The record breaking Olympian strikes an iconic pose

So who is, like, winning all the medals this Olympics? Besides Michael Phelps I mean. It's a tricky question!

If you're watching at home in U.S. America, you're probably inclined to think "America!" because not only does your capacity for snack food consumption mean NBC is raking in the most ad revenue in broadcasting the games, US media outlets conveniently ranks the countries in terms of "medals won," whereby the U.S. wins (by a hair!) and sits atop the official Medal Count, whereas over in China — and Hong Kong — they're ranking the countries in terms of gold medals scored, and China's winning that race by like 96. (Okay, 17.) In search of true journalistic objectivity we decided to consult some news sites representing countries without a proverbial "horse" in this race. Al-Jazeera!

And guess what, Osama Bin Laden's mouthpiece says we won. They know what side of the balance of superpower their anti-hegemonic crusade is buttered (guns-ed?) on!

Al Jazeera
China Daily (Please note the awesome animated flame on this site!)
Related: Did Bush Really Want To Bomb Al Jazeera? [The Nation]

Gay is the new black.

With online searches for Courtenay Semel and Samantha Ronson soaring - following news that they're dating fellow women Tila Tequila and Lindsay Lohan, respectively - it's now hip to be a lesbian.

Or at least an easy way to garner attention for celebrities that offer little else to the world.

Enter Aubrey O'Day and her recent revelation:

"At this point in my life I wouldn't say one way or another what my preference is sexually. The only thing I'm looking for in life is incredible passion and honest love, and if that's with a girl, a guy, a guy that dresses like a girl, a girl that dresses like a guy, whatever the options are on the table, all I really operate on is the way I feel in my heart when it comes to love."

Great news, ladies: You can se Aubrey O'Day nude, too! She's pretending to be a lesbian this week!

[Images: Big Pictures/Mr Paparazzi]

Rhys Ifans is so scrubby it’s unbelievable. Seriously, we thought it was bad enough when we spotted the shaggy haired Welshman last night dining at posh London restaurant Nobu wearing exceptionally filthy clothes, but to wear the same grimy appendages two days in a row – that is UNBELIEVABLE…

We bumped into Rhys having a lunchtime meal with Kimberley Stewart earlier today, and to our surprise he was sporting almost exactly the same soiled clothes as the night before. Just look at the state of his trousers!! We’re shocked his luncheon companions could stomach eating their food sitting next to him. Do you even think he bothered to shower?

New York used to be the the richest, biggest, and baddest state in the union. But new stats from the IRS will contribute to New Yorkers' inferiority complex—we've dropped from second to third for millionaires, behind those tofu-eating Californians and aged Jews down in Florida. (The stats are actually based on those making $1.5 million or more, and are from 2004.) But don't get too worried: we'll smugly mention that Florida has no state income tax, so it's sure to host plenty of tax-avoiding New Yorkers. [WSJ]

I say we start a petition right here and now.  Demand for Eva Longoria to be replaced with Sofia Vergara on Desperate Housewives contractually obligate Sofia to have at least one 15:00 minute scene...

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I say we start a petition right here and now.  Demand for Eva Longoria to be replaced with Sofia Vergara on Desperate Housewives contractually obligate Sofia to have at least one 15:00 minute scene...

[[ This is a content summary only. Visit my website for full links, other content, and more! ]]

Elitot Spitzer’s wife might hate Ashley Alexandra Dupré for the public humiliation, but that hasn’t stopped others from catering to the escort. Rush & Malloy reports Ashley and her...

[[ This is a content summary only. Visit my website for full links, other content, and more! ]]

Oh my, Michael Phelps, what have we here? I am guessing it was a local purchase? Perhaps from a small boutique in one of those labyrinthine Chinese megamalls that you could never actually find again in the case you discovered their elaborate certification that you were buying a genuine limited-edition Bathing Ape was a forgery? Here is a hint: Bathing Ape doesn't manufacture hoodies with short sleeves! I don't think so anyway. No one should! But also: I know you are down with G-Unit or whatever but you are a vaguely dorky-looking 6'5 white swimmer. The "whimsical self-mocking hip-hop internationalist" aesthetic was not meant for you. Your shorter whimsical less-white friend knows this. Call us when you win some gold medals that look as as cool as Mark Spitz's! [Guest of a Guest]

[Images: Big Pictures/Mr Paparazzi]

Oh dear, we’ve all been there haven’t we? Yes, we’ve all had to do the inevitable walk of shame after a grotty night out partying. Though we hope we managed to look less fragile and shell-shocked than Miquita did this morning when we spotted her on the doorstep of Lily Allen’s house. Then again she did get up to THIS last night…

We bumped into a rather dishevelled looking Miquita Oliver scuttling out of Lily’s house earlier today in last night’s clothes. We bet she reeked of cigarettes, booze and Donner Kebabs. Grim…

Last week we floated an absolutely delicious rumor—the sort of inside media gossip that we hope to be known for when future generations are considering our legacy. Specifically, it was the story of the crazy pooping intern. A summer intern at one of the networks, we heard, went on an on-the-job pooping spree, but somehow stayed on and continued her internship through the rest of the summer. Tips have poured in, and it's become clear this is the story of your worst at-work nightmare come to life. Here's how one locked toilet at NBC caused a disaster:

The intern was at NBC in New York, at the famous 30 Rock (NBC has not responded to our request for comment). Our tipsters diverge a tiny bit in their details, but all agree that this intern did exist, and she did have quite an accident. They say it all happened on the intern's first day on the job, in June. Apparently, she tried to make a run to the bathroom, but didn't quite get there. One account:

Said intern did in fact shit all over the 18th and 25th floors of 30 Rock. She did it in the hallway, on the floor, on a pile of FedEx boxes, on the way between floors… pretty much everywhere but the bathroom or (hey, sometimes you’re desperate) a garbage can. Or a cup. Or a napkin. Or in her hands. No, just streaking through the hallways. And then she took it into that room where she locked herself in and proceeded to wipe (sorry, I couldn’t come up with a better word) it on the walls, on the computer, on those same FedEx boxes. It was a shitshow (pun absolutely intended).

One tipster even said that the intern was in a meeting with her boss when the drama occurred. News of it spread quickly throughout the building. What was the reason for the treason? We hear that bad foreign water was blamed:

The intern blamed the mess on bad water that she drank in Israel (although she had been back from her vacation more than 2 weeks before she started). The rumor at NBC is that it was some kind of laxative induced disaster.

The cleaning staff reportedly took care of the mess. But the biggest mystery of all: Why, and how, did said intern get to stay on for the rest of the summer? For one thing, it wasn't her fault: the bathrooms were locked, and she didn't yet have a key. And a general sense of mortification kept everyone quiet:

The bosses did want to fire her but were so shocked that she came back that they were a little scared because, what kind of person does something so gross and then shows up the next day like nothing happened? No one wanted to bring it up again, so she got to stay by default.

This poop story is truly nightmarish. Deep inside, we all harbor a fear that something like this might befall us on the first day at a new job. Nevertheless, this person was able to hold her head up high and continue in what must have been the most snicker-inducing environment imaginable. And with little hope of a good recommendation.

Pooping intern: We salute your courage.

Want a warm, fluffy and eco-friendly baby blanket like Jessica alba recently bought for newborn baby-Honor?

Ecorazzi is celebrating its 2 year anniversary with a Robbie Adrian blanket giveaway. What’s so special about these blankets?

“Robbie Adrian blankets are made from 100% certified, US grown organic cotton velour and fleece, trimmed in elegant silk, dyed in seven rich, classic colors using low impact dyes. The blankets are made in the USA and machine wash and dry. Blankets purchased through the Robbie Adrian web site will arrive wrapped in sustainable materials.”

Since I have a new niece “in the oven”, I already put in my entry. Did you?

Tags: Baby, Blanket, Giveaway, jessica-alba, Robbie Adrian

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All right, fine. Everyone and their mother went to the Gossip Girl premiere party in the Hamptons and made fun videos and gurgled at Chace Crawford and I didn't get invited. Josh Schwartz, if you're reading this... you've broken my heart.

Britney Spears attended Kim Vo’s private party in Beverly Hills on Sunday afternoon. Britney looked gorgeous, showing off her assets in a low-cut vest, she smiled left and right and seemed to have been really happy to attend the party. Kim Vo is Brit’s hairdresser and is pretty much the guy who took her hair from slum to glam.

Tags: Beverly Hills, Britney Spears, Kim Vo, Video

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Yesterday, we introduced you to the leaked chick-lit manuscript of mogul wife Leslie Zemeckis, who is married to Forrest Gump director Robert Zemeckis. Our publishing elf dubbed in "exhausting" as well as "derivative... clichéd and unpolished" in a reader's report. When we last left off, 24-year-old heiress/divorcee Natalie was sitting on the floor of her condo wearing a Juicy couture tracksuit, watching Entertainment Tonight and reading tabloids while spilling marinana sauce on herself. Now, we're introduced to Finn, the hottest young actor in town who lives with his elderly Irish mother: "Finn took a swig from a 1992 bottle of Beaujolais and washed his mouth out as the blonde with the killer fake tits strolled by his bed..."

"...Her naked, muscular body glistened with the almond oil that he had been rubbing between her every nook and cranny for the past several hours.

He lit his 3rd cigarette of the day and checked the Rolex strapped to his hairy wrist. 8:30. Damn but it was early and it had been a late night and he felt like fuck-shit, even though he’d been blown from kingdom cum and back. It was a typical Tuesday night troll through Hollywood with his friends, all of them but him desperate to get laid. He’d found the blonde at the second bar. Like the rest of them she was easy for Finn Collins, the hottest young actor in town, to get into bed.

Finn rolled out of bed, off the wrinkled, stained sheets, still damp from two bodies being entangled between them all night. He disappeared into the bathroom as the blonde started dressing.

He turned on the shower, stood under the hot stream, and rubbed soap on his limp penis. It was actually sore. The blonde had given him some workout. Since “arriving” in Hollywood three years before he’d slept with countless starlets, fathered a child out of wedlock and shot no less than seven medium-budget action films, as well as a few historical dramas. He was perceived to be the ruthless bachelor no woman in town could tie down but the truth was he hadn’t found anyone worth staying with much longer than a night. He wasn’t about to lose his heart to some silicone-injected Hollywood whore. Not one of them – and he couldn’t count how many there had been – was good enough to bring home to his ma, figuratively at least. Literally he didn’t have much of a choice.

His mother lived in the bottom half of his two-story house perched above Sunset Boulevard with a spectacular view – babe magnet view – a pool and not much else for the money...Mother Collins was a saint, she was. Dublin born, a gal who liked her pint and could hold it too, she was proud of her son’s success. She’d raised him like a prince, even on a housekeeper’s wage. She never let him forget he was special. Better than all the rest. She sacrificed everything for him when he was growing up. He played in the streets while she worked as many jobs as she could find. She never bought a new dress that wasn’t from a thrift store and she practically prostituted herself to a distant relative to send Finn to school in London, where he’d studied Shakespeare and gotten his break treading the boards on the West End in a big important drama she didn’t much understand but didn’t care, because all the critics wrote about what a marvel her lad was.

When Hollywood had called, of course he’d packed her up and taken her with him. Now she lived like the Queen. Drivers to take her whereever she wanted to go, not that she ever wanted to go anywhere other than a dicey Chinese restaurant downtown called Mrs. Foo’s. She’d become fast friends with Mrs. Foo, an eighty-two year old bird who gave out advice along with the city’s best take-out. Mrs. Foo held court six nights a week. Many an afternoon Ma Collins had sat at Mrs. Foo’s tiny restaurant on a gang-ridden street downtown, eating wonton soup and pouring her heart out about her son and the “tramps” he was bringing home.

“My lad’s going to catch something from them,” she would say, sake in hand. “I don’t know why he can’t find a nice girl to settle down with.”

Mrs. Foo would squint her eyes, set her wrinkled face and tell Ma Collins not to worry. “Wild oats. Let him sow and he’ll always be yours. If you stop him now he will marry someone wrong and she will cut you out of his life.” Ma Collins lived in fear of someone taking her boy from her. For twenty-four years she’d poured every ounce of her being into making sure he’d had the opportunities she never did. Wild oats or not, she’d be damned if some clap-ridden skank was going to get hold of her son and ruin everything.
Ma Collins spent most of her time watching the telly, her skinny feet propped up on an ottoman, resting after forty years of slaving away, washing stains out of other peoples’ clothes.

“Morning ma,” said and kissed the old woman on her cheek. She smelled of lemon and baby powder and sat on a barstool at the lime green breakfast counter sipping tea, not saying anything, her mouth a silent gash in a caved in face.

“Do you have your teeth in ma?” She hated the expensive new teeth he’d bought her.

Silently she reached into a drawer and slid them in.

Finn stood looking at his mother with love, a towel draped around his waist. His muscles on his chest were hard and white.

“Ma?” he said. “Aren’t you going to at least say ‘Good morning’?”

“That whore forgot her underclothes.” She held up a tiny triangle of cotton nothing. There was nothing to cover the bottom with. No more than a piece of string. This is a crazy country, the old woman thought. It was a good thing she was here to protect her poor vulnerable boy from the likes of these girls all looking for a rich husband so they could sit on their skinny behinds all day and kick her into an old age home.

“Forgot? Where is she? You didn’t kick her out? Not another, ma? I told you. Let me do that, it’s not polite.”

“Are you wearing protection son? Already one child, ya don’t need another,” she warned.

Yesterday, we introduced you to the leaked chick-lit manuscript of mogul wife Leslie Zemeckis, who is married to Forrest Gump director Robert Zemeckis. Our publishing elf dubbed in "exhausting" as well as "derivative... clichéd and unpolished" in a reader's report. When we last left off, 24-year-old heiress/divorcee Natalie was sitting on the floor of her condo wearing a Juicy couture tracksuit, watching Entertainment Tonight and reading tabloids while spilling marinana sauce on herself. Now, we're introduced to Finn, the hottest young actor in town, who lives with his elderly Irish mother: "Finn took a swig from a 1992 bottle of Beaujolais and washed his mouth out as the blonde with the killer fake tits strolled by his bed..."

"...Her naked, muscular body glistened with the almond oil that he had been rubbing between her every nook and cranny for the past several hours.

He lit his 3rd cigarette of the day and checked the Rolex strapped to his hairy wrist. 8:30. Damn but it was early and it had been a late night and he felt like fuck-shit, even though he’d been blown from kingdom cum and back. It was a typical Tuesday night troll through Hollywood with his friends, all of them but him desperate to get laid. He’d found the blonde at the second bar. Like the rest of them she was easy for Finn Collins, the hottest young actor in town, to get into bed.

Finn rolled out of bed, off the wrinkled, stained sheets, still damp from two bodies being entangled between them all night. He disappeared into the bathroom as the blonde started dressing.

He turned on the shower, stood under the hot stream, and rubbed soap on his limp penis. It was actually sore. The blonde had given him some workout. Since “arriving” in Hollywood three years before he’d slept with countless starlets, fathered a child out of wedlock and shot no less than seven medium-budget action films, as well as a few historical dramas. He was perceived to be the ruthless bachelor no woman in town could tie down but the truth was he hadn’t found anyone worth staying with much longer than a night. He wasn’t about to lose his heart to some silicone-injected Hollywood whore. Not one of them – and he couldn’t count how many there had been – was good enough to bring home to his ma, figuratively at least. Literally he didn’t have much of a choice.

His mother lived in the bottom half of his two-story house perched above Sunset Boulevard with a spectacular view – babe magnet view – a pool and not much else for the money...Mother Collins was a saint, she was. Dublin born, a gal who liked her pint and could hold it too, she was proud of her son’s success. She’d raised him like a prince, even on a housekeeper’s wage. She never let him forget he was special. Better than all the rest. She sacrificed everything for him when he was growing up. He played in the streets while she worked as many jobs as she could find. She never bought a new dress that wasn’t from a thrift store and she practically prostituted herself to a distant relative to send Finn to school in London, where he’d studied Shakespeare and gotten his break treading the boards on the West End in a big important drama she didn’t much understand but didn’t care, because all the critics wrote about what a marvel her lad was.

When Hollywood had called, of course he’d packed her up and taken her with him. Now she lived like the Queen. Drivers to take her whereever she wanted to go, not that she ever wanted to go anywhere other than a dicey Chinese restaurant downtown called Mrs. Foo’s. She’d become fast friends with Mrs. Foo, an eighty-two year old bird who gave out advice along with the city’s best take-out. Mrs. Foo held court six nights a week. Many an afternoon Ma Collins had sat at Mrs. Foo’s tiny restaurant on a gang-ridden street downtown, eating wonton soup and pouring her heart out about her son and the “tramps” he was bringing home.

“My lad’s going to catch something from them,” she would say, sake in hand. “I don’t know why he can’t find a nice girl to settle down with.”

Mrs. Foo would squint her eyes, set her wrinkled face and tell Ma Collins not to worry. “Wild oats. Let him sow and he’ll always be yours. If you stop him now he will marry someone wrong and she will cut you out of his life.” Ma Collins lived in fear of someone taking her boy from her. For twenty-four years she’d poured every ounce of her being into making sure he’d had the opportunities she never did. Wild oats or not, she’d be damned if some clap-ridden skank was going to get hold of her son and ruin everything.
Ma Collins spent most of her time watching the telly, her skinny feet propped up on an ottoman, resting after forty years of slaving away, washing stains out of other peoples’ clothes.

“Morning ma,” said and kissed the old woman on her cheek. She smelled of lemon and baby powder and sat on a barstool at the lime green breakfast counter sipping tea, not saying anything, her mouth a silent gash in a caved in face.

“Do you have your teeth in ma?” She hated the expensive new teeth he’d bought her.

Silently she reached into a drawer and slid them in.

Finn stood looking at his mother with love, a towel draped around his waist. His muscles on his chest were hard and white.

“Ma?” he said. “Aren’t you going to at least say ‘Good morning’?”

“That whore forgot her underclothes.” She held up a tiny triangle of cotton nothing. There was nothing to cover the bottom with. No more than a piece of string. This is a crazy country, the old woman thought. It was a good thing she was here to protect her poor vulnerable boy from the likes of these girls all looking for a rich husband so they could sit on their skinny behinds all day and kick her into an old age home.

“Forgot? Where is she? You didn’t kick her out? Not another, ma? I told you. Let me do that, it’s not polite.”

“Are you wearing protection son? Already one child, ya don’t need another,” she warned.

Warning: the following pictures reveal a couple High School Musical 3 spoilers.

Specifically, a few make the outcome of the Wildcats' championship basketball game rather obvious.

Enlarge them at your own risk, but also keep in mind that they all feature Zac Efron in the role of Troy Bolton. In other words: they may spoil a story line, but they're freakin' gorgeous! For example:

Zac Efron: The ultmate (cute!!!!) close-up.

We'll give you a few minutes to stare at the photo above and then get your heart rate back to normal...

Once you've recovered from the image of Efron sweaty and intense, check out the following High School Muscial 3 pics. They feature Efron and real-life girlfriend Vanessa Hudgens in the roles that made them famous:

Octogenarian Post gossipeuse Cindy Adams reports that the Enquirer tomorrow will run a photo of Rielle Hunter holding the baby John Edwards maybe held in that photo that was maybe him in that hotel room he met Rielle at. They will have "proof" that it is the same baby and "proof" that it is not photoshopped. Cindy Adams also reports this: "ENOUGH already with New York's financial woes. Soon, instead of a torch, the Statue of Liberty will hold up a tin cup and pencils." [NYP]

The actor turns 56 with a festive celebration including his wife and costars on The Beast set in Chicago

[Images: Big Pictures/Mr Paparazzi]

Well, Kelly looks likes she’s taken to single life like a duck to water, doesn’t she?? Just weeks after splitting with her on-off lover Billy Zane, we spotted Kelly on a beach in St.Tropez showing Billy what he’s been missing….

Earlier this month Kelly called off their four-year relationship in an emotional phone call to the Titanic star. But if Kelly suffered any trauma as a result of the break-up she seems to have gotten over it pretty quickly. We spotted Kelly jumping for joy and waving her arms in the air as she frolicked about on a beach with friends.

We wish we could look that good and happy when we’re single…

Before recapping last night's episode of The Hills - or whatever you call the 10 minutes of show surrounded by 20 minutes of ads - a quick note:

You suck, MTV.

We realize ads pay for the entertainment, and that you want to milk every cent out of your one hit show. But eight straight minutes? Jackasses.

Anyway.

Before 12 Taco Bell ads destroyed our love for it, the fourth season of The Hills started off great. It began at work with Whitney and Lauren.

Lauren is clearly preoccupied about her hot date with Doug Reinhardt later that night. She tells Whitney Port all about it. Giggling ensues.

LC's somewhat-estranged roommate, Audrina Patridge, reveals her weekend plans to amusingly-named Chiara, her co-worker at Epic Records.

Turns out Lauren Conrad is throwing her a birthday bash at the house. Should be a lot of fun, right? Well, Chiara is worried - and not at all prompted by the producers to say so - that tension between Audrina and Lo will ruin it. 

Meanwhile, on The Hills 2.0, a.k.a. SpeidiLand, Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt are living together again, but little does he know she has told Holly Montag, her sister from Colorado, that she can stay with them for a bit.

When he finds out, Spencer Pratt immediately wants rid of Holly and acts like a total d!ck, rejecting the nice breakfast she made and everything.

He sleeps until noon, then promptly goes back to bed. Apparently man has quite a flexible schedule. No discernible employment will allow that.

Before Holly Montag heads home to Colorado, she tells Heidi she is thinking about moving to L.A. full-time. Spencer is far from pleased.

Lauren Conrad and Doug Reinhardt apparently went out for a bit in high school - they went to different schools but she went to his prom!

After catching up for a bit, the minor league baseball player tells her she still looks gorgeous and is acting all cheesy. He asks her out again and LC tells him about the party for Audrina. Doug says he'll be there, totes.

Audrina's party arrives and there is hectic drama in The Hills.

A seriously uptight Lo - the queen of passive-aggressive behavior - takes a cheap shot at the types of people Audrina invited. Sure, they're a little rough around the edges, but at least Audrina likes to have fun. Gosh, Lo.

Lauren Conrad then gets frustrated when Lo refuses to hang out or even try to get to know Audrina's friends. Lo (Lauren Bosworth) just gets defensive.

The day after the pool party, Lauren has nothing but good things to say about Doug Reinhardt when she recounts the day to Whitney, but LC remains very worried about Audrina and Lo and the tension that will not go away.

Back at home, Audrina and Lo finally have it out, blaming each other for the growing distance between them. That's when Audrina drops the bomb that gave this episode its title, telling Lo that "we'll never be friends." Snap.

Oh joy: another 'homage' cover from a magazine industry that appears to be running as thin on new ideas as it is ad pages!

We will be sure to save this one in the hyperbaric chamber in which Gawker Media stores valuable artifacts of the dying days of print media alongside last month's Esquire's Stephen Colbert cover homage to Esquire's 1968 Mohammad Ali cover and that New York Marilyn Monroe homage cover featuring Lindsay Lohan and Esquire's homage to that disturbing (if your mom ever told you shaving your face would make you grow hair there anyway) 1965 Virna Lisi cover featuring Jessica Simpson and also Esquire's February homage cover ripping off that 1967 Angie (yes that one!) Dickinson photo to which they already paid homage to back in 2003 when Britney Spears could sell magazines not named OK!…are we missing any? Most certainly!

It's not as if mid-century was such a golden age for magazine circulations. Esquire got up around a million during its heyday, sure, and now it's probably about 25% off that, but Sports Illustrated is actually significantly more widely read than it was in the seventies. But editors back them were at least a little less the prisoners of cover-testing and circulation departments. So it's no wonder that their more conservative descendents hark back to an earlier era when every tired cover gimmick was still new—and when Mark Spitz somehow convinced the International Olympic Committee to give him his medals on gold chains (check the photo) and the world was cooler then.

"We'll never be friends," Audrina says of their mounting tension

Divorce and baseball woes - Cynthia Rodriguez is poised to take tens of millions of his money and the Yankees are 10 games out of first in the American League East - don’t seem to be keeping slugger Alex Rodriguez down.

A-Rod was spotted in two differnt cities squiring two cuties last week - including one who sources say looks younger version of his estranged wife.

Rodriguez stepped out with a mystery blonde last Wednesday night, starting with a cozy dinner at Dan Marino’s restaurant in South Beach.

No word on whether the potential new base-rounding partner is Alex's type (a.k.a. able to bench press a small car like Joslyn Morse).

The duo showed up around 9 p.m. and shared a “fairly animated” conversation, spies told Page Six. “They looked to be thoroughly enjoying themselves.”

So much so that the third baseman and his date left the eatery and walked to nearby nightspot Bougainvillea. There, they sat at a secluded outside table that was shielded from prying eyes by some well-placed shrubbery.

Alex appears to have moved on from Cynthia Rodriguez quickly.

As Alex Rodriguez and his mystery woman got up to leave around 1 a.m., the pair seemed surprised to be greeted by a celebrity gossip photographer.

Once spotted, A-Rod ran away, “trying to make out like he wasn’t with her,” said the source. Realizing that witnesses weren’t buying the ploy, Alex said, “This is nothing. She’s an old friend of mine. Leave us alone.”

Back in New York on Sunday, Rodriguez hit the roof of Soho House with a tall Asian beauty with “good hair,” sources report.

And this time, instead of trying to pretend he wasn’t with a woman, A-Rod - decked out in jeans, a white T-shirt and black patent-leather Nikes - was “out-of-his-way nice” to the staff. “He seemed in great spirits.”

Just after 11 p.m., his date made her way downstairs, with A-Rod following a few minutes behind her. Then they jumped into a hybrid SUV and took off.

This isn't the first time A-Rod has been linked to two women at the same time. Although it's doubtful a threesome took place here.