark: We all do what we have to do.
Grazerhead: Fine! Fine.
Mark:: Come on...
Grazerhead:: OK, OK. Promise me one thing, though. You're not going to let them swap me out for that awful wire photo I replaced back in summer '06, are you? I'd like to get out of this with some dignity.
Mark: Of course I won't. I'd never let them do that to you.
Grazerhead: Then I guess this is goodbye.
Mark:: I guess so.
Grazerhead:: See you at the thinktank?
Mark: Have your people call my people.
Grazerhead:: Will do.
[He hangs up.]
Mark: Grazerhead, I'm going to miss you most of all.

OK! So that's that. I'd love to talk at length about what a truly amazing experience this has been (and it has been pretty amazing), but I've promised to save all the weeping, gnashing of teeth, and goodbyes until Friday, when I've scheduled a spectacular emotional breakdown; suffice it to say that the ambulance to Cedars Sinai has already been reserved. And, of course, the rest of our Defamer team isn't going anywhere—in fact, we're still trying to grow the family; expect a post shortly from Fearless Managing Editor Mark Graham with the details.
—-Mark Lisanti, Editor

• Six Reasons Why Star Trek Should Stay Dead [io9]
• What Is an io9? [io9]

OK, enough about our masthead. In the time it took us to type out this update, surely some once-virginal star of a tween-beloved cable series has been controversially impregnated, or the AMPTP has updated its website with a video of negotiating-averse leader Nick Counter setting ablaze an enormous pile of cash to show his greedy and unreasonable Writers Guild adversaries how much money they're wasting with each passing day of their misbegotten strike.

Also, you failed to scare off Jarrett Grode during his Friday guest-editing stint, so he's back today to give Seth a day off. Please continue showering him with affection so that he doesn't run screaming from the Movable Type window by lunchtime. (You know how these performer types crave positive reinforcement.)