Well, it's finally happened. After a long and dramatic courtship, which involved the birth of a baby daughter, Kanye West has finally proposed to Kim Kardashian. It happened last night, in San Francisco, at the AT&T ballpark, which Kanye rented out for the evening. Kim was blindfolded and then brought into the stadium, where an orchestra was playing Lana del Rey's "Young and Beautiful." A big sign flashed "Pleeease Marry Meee!!!" and Kanye got down on one knee and presented his beloved with a 15 carat diamond ring. Kim, of course, said yes, and then family and friends came out onto the field to congratulate them. It was a suitably big-scale proposal for the flashy couple, though they could have done it even bigger. Sky-writing or a parade or the actual Lana del Rey. I mean, that last one had to have been doable. What, was Lana del Rey too busy mumbling something into a potted plant at the Chateau Marmont to be flown to San Francisco to sing at the biggest marriage proposal of the year? Seems like Kanye could have at least inquired. Clearly a fair amount of effort was put into this event, but it could have been even bigger. Something to think about for next time, is all. [TMZ]

Meanwhile, baby North West's future something (boyfriend? friend? sworn enemy?), young Prince George Alexander Louis, will be christened tomorrow in a private ceremony at St. James's Palace in London. It will mostly be family in attendance, which, as People magazine points out, means that Prince Harry's supposed almost-fiance Cressida Bonas is not invited. Oh that exclusive royal family! So stubborn about who gets to be present for any particular event. Not that I'd imagine Harry put up much of a fight, as inviting her would surely imply some type of commitment that he's not sure he can make just yet, but still. They are a fusty, removed bunch, aren't they. Though, I suppose it does make sense that they wouldn't want an outsider to see what goes on at a royal christening. All that blood and chanting, the reading of old scrolls, the divining of the future from rabbit guts and sparrow bones. The Queen's eyes a milky white as she speaks in Old English, the baby bathed in a high-born virgin's blood (yeah right, Eugenie "moved to New York"), William and Katherine scoring their faces with daggers as the Queen's incantations reach a fever pitch and the sun shines through the pillars at Stonehenge and St. James's Palace trembles and the baby's birthmark, the one found on every British king from Alfred the Great on, glows a deep crimson. That's when the royal baby's fate is sealed, a mystical and terrifying moment. So I can understand why they wouldn't want an outsider there. But still, must suck for poor Cressida, feeling left out of all that. [People]

Scary Russian billionaire (well, I suppose "Scary Russian billionaire" is redundant) Roman Abramovich is close to owning an entire building at Fifth Avenue and 64th Street in Manhattan. He's buying up as many units as he can, sending tens of millions of dollars, and by some estimates is only one apartment away from owning the whole damn place. The lone hold-out is the reclusive Eugenia Olazabal, who wants a whopping $23 million for her place. If Abramovich is willing to cough up that money, then he could in theory return the building to its single-family glory days, when it was the mansion of coal magnate Edward Berwind. It would be a return to the Gilded Age, with staggeringly large mansions lining the east side of Central Park. Unlike contemporary times, when the mansions lining Central Park East are simply very large. We might go from "very" to "staggeringly," depending on what happens with Abramovich and this building. Will the rest come back? What's left of the Vanderbilts and the Rockefellers and the Carnegies returning to the city, looking to recapture the height of their power? Will steamer ships once again moan in New York Harbor, boot-blacks and stevedors milling about the river banks? It could be quite something! And it all depends on a Russian billionaire. As so much will in the coming years. [Page Six]

Speaking of real estate, Robert Pattinson is looking to unload his mansion in Los Feliz for a handsome $6.75 million. Chump change for a Russian oligarch, but not too shabby for some pretty boy movie star. The house is quite nice too, Spanish-style with lush grounds, a lagoon pool, and a big bright kitchen. It looks like a relaxing, reasonably secluded place to live, but Pattinson wants out. Maybe because of memories. He used to live there with Kristen Stewart, before she was caught kissing her director and everything went kablooey. So that could be why, that he just wants a fresh start, in a place not haunted by her. Or he wants something bigger, or in a different neighborhood. Maybe he's moving back to London, or to New York. Maybe he and Roman Abramovich are going to be roommates. I mean, there's plenty of space, they'd hardly even see each other if they didn't want to, but it'd be nice to have someone to split the cable bill with and feed the cat when one of them is out of town. Whatever the reason for the sale, Pattinson wants to get rid of the house. So go take a look at the slide show, look at how big and nice it is. And then remind yourself that the kid selling this estate is 27 years old. Think about where you lived when you were 27. Think long and hard about that. [Us Weekly]

A tell-all about the production problems that plagued the Broadway musical Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark, written by one of the show's original writers, is drawing ire from those still involved with the production. They don't like that Glen Berger is dishing about Bono's slowness in writing the score and director Julie Taymor's quite liberal spending of the production's money. None of that is terribly surprising, but this story is worth noting for this one bit, from Page Six: "A rep for the show said the book was not playing well, in a tingling response, said, 'If Mr. Berger had put this much imagination into his script, producers wouldn’t have had to hire [his replacement] Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa.'" Boom. A burn. A good, solid burn from a theater publicist. Well done. [Page Six]