The Aussies are coming! The Aussies are coming! Catch openly bisexual Australian songstress Missy Higgins tonight on The Tonight Show With Jay Leno.

Missy will sing her ballad “Where I Stood” off of her album, On a Clear Night. The performance follows TV appearances on Late Night with Conan O’Brien and The Jimmy Kimmel Show earlier this year. Also on the show tonight is cranky, celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay and six-time Beijing Olympics medalist Natalie Coughlin. The Tonight Show airs at 11:35 p.m. on NBC.

Some casting rumors make me excited; some casting rumors make me perplexed. But it's that rare casting rumor that makes me excitedly perplexed. Cher as Catwoman? Really? Now, this is just a rumor and only a rumor. But still, Cher as Catwoman? How both incredibly weird and incredibly awesome would that be? It's so crazy I can almost see it now.

Of course, Cher may not want to invest in a scratching post just yet. The U.K.'s Telegraph broke the news based on an unnamed studio executive claiming that Batman director Christopher Nolan thinks Cher would be purr-fect for the role. The source also claims that the director wants Cher to play Catwoman as a “vamp in her twilight years.” Interesting concept, but I pity the fool who has to tell the 62-year-old Cher she that she is in her “twilight years.” I think Cher and her wigs might have a thing or two to say about that.

The casting rumors also include Johnny Depp being picked to play the Riddler. But since Nolan hasn't even signed on yet to direct the third film, it's hard to take any casting news too seriously. Heck, just last month a rumor made the rounds that Angelina Jolie had inquired about playing the role of Catwoman. It's enough to drive a gal batty, I say.

I know that Mia Kirshner is not Jenny Schecter. I am able to distinguish fact from fiction. I rarely blur the lines between reality and fantasy (except in my most uninhibited, sweaty dreams involving Dara Torres and the U.S. Olympic women's soccer team). Yet, when I first heard that Mia had written a book, I recoiled in horror. Oh, God, not those angsty floating words. Sweet fancy moses, not the confusing carnival of shame. Please, for the love of all that is good, save us from the masturbatory opus!

And then, I remembered to breath and relaxed. Mia is not Jenny. Her book is not Lez Girls. Instead, The L Word actress has written the travelogue I Live Here, which will be published Oct. 14 by Pantheon Books.

Mia's debut novel is described as a “paper documentary” done with the collaboration of graphic novelist Joe Sacco, writer J.B. MacKinnon and graphic designers Paul Shoebridge and Michael Simons. The book chronicles Mia's seven years of travel across the globe and the devastation she has seen. Part diary, part graphic novel, I Live Here spans the war in Chechnya, ethnic cleansing in Burma, globalization in Mexico and AIDS in Malawi.

Say you like two television shows. And say you find out the stars of those two television shows are going to be in a movie together. And say that one of those stars has officially been named the hottest hottie on the planet by all of lesbiankind (otherwise known as the AfterEllen.com Hot 100). You’d think you were dreaming, right?

Dream no more. Tina Fey (our No. 1 with a bullet) and Steve Carell (list ineligible, but still fairly rad) are teaming up for the new romantic comedy Date Night. The stars of 30 Rock and The Office are set to play a married couple who find their routine date night becoming much more than just dinner and a movie.

Director Shawn Levy told Variety what attracted him to the project:

I wanted to do a relatable, grounded character comedy about marriage and the lengths we go to preserve the spark. Tina and Steve are smart and relatable, and the tone of their comedy perfectly fits this film.

Sarah Connor is back. Well, almost. Fine, she's not really back until Sept. 8, but to tide us over until then we have the new promo photos for the second season of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, courtesy of the Sarah Connor Society. (Hat tip, Annie!) A quick warning though: proceed at your own risk if you are afraid of heights.

Lena Headey, Summer Glau and Thomas Dekker are a little close to the edge of that rooftop for my taste. Hello, vertigo trigger. I'm feeling a little woozy. And you know, shots like this really aren't helping me with the dizziness.

I'm glad to see they made it off the rooftop. T:SCC added two new cast members this year. But from the looks of that window, they haven't upgraded their accommodations. Apparently saving the world from killer robots doesn't pay well enough to buy nice curtains. Lena looks rather cross about it. One word, honey: IKEA — you can save the world and save money.

Advertising has one, stunningly simple goal: to make you buy stuff. So then it's always shocking to me to see an ad campaign that has the polar opposite effect; an ad campaign that is so patently offensive it makes me never, ever, not even if they paid me want to buy their product; an ad campaign like the new French “WE ARE ANIMALS” spots for Wrangler.

So, OK, you're thinking, "I'm not entirely sure what's going on here. Why is there a person lying wet, muddy and bedraggled at water's edge. Are dirty, torn-up, leaf-strewn jeans the next acid wash? Wait, is that a corpse?" Alas, to help clear things up in the worst possible way you see the next ad in the campaign.

“WE ARE ANIMALS” apparently means we are animals who are into dead, probably murdered, possibly sexually assaulted women. Wear these jeans, they're killer! Even from the most basic “buy this” standpoint these ads make no sense. Why would I want to wear a dead girl's jeans?

I can't believe I'm going to say this — it goes against almost everything that I hold dear — but, my friends, there comes a point when too much of a good thing becomes too much of a bad thing. So here it goes: Hey, Olympic photographers, stop taking pictures of women's butts.

Wow, that was a hard one to get out. I mean, who doesn't like a finely formed derrière? And before an angry mob of badonkadonk-loving gay women chase me down the street with torches for suggesting Olympians show a little less skin, let me explain. While perusing photos from the Olympics this week I got (inexplicably) distracted by the women's beach volleyball shots. Sand. Bikinis. Abs. Sweaty... I'm back, I'm back.

But the more I looked, the more I realized that while there were more than a dozen tightly-cropped, close-up shots of women players' backsides, there was nary a single similar shot of the male players. This is as close to as it came with the fellas.

Take a look at Beyoncé. Does she look, um, different to you?

Yeah, something is not quite right. Something like, oh I don't know, the fact that her skin is a good two to three shades lighter than it appears in real life. Last week Beyoncé Knowles' new L'Oréal Paris ads for hair coloring have caused quite a controversy over the apparent lightening of her skin.

Of course L'Oréal spokespeople denied the claim, saying: “We highly value our relationship with Ms. Knowles. It is categorically untrue that L'Oréal Paris altered Ms. Knowles' features or skin-tone in the campaign for Feria's hair color.” Beyoncé's endorsement deal with L'Oréal started in 2001.

When I first saw the title for Anne Hathaway's latest movie, I groaned. Rachel Getting Married — oh no, not another romantic comedy about a wedding. (Blerg, seriously, blerg.) But then, sensing the possibility for a good rant about the inane nature of the contemporary rom-coms, I clicked on the trailer anyway. Goodbye first impressions, hello not judging a movie by its title.

What I saw was entirely unexpected: Familial dysfunction, multicultural celebrations, redemptive love, biting humor, and Anne Hathaway as the bad girl — like rehab, relapse, sociopathic behavior, violent tendencies, Shiva the destroyer and harbinger of doom bad.

Rachel Getting Married has the jittery, cinéma vérité feel of a gritty independent but has the big names and hardware of a prestige piece. Besides Hathaway, it stars multiple Oscar nominee Debra Winger (An Officer and a Gentleman, Terms of Endearment) and is helmed by Oscar-winning director Jonathan Demme (Silence of the Lambs, Philadelphia).

Gay women of the world, I would like you to sit down. Find some place comfortable and a chair you've never fallen out of. Make sure no one important is nearby like, say, a boss or a principal or that coworker who is continually stealing your stapler as a passive-aggressive play for your job. Also, just in case, please consider placing pillows on the floor. The pillows will serve a dual purpose since they can muffle your squeals of delight. Are you ready, are you sure? OK, here goes.

At this point you are probably thinking, “Ms. Snarker, what the hell? I've gone and fastened pillows to every surface on my body and all you did was show me a poster with three hot women? You're slipping, women, seek help.” Ah, but I'm still easing you into it. I mean it, you might also want to grab a helmet. This, ladies, is Bitch Slap.

Before we go any further and while you pick yourself off the floor, let's pause for a quick disclaimer. Yes, yes, objectification. Yes, yes, sexism. Yes, yes, violence. I know, I know and I totally agree. All those things are bad. Very bad. In fact, they're wrong. I frown on them with the scowl of a 1000 women's studies majors. That said, ohmyfreakinggodhowawesomewasthat?!

Oh, oh — I totally know this one. So a cop, an angel and a death-row inmate walk into a bar. And the cop says to the angel, "Watch me balance this spoon on my nose." Wait, maybe I don't know this one after all.

Grace has been having weird dreams—well, one weird dream in particular all week. She has had the same dream with angel Earl and inmate Leon in her local cop bar. Leon falls off his barstool and asks for Grace's help. Symbolism, meet Grace; Grace, meet symbolism.

But enough existential worries, there's a party going on. Grace and co. are whooping it up at their bar. Ham's brother, a marine on leave from Iraq, drops in by surprise and everyone is having a good time. (Well, except for this tightly-wound evidence clerk named Ed, but more on him later.) Now it's time for what I like to call my weekly Happy Naked Time with Holly Hunter. This week's HNT is in the men's restroom with her partner Ham. While I have never thought of the words “happy” and “naked” in reference to a men's room, Grace's instructions of “Lower. Lower. Lower.” almost make me change my mind.

Ah, but then comes one humdinger of an interruption: After they hear someone enter and exit the bathroom, the pair recommence their HNT only to be stopped again when a pool of blood forms on the floor. Poor, unlikeable Ed has had his throat slashed in the middle of a cop bar with two detectives in the stall five feet away. Yeah, that's not going to look good in the report.

Helen Mirren is sexy. This isn't my opinion; this is empirical fact. It's just one of life's great truths. It's like the rise and fall of the tide every day — dependable yet still, somehow, magical. What's that? Evidence? You demand proof? Behold, Helen and her itsy, bitsy, teenie weenie. Sure, it's not a yellow polka-dot one, but it is unmistakably a bikini. And, wow, is it ever sexy.

Earlier this month, shots of the newly 63-year-old star rocking her bikini bod while on vacation in Italy caused quite a stir in the British press and beyond. But for anyone paying attention, this is nothing new. Helen has always been a hottie. She was even officially deemed one by you in the inaugural AfterEllen.com Hot 100 list (No. 31 in 2007, shamefully absent in 2008 — hint, hint for 2009).

These days along with inspiring legions of women decades younger than her to do more crunches, Helen is helping to bring the concept of "sexyback" to a whole generation of women who our youth-obsessed culture has unfairly put to pasture. Male actors in their 60s and beyond are still routinely considered desirable leading men. Take Robert De Niro (64), Harrison Ford (66), Al Pacino (68) and Jack Nicholson (71).

There are no new ideas. OK, fine — maybe there are one or two left floating around un-thought. But for the most part, your great idea has probably been thought up by someone else and theirs was probably greater. True in everyday life, incredibly true in Hollywood. So imagine my deja vu when looking thought new posters recently. Call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure I detect a theme.

First, there was the poster for the new Alan Ball-helmed vampire series True Blood. It's about vampires. The vampires are sexy. They drink human blood. You get the picture.

Then, I came across the poster for the new Diablo Cody-penned horror flick Jennifer's Body. It's about a demonic cheerleader. The cheerleader is sexy. She feeds off her classmates. You get the picture.

Let us, for one moment, discuss Det. Grace Hanadarko's hair. It is wild and unruly, beautiful and brazen. In short, it's a metaphor for her life. I have never seen a major crimes detective with hair like Grace's in real life. I'm sure there are some out there, but as yet I have not had either the fortune or misfortune to run into them in my daily life. It is one of the many reasons Saving Grace continues to intrigue me and has me back for a second season.

The season's first two episodes are pack in so much capital-D drama you realize TNT wasn't kidding with its recent “We know drama” campaign. For those keeping score at home, the two hours of TV includes, in rough chronological order: a pedophile priest, a kidnapping, shooting, childhood sexual abuse, redemption, murder, the cycle of child abuse, suicide, the Oklahoma City Bombings, adultery, guilt, the inappropriate use of condiments, familial distrust, chickens, a lost dog and a very unlucky deer. In short, they are just like Grace: rich, complicated, meaty and messy.

Last season ended on a cliffhanger with Grace confronting the priest who sexually abused her as a child. As the season premiere begins, an off-duty Grace meets her best friend Rhetta at a cafe. But before they get to the topic of what happened Grace spots a guy across the street who look hinky and wouldn't you know it, her book-by-its-cover instincts were right on. He is indeed bad and carjacks a man in front of them.

Grace chases after him, guns blazing, and is soon joined in pursuit by backup as well as police dog. As the K-9 officer runs after the suspect, they both jump over an overpass. The leap kills the suspect and injures the dog. As Grace and the officers arrive, she runs straight for the dog as the others check on the man.

Movie posters have a very simple yet very critical task: Make people go see the movie. With such a singular objective in mind, you wouldn't think the studios would futz it up so very badly so very often. Yet, there they go again. Please witness the new one-sheet for the new remake of the all-female '30s classic The Women.

Unlike the film's teaser poster, this one actually features the key cast in this tale of wife (and her friends) versus mistress. Sure, on its surface nothing seems terrible here; but just like staring at a Monet, things start to come out of focus with closer inspection.

First, what's up with Annette Bening's face? Seriously, not to become the crazy lady who can't stop complaining about the horrors of Photoshop, but — hello — horrors of Photoshop. She looks at once smooth and puffy. Also I can't believe she would ever actually wear a shade of eyeshadow that flirts so perilously with '80s powder blue. Banish the thought.