A Little of the Old In and Out

In: Rachel Hunter, Stacy's Mom, who, basically, has Got it Going on. According to British Vogue:

"RACHEL HUNTER has signed up for another taste of reality. The supermodel, who was born in New Zealand but settled in LA following the demise of her marriage to Rod Stewart, will star as pampered movie star Ginger in a forthcoming reality update of the classic Sixties sitcom, The Real Gilligan's Island. Having been panned for her role as part of the celebrity judging panel on ABC's Are You Hot? reality show last year, Hunter is keen that people see this as her first go at it, clearly. 'I've always wanted to do a reality show, and this was just the perfect adventure,' she told USA Today. 'Honestly, some of the things that happen will absolutely shock people. It's very unlike what people think of Gilligan's Island? people will be absolutely entertained.'"

No update on the Rachel Hunter groper case.

Out: Paparazzi. Two paparazzi are suing Justin Timberlake and Cameron Diaz for, like, basically fucking with them. Isn't that what paparazzi are paid to do on a daily basis to the stars? Not that The Corsair is complaining, cause we like those snarky shots. But invading body space, photographing celeb children, and all that jazz?

In a perfect world -- a Corsair world, all bets would be off between stars and their paparazzi -- they get to take any picture they desired so long as it be done on public space, but the stars get the veto, the right to cock block, so to speak; The Corsair imagines a gladitorial fundament situation, very ancient Roman arena anarchy.

Anyhoo, enough with my apocalyptic visions of pop culture: According to The Sun Times:

"The lawsuit filed Friday said the photographers, on assignment for a photo agency, did nothing to harass the couple and stood more than 10 feet from them until Diaz ran at Lazo, hit him in the neck and tripped him, snatching his camera.

"Timberlake then allegedly screamed at the bleeding photographer as he was on the ground: ''What . . . are you going to do, man? I know you are not going to do anything.''"

Damn. What's worse, getting a "slam jammie" from a Charlie's Angel, or not stepping up to Justin Timberlake, the ex-boy band pretty boy, when he kind of punks you out?

Either way, calling the world's attention to it with a lawsuit ... um, it isn't the best way to hold your head up in public, Lazo.

In: Mariah Carey, Spoofing Herself. Why not? Everyone else spoofs her. The Carey name is practically a verb in some communities (*Ahem, Corsairland*), as in the sentence, delivered with appropriate ennui, "I just Mariah if I don't get my morning coffee, I just ... Mariah."

Or, "I dropped my dishes and glasses this afternoon, I was Mariahing."

According to the 3AM Girls:

"SHE'S a brave girl, that Mariah Carey.

"After the box-office bomb that was her autobiographical flick Glitter, the diva is braving the critics once more with another big-screen foray.

"Sources tell us Mariah has been lined up to play a bikini-clad babe in a remake of Bond spoof Casino Royale. We're told: 'Mariah is going to play the part immortalised by Ursula Andress. It's a comedy so Mariah's going to be making fun of herself.'"

Out: The Celeste Bartos Forum at The New York Public Library. Evil! I see you! You are on my radar, people! Last night they were holding a book party for Barbara Goldsmith and her latest book Obsessive Genius; The Inner World of Marie Curie. Intrepid vampire hunter and social chronicler, the great David Patrick Columbia snapped this rare pic of The Undead Vampyric Masters of the Universe, one, Lionel Tiger; one, Wendy Vanderbilt; one, Ed Barber, and, finally, vampire king, Jeff Madrick, festing on the blood of underprivileged Roumanian babies!



Above: So that's what they do at those (sotto voce) "society events"

In: Women. Margaret Cho, whom The Corsair adores, and who occasionally indulges herself in sweet Sapphic pleasure, has a rather beautiful post on women in her blog, it goes:

"One afternoon, my aunt was talking to me as I sat on the bar about the dangers of coffee, and how if you drink it once, you will never be able to stop, and how it isn't nearly a good enough beverage to warrant that kind of devotion. Her policeman came and sat on the barstool next to me. My aunt rolled her eyes at me as he approached and lifted an arched eyebrow in a Dorothy Parker "what's this fresh hell" gesture. He stared at the delicate gold heart hanging from a fragile chain around her neck, a new gift sent from her new husband taking the long route back to her from Korea. He reached out his big policeman hand and touched the gold heart with his big extended policeman finger.

"My aunt said nothing, but the air around her froze solid. The policeman pulled back his hand as if it had been burned, not by fire but by ice. His foolhardy indiscretion had caused the sun in my aunt's face to quickly set, and the darkness was deep and terrifying. Everything around us turned to stone, and it would soon claim the errant policeman. The earth and the sky opened up to swallow him, they quarreled over who would get to do it. He found the strength in his legs to wobble away quickly, and he never returned. My aunt's sunny face was instantly restored. The stone all around us changed back into everyday counter and barstools. The earth and the sky stopped arguing and closed back up again. It was in that moment that I learned an important lesson about what it means to be a woman.

"I realized how women should be treated. I love that song by Belly, that goes, 'take your hat off boy when you're talking to me...' because he should. He should be grateful to be in my presence. I am more than a goddess. I am more than a queen. I am a woman."