Right now, the New Orleans Saints are knights in shining helmets—they can do no wrong. The whole country (save the state of Indiana) is in love with the fifty men who rescued an entire city's spirit from the brink. But they'd better be careful, because squandering all that goodwill is easier than they might think. Take Saints wide receiver Lance Moore for example, who was caught Sunday night at the Fontainebleau hotel celebrating the big win with a dude that makes the cast of Jersey Shore look like Rhodes scholars. The incident was caught by TMZ cameras, and upon seeing this overgrown gremlin, we couldn't help but wish the Colts had won, so that he wouldn't have had what was probably the best night of life.

Tomorrow sees the end of a decade-long recording hibernation for the Grammy-winning pop star Sade. The last time she put out an album, 2000's Lover Rock, the music industry was a very different place. Napster was just a baby, and Pitchfork was still something the devil carried. But Soldier of Love—out tomorrow—is already number two on the Amazon charts thanks to pre-sales, meaning that even in the age of Hype Machine, Sade fans like their music served up the old school way. Fortunately for you, we don't. So in honor of plummeting record sales, here is Sade's Soldier of Love, for free, after the jump.

We never really knew why Wes Bentley never fulfilled the promise he showed in American Beauty. Four Feathers was bad, but it wasn't a career killer. And yet somehow, Bentley managed to transform himself into a Hollywood cautionary tale: How to Disappear. But a surprising new profile in the New York Times reveals it wasn't the scripts that were bad (although Ghost Rider was very, very bad), it was the drugs.

Whoever thinks that there's even a chance that Howard Stern might replace Simon Cowell as a judge on American Idol, doesn't know Howard. Yes, he and Cowell share a penchant for being brutally honest, but Stern fled broadcast radio for Satellite to free himself of the shackles that are censors. Does anyone really think he'd want broadcast censors--who in primetime are stricter than ever--keeping him on a leash? Stern has been known to judge contestants on his show, but it usually involves their breasts and a laser pointer. Anyway, in honor of this rumor, we performed some internet archeology and dug up some entertaining clips from 2003 of Stern interviewing, as he calls them, the mean dude, the black dude, and Paula Abdul. If you're curious about the size of Simon's penis, give it a listen.

Until now, the closest sports have come to reaching the cathartic stratospheres of high art was the Tiger Woods sex scandal--call it theater of the absurd. But today, the internet brings us two when-sports-meets-art projects that both merit a peek. The New York Times--proving they're way hipper than we give them credit for--commissioned downtown (and everything that connotes) photographer Ryan McGinley to shoot a portfolio of U.S. Olympic athletes doing what they do best, while sporting (hey!) designs by Rodarte. The sisters Mulleavy, with their fluttery, ethereal motifs are the last ones you'd expect fabricating clothes for athletes, but then again, we are talking about figure skating. Check out a slide show and a Q&A with the sisters here.

In just over a month, little-known English actress Alice Eve will be christened a brand new pin-up by ravenous teenage boys everywhere. That's when She's Out of My League comes out, an R-rated comedy starring Jay Baruchel as an airport security schlub who lands the girl of, well, everyone's dreams (played by Eve). The movie was originally called Hard 10, named after Eve's place on the hotness scale. (We saw the movie, and it's true, she's scorching). But Alice Eve is not just a pretty face. She's a well-spoken, stage-trained, Oxford-educated actress. In fact, back when she was promoting the disappointing immigration mosaic Crossing Over, Eve had some choice words for a certain comedy about urbanity and fornication. "I have a problem with Sex and the City in that it perpetuates a level of judgment between women," she said then. Then she mentioned that she's hard at work on two screenplays about "the modern woman." What a difference a year makes.

Inside the pages of Vanity Fair's latest Hollywood issue is a fascinating look at the bizarre lives of Hollywood's so-called Bling Ring, the group of Valley girls and boys who in 2009 went around burglarizing the homes of the rich and famous. You might remember sites like TMZ (which ironically is how the thieves knew their victims' schedules) being all over this story while it developed. Back then, the accused were short on details, but now faced with the prospect of serious jail time, they've decided to backstab each other, like well, a bunch of Valley kids. The winners in all of this? Us! Writer Nancy Jo Sales gives juicy, first-hand accounts of the robberies of homes belonging to stars like Orlando Bloom and Paris Hilton, who seem to spend their money on exactly what you'd think Young Hollywood spends their money on: Rolexes, Louis Vuitton luggage, cocaine. For this, we can mostly thank Nick Prugo, a now remorseful ringleader of the whole operation, and a very generous tattletale. Here are five lessons learned from the saga of the Bling Ring.

And the award for ballsiest host of the week goes to ... some guy from WGN whose name we don't know! The host bravely accosted notorious live wire Mel Gibson on live television, calling him out on his past troubles, and the results are stupendous. Gibson, who after a long acting hiatus is trying to reclaim movie-star status with the middling Edge of Darkness, is about five years removed "what's been called the anti-Semitic rant," as the host so brilliantly put it. And since Mel Gibson's form of apology is to make excuses, he's already hit back, saying he was calling his publicist an asshole, who was making faces off-camera. So if calling a reporter an asshole is Mel Gibson's new anti-Semitic rant, that would make his publicist what, the booze? Video after the jump.

The great Mark Twain once wrote, “Quitting smoking is easy. I’ve done it a thousand times.” It’s the perfect summation of the eternal struggle between a smoker and his cigarette, at once a loyal friend and two-faced bastard. But an even greater struggle that smokers face is against themselves. Do they smoke because they can’t not, or because they don’t feel like stopping? Anti-smoking products -- nicotine gum, patches, nasal spray -- are known as Nicotine Replacement Therapy, and have had varying degrees of success. They’re designed to quench your body’s thirst for nicotine, but what they can’t replicate is the pleasure of heading out for a smoke break with your coworkers, or sparking up after a stressful job interview. The physicality of smoking -- the holding of the cigarette, the puffing in and blowing out of smoke -- is half of the appeal. This means that the most effective form of NRT would be a device that could satisfy a smoker’s nic-fits, while still allowing him to look as debonair as Humphrey Bogart circa 1946. Ladies and gentlemen, we give you the e-cigarette.

The first time I laid eyes on Vera Farmiga—owner of the greatest pearls in Hollywood—was in Wayne Kramer's very underrated, over-the-top adrenaline blast Running Scared. She was the unconventional female lead in an unconventional thriller. Instead of the damsel in distress, she was a tender mother and wife who also landed some of the film's most memorable kills. Before that she starred in the little-seen indie Down to the Bone, a film that has a 93% on Rotten Tomatoes. It was one of the best reviewed movies of 2005, and critics across the country hailed Farmiga's wrenching turn as a cokehead single mom as one of the year's best. Back then, Peter Travers wrote that "If there were an ounce of taste left in Hollywood, the magnificent Vera Farmiga would be a front-runner for the Best Actress Oscar." Not only was she not a front-runner, but she failed to score even a nomination.