A Little of the Old In and Out

(Ed Note: I'm really tired, but I wanted to keep my social contract with you guys, so forgive the quality today)

In: The bitchslap Strikes Again! Unfortunately, this distinctly African-American way of sayinf, "fuck you very much," is becoming as American as stalking an ex-girlfriend -- or so I'm told. Naomi Cambell is the latest sister who has resorted to this gesture when words failed her. Of the bitchslap, I waxed lyrically recently, on the subject of the monumentally unhandsome Stanley Crouch and his literary milquetoast antagonist, Dale Peck. I described the scene thusly:

"Just putting a touch of sting on the cheeks, they say. Crisply cupping the jawline. Brushing an errant knave's ear with a limp backhand. A Palm Extended To Allow for Maximum Surface Contact -- rushing, cleaving the air. Flesh-on-flesh percussion, a macabre symphony of irritated blood vessels throbbing 'neath the cheeks.

"It all sounds so cruel. Or so I'm told (Averted gaze, wicked smile). Not that I would know anything about this African-American sport. (The Corsair has an evil little grin)

"...The receiver is brought low. His cheeks flush with that 'homemade rouge.' Most significantly, the speechless audience, who, breaking the silence, collectively utter the gutteral, 'oooooohhh.' Or so I'm told. The Corsair has good urban man-in-the-streets sources for these matters, for matters of bitchslapping (The Corsair has an evil little grin) Truer words have never been spoken (The Corsair ruefully rubs his cheek, and stares with fish eyes at a picture of a smiling Stanley Crouch). And speaking of disrespect ...

Out: Meth and Red, it seems. According to Defamer, the writing staff was sent home:

"... And the only way that sitcom writers can be separated from their room full of Nerf toys, junk food, and scripts with penis doodles on them and returned to their neglected families is cancellation. M&R recently received an extension from 12 to 15 episodes, but now they've been cut off at the knees and are shooting their 12th and final show tonight. Our sources don't know how many of these episodes will eventually air or are destined to become unseen artifacts of hip-hop-stoner history, but it looks like they're headed for the dreaded 'Indefinite Hiatus' of TV oblivion."

Well, that's sad, but you know the writers will all get work on other sitcoms and have stories to tell their kids. And Meth and Red will continue to do low budget films that are profitable. So, let's all chalk it up to a learning experience. And so, the next time Fox Tv comes bearing sitcoms, Meth won't either "punch a writer," or, depending on whom you believe, "grabbed the writer's head and pushed." (Simultaneous Urban Translator: That would be a freely interpreted "noogie")

In:Black Book Magazine, not Little Black Book the vehicle for that actress with the big crazy eyes, Brittney Murphy. As Fashionweekdaily notes:

"Ari Horowitz and his merry band of investors�including Mort Zuckerman�s nephew Eric Gerlter and Jason Beckman�who snatched up BlackBook, might have some interesting plans in store. Not only are they working out a deal with the nearly bankrupt Honey magazine (recently purchased by Philmore Anderson) where they�ll assume Honey�s subscription liability (paving the way for future partnerships), they�re also pushing the BlackBook brand into the limelight.

"Just last week at the premiere of the Brittany Murphy film 'Little Black Book,' Horowitz�s magazine and the nightlife guides it produces in New York, Los Angeles, and Miami�aptly named the Little BlackBook�were donated for the gift bag. 'BlackBook is definitely growing its brand,' an insider tells The Daily. 'They�re looking for deals to buy up media and magazine businesses to build a conglomerate.' Looks like BlackBook and Little BlackBook won�t be so little after all."

I believe that there should be an urban-twenty-to-thirtysomething-ambitious-bling-bling magazine. And, I think, with some tweaking, more articles and less pictures, Black Book could be something that we can all be proud of.

Out: The Donald. You always know Donald Trump is in some kind of fiscal crisis when he turns up the publicity volume meter past 10, right? Donald is the total materialist -- if force doesn't manifest itself in the media, it doesn't exist. Buddhist Monks are suckers.

The Donald's getting married. The Donald's on Esquire's cover, itching for a bitchslap. The Donald's getting a clothing line. The Donald wanted to run for President in 1992 on the Reform ticket, directing media attention away from his crumbling pseudo-empire.

What the fuck?! Now, Donald is hawking a clothing line. You know he's got to be in some serious kind of shit to be shilling slacks, or, as British Vogue spins it:

"DONALD TRUMP has been styling young men and women's careers for some time with The Apprentice reality show and now he is moving into their wardrobes. Soon to hit US clothes rails is the Trump Signature Collection, a line of men's suits, coats, slacks and, possibly, golfing gear, that will carry the Trump family crest."

And just what the fuck is the Trump family crest? Indulge me. What. The Fuck. Is. The Trump. Crest. Short fingers grabbing at pennies on the expectorate-laden sidewalk? Eastern European women of easy virtue marrying for money and a green card?

"'This will be high end menswear,' he told Newsweek. 'We already have tremendous interest.'"

Play the Donald Trump drinking game, everybody. It's a fun way to get to the end destination of blotto. Every time The Donald intones in an interview, poring over one of his many low grade piece of ass business ventures, saying, "We already have tremendous interest," offered, of course, in that sleazy voice that makes you want to take a shower, that harkens us back to the Old West and snakeoil tonics, and to Detroit pimps in the 1970s -- drink. You will be drunk by the time Trump starts dropping names like Mike Tyson and Reeg Philbin.

In: Ali G is getting married. I didn't get Ali G the first season. He seemed buffoonish. But either I've changed, or he's changed, because I understand that he is the ally of the snarky, he is in the hallowed tradition of Spy. Ali G, in his various incarnations, suckerpunches self important windbags on the media radar, like Sam Donaldson (I met him up close when I was Research Editor at Silicon Alley Reporter, on their SAR 100 issue, and this guy creeps me out -- he has dead eyes, shark eyes; I'm telling you: Sam Donaldson has no conscience) doesn't this .

And now, according to that significant cultural artifact, The National Enquirer, he's getting married:

"HBO comedy star Ali G dumbfounds celebrities with outrageously ridiculous questions, but he was dead serious when he asked "Scooby-Doo" actress Isla Fisher to be his wife.

"The British-born star of 'Da Ali G Show' -- whose real name is Sacha Baron Cohen -- is set to wed Isla, 28, in her hometown of Perth, Australia, later this year.

"The star couple have been renting Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt's old home in the Hollywood Hills for the past several months while Sacha works on his series and his first American feature film.

"'Isla is converting to Judaism for her fiance so they can have a traditional Jewish wedding,' said a source close to 32-year-old Sacha.

"'The couple have even made several journeys to Israel, and last year they had to cut one of their trips short when a bullet was fired into their hotel room in Tel Aviv. At first they thought their room had been targeted. Then police discovered two bodies in the adjoining hotel room!'"

Getting married when you get famous? I thought that the typical Hollywood power move would be to break up, explore your options, so to speak, do a Cuba Gooding, once you got famous. Or what Billy-Bob Thornton did to Laura Dern once he hooked up with someone more famous, namely, a Billy Crudup.

Crazy like Swayze: Sasha must be British.