The 2004 Corsair Year End Awards

French hunting horns blast

The Pirates

Every blogger worth their salt has year end awards and "this thing of ours" is no different. It's in the kool aid that we all drink from. 'Tis the season to be snarky, and all that jazz (sorry Cindy Adams, that's jazz, the music, not that annoying little dead lapdog of yours Jazzy, now quietly decomposing somewhere). So, without further ado, The Corsair presents The Pirates -- more credible than the Golden Globes, and able to leap tall publicists in a single bound -- my 2004 year end awards. Basta!

Worst Trend Pirate goes to Kaballah Red String. Rabbi, you're going to have to give me a more intricate song and dance routine as to how parting me from $25.99 for some yarn will change my outlook. Kabbalah is naught else but "disgusting voodoo."

Honorable mention Pirate goes to EstherMadonna, who instituted a "cursing fine"

Best Trend Pirate goes to the Nip Slip, Nipplegate, what have you. Fo' shizzle. (The Corsair grabs his bottle of Baron de Sigognac Armagnac, a Cuban Schimmelpennick and a chilled white wine glass, then continues)

Most Disturbing Trend Pirate goes to dead blogs. Since the election of 2004, several celebrity blogs have just kind of up and died. What's up with that? We hope that is not indicative of their feelings relative to dissent now that the President has a clear mandate. And what not.

Honorable mention goes to "Shorty," the beefy bodyguard who broke Beyonce's toe. And accident prone Catwoman, Halle Berry, lets out stinkers, we mean other than Catwoman

Weirdest Story Pirate (creepy Unsolved Mysteries soundtrack) goes to the very married Christian Slater (his highly excitable wife, Ryan, has been known to beat his ass right good if his eye roves), whose gallivanting at the strip clubs in the UK, as per usual, was all the rage this summer; as well as some canoodling time for a mystery blonde, not his wife. And then things got really strange. He got chicken pox, which is actually pretty serious in an adult:

"Just hours before our spies caught him canoodling with a mystery blonde in London's Nobu, the Hollywood hunk was kicked out of his favourite lap-dancing club, Stringfellows, for refusing to take off his... mask.

"Bizarrely, we're told the 34-year-old True Romance star was disguised as, ahem, dead US president Richard Nixon.

"A club source tells us: 'Christian has been to Stringfellows many times and has always been one of our favourite customers.

"'He's not keen on being photographed going in or out but he has never resorted to fancy dress before.'

"When the actor, who's currently in rehearsals for a stage production of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, pitched up wearing the rubber mask last Saturday, he was quizzed by puzzled doormen.

"'He told them he'd been in a few days before and had been spotted when he left.

"'He managed to convince staff that it was him so, as he's such a good customer, they let him in.' But Christian's 'eccentric' behaviour continued inside...

"'It all got a bit strange because he continued to wear the mask,' says our mole.

"'It was a bit disconcerting for the girls to be dancing for someone who looked like a weirdo. So one of the promoters politely asked him to remove the mask.' But father-of-two Christian was adamant that it was staying on."

Probably because he had chicken pox, which, incidentally, is highly contagious.

Models on Drugs Pirate goes to Kimora Simmons, whom we spent much of the year really fucking with (The Corsair does his Kimora impression, with buzzard sound, "I'm one fly bitch!"):
"First, Belgian model Ingrid Parewijk was busted for "Bolivian Marching Powder," , then Donatella went to rehab, now, according to Rush and Molloy, model/mogul Kimora Lee Simmons was charged with possession of 'the stickey ickey'"

Best Tour Rider Pirate goeth to Fitty Cent:

"According to The Sun, 50 Cent has a 30 page Beg For Mercy Tour rider which includes:

"soft toilet paper, creamy peanut butter, one jar of grape jelly, turkey sausage (who knew that Fitty doesn't mess with the swine), five dozen assorted doughnuts, 'butter and marg,' sliced cheese tray with four cheeses --Rocquefort? from ewe's milk? -- onions, pickles lettuce in separate containers), pasta and tuna salad with a minimum of three dressings, 'coldslaw' (sic), grilled chicken and tuna melt sandwiches, local specialty to be discussed, and a Saturday meal of BBQ Chicken, ribs and baked fish, a hearty deli tray with four meats and, the coup de grace, four glass ashtrays."

"Was this list composed under the influence of the dreaded munchies after a bout of 'the sticky ickey'?"

The Most KFC Moment Pirate Goes to Jacko, of whom, we write, "1) Although Jacko's breakfast includes fruit, scrambled eggs, lox and bagels, his lunch and dinner are exclusively KFC. And, 2) 'If travelling for a number of consecutive days, (Jacko) will try other forms of chicken but still would like the KFC.' "

Honorable mention Pirate goes to Jay Z, who started a new KFCish trend by hiring a "personal chicken wing chef"

Most Paranoiac Moment Pirate goes to P Diddy in Ibiza, 'According to The Daily Dish:

"Sean 'P. Diddy' Combs was forced to flee his $6.3 million yacht after armed security men raided his private party in the Mediterranean.

"The rapper grabbed his fur coat and sprinted through the streets of the Spanish isle of Ibiza after 20 guards mistook his boat guests for a crew of thugs and burst into his party as part of a drugs purge."

The Corsair tries to wrap his mind around the concept of P Diddy sprinting through the streets of Ibiza, spraying hot tears, in a fur coat with shorts on underneath.

"A source tells Britain's Daily Star newspaper, 'It was insane, Puffy was throwing one of his usual bashes.

"'It was exclusive and very chic. The last thing we expected was a bunch of armed security guys coming through the door.

"'We were just getting down to cocktails after the famous Ibiza sunset when they burst in and screamed, 'Everybody down, this is a raid.

'"'Puffy just freaked. He's always worried that people are out to get him because of his fame, so he just ran for it."

The Corsair sips wanly on his Mulled Armagnac, intrigued at this un-Scorpionic lack of sangfroid from Diddy.

"He'd been chilling out in the hot tub in his shorts and just flung a fur coat on. He got the shock of his life.'"Once the security officers realized their mistake, they were 'most apologetic.

'"The source adds, 'They even stayed and had a few drinks and offered to buy a few beverages for the star.'

The Deep Pirate Award goes to Conde Nast editors, who are always thoughtful, profound, artistic-intellectual types (The Corsair snickers), you know, they, like get Heidegger-deep all up in, like fashion and photography, and shit, while lounging in the towncar noshing on bonbons, drinking the distilled blood of Andalusian peasants, like this chestnut from FashionWireDaily, which illustrates my sarcasm so wonderfully, "'Revlon was the first lipstick I ever used and I always tell the folks [there] that my greatest fantasy is to swim in a vat of Revlon Red lipstick,' Seventeen magazine editor-in-chief Atoosa Rubenstein told FWD on a chilly December morning the week before Christmas. 'When I do that, it will be my I've made it moment. It must exist, right? A big gigantic vat [of lipstick]? They say that it does, so I'm going to find it. That's my dream.'" Dare to dream, Atoosa, dare to fucking dream.

The Media Feud Pirate Goeth to The Lloyd Grove Media Ruckus, which we dubbed "The Gossip Wars," involving, at various points, Howard Stern and Beth Ostrowsky, Ian Spiegelman, Page Six, a nonentity named Abigail Vona, the New York Press, and, ultimately New York Magazine, which chronicled the feud. Crazy. It was a long hott sunner.

There were, as you can imagine, many media feuds this year. La donna y mobile. There was Stern versus Leno, Nader versus the Democratic Party, Beyonce's Dad versus Jay Z, Pammie versus Tommy over the whole Hep C --eew -- thingie, Bill Mahar and that skanky chick who looked straight out of Jet Magazine, circa 1975, Neill Strauss and the Old Gray Lady, but we went with The Gossip Wars, because, "Like World War I, it was caused, in large part, by arms escalation as well as a faulty alliance system. The competition between the Daily News gossip columnist (from back in the day) and Page Six is a New York tradition (remember Mitchell Fink who looked like he had an antenna?). Usually the feud ends with the Sixers being magnanimous. When Lloyd Grove got Ian Spiegelman fired, though, things escalated. And now Girgoriades, DiGiacomo, et al are being called in."

To borrow from the guy in the hockey mask from Mad Max, "... just walk away ..."

Our Favorite Media Meltdown, Courtney Love. The summer was hott. Sultry even. But Courtney Love made it hotter, friskier, as we stalked her this summer, in the nicest way possible, from the Bowery Ballroom, to the McDonalds where Kofi Asare, looking for McNuggets, suckled gently at her tit, "Her soon-to-be infamous impromptu bathroom press conference tapped into a wide array of important social issues, including but not excluding, Why My Daughter (The Corsair mock sobs softly, sweetly) has to give up her horse to help her Mommy (Another generation of Cobains, it appears, has to give up The Horse ...); also, the Cryptic Mosaic Warning, 'You do not sleep with married men (is this the Kabbalah-red-string-theory at work?);' and, immediately contradicting the previous statement, in a personal message to the very married Russell Crowe (like, personal over the world's media personal -- you know we're in the Bizarro world of Courtney logic here), 'I'm sorry to Russell Crowe for you leaving me all those messages for the Golden Globes. I never got them, dude. It would have been a fun date.'"

"Indeed it would, biscuit. Courtney's a fun sorta gal: a hoot, no doubt, a whole lotta loving, if you will, with her own, to be quite graphic, surgically-enhanced set golden globes to play with; but even Russell, our gruff, lager-infused-punkface-thesbian, even Russell Crowe with his off foot of grunt couldn't handle that flavor of heapin' crezziness that is la vida loca of Court Love."

Honorable mention to Mike Wallace, of whom we wrote, "Free Mike Wallace. 60 Minutes' 86-year old Correspondent Mike Wallace was handcuffed and arrested on Tuesday night for "disorderly conduct." Apparently, things took a bad turn when Wallace argued with Taxi and Limousine Commission inspectors who were interviewing his driver because he wanted to get home and eat his mashed potatoes and gravy while it was still hot.

"Can you just see Mike Wallace in the back of the limo, agitated, the 60 Minutes clock is ticking -- ticktickticktick; his temperature rising, he's sweating a cold sweat right now, adjusting his tie, his bad dye job glistening, he's emitting sour mothballish grandfatherly smells, and the officers are chatting away with his driver, probably althewhile eating doughnuts, causing Wallace's mouth to water

"...Now look at Mike, see him squirm ... it is a few minutes later ... the gravy is now coagulating in his doggie bag, oiling the paper, seeping through to his neatly pressed slacks, perhaps even soiling his Depends undergarment. And he thinks of how he used to be.

"The holy terror of the 1970s. The Dean of Guerilla journalism. CEO's guilty of financial improprieties broke into a brisk sprint when our man Mike Wallace chased them with a cameraman in tow, shouting, 'Can I ask you a question, sir,'. THE Mike Wallace ... reduced to THIS?

"The poor bastard just snapped. There are few joys, few comforts of senectitude, and mashed taters and meatloaf slathered with heart valve clogging bone gravy are that aplenty. Thems good eats."

The Leader of the Free World is Quietly Tight Pirate goes to Nixon, of whom, we wrote, "Never elect a nerd the president. They can't handle the power. Their glands overwork, the sweat geeksweat, they miss thier favorite Sci-Fi channel programs, and their brains overheat, like Wyatt and Gary in Weird Science (so ably played by Anthony Michael Hall and Ian Michael Smith, thank you, thank you ... ). According to the Associated Press, Nixon, during the elaborate maneuverings and countermaneuverings of the Watergate hearings and unfolding scandals, uhm -- how does one say this delicately? -- he got plastered.Yes -- The Leader of the Free World was getting quietly "tight"

The Warrior Pirate goes to Carly Simon, "Interview Magazine July 2004. An interview between Michael Kors and the always elegant Carly Simon, who I am now totally in love with:

"Carly Simon: You know, when I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1997 I realized I had spent too long arranging my attitude. I had a mastectomy in 1998, and then chemo. And throughout the whole process I felt much worse. So I spent the next year really depressed, coming to terms with the whole thing. My oncologist said, 'Don't speak about it for a while. Get yourself together and decide what you really want to do.' Here, I'll show you this (shows mastectomy scar) Did you see?

"Michael Kors: Uh-huh. Yeah.

"Carly: My scar is beautiful. It looks like an arrow. I didn't bother rubbing things into it or having any silicone injections. I just keep it that way because I liked it.

"Kors: You know, I was at the meeting yesterday for the CFDA. It's the 10th Anniversary of 'Fashion Targets Breast Cancer' and we were talking about what we we're doing to commemorate it. Kenneth Cole said, 'I want to talk to Carly Simon. I don't know what we can do together, but it would be so meaningful. It's personal for her.

'"Carly: You know, people want to honor me, and on the one hand, I don't want to be a poster child; but on the other I want to do something classy and great -- something where the residuals would go to the cause. I thought of having a designer make a beautiful dress with cut outs here (points to scar) and doing a picture of me wearing it. I just want to show off my scar proudly and not be afraid of it. A really strong woman accepts the war she went through and is ennobled by her scars."

We fucking love you, Carly Simon.

The Blame the Innocent Pirate Goes to Parker Posey. We posted a scurrilous post on how the "mystery celebrity cracktress" might have been Parker Posey. Now, of course, it was *allegedly* Natasha Lyonne, maybe. Our sweetie, Parker Posey was innocent; the blush is still on our Indie Rose. We feel so bad, caddish, but not so bad that we won't reprint some, cause, like, it was funny; damn I was good: "And that's the evidence. Not convincing in my case, but you can see how people will talk. High on crack? No, no, no (softly chuckles): high on life, monsieur.

"And we cannot fail to note, that various Gawker Stalkers, over the months have described you, Parker Posey, at various times, as 'looking quite svelte,' (averted gaze) and 'She looked hungover.' Of course, I look that way right now, Parker, and I don't smoke the crack rock (Ed Note: The Corsair is lactose intolerant and could never ingest the crack rock no matter how novel the experience might be) And we won't discuss the torrid Interview Magazine sex fiasco (2nd story down), where you and Ryan *allegedly* 'knew' each other 'Biblically' while conducting an interview at Andy Warhol's Holy Rag. That was kind of crack ho-ish, if true, or maybe just bohemian -- we cen never tell the difference -- even though I do not believe you have ever hit the rock and made it sizzle.

"But then there was the Gawker Stalker, snitching, 'parker posy and ryan adams last night watching farenheit 9/11 came in late, super fidgety. his hair was nasty and tousled as usual.'

"Telltale signs of the 'crackle crackle'? Surely you jest. Crackheads are rarely political; they are more prone towards violent smash-and-grab crimes than entertaining a civilized evening taking in a political documentary, so, point set and match: Parker Posey.I still believe in you, Parker Posey.I just cannot imagine you, surrounded by lactose fumes propelled by a Mighty Wind, hair askew, that irritating crackling sound echoing in the lonely urban downtown landscape, with chapped lips forming a pucker the shape of a cats asshole, lapping up the opaque mediciney cracksmoke.

"It's inconceivable."

Yes, it is. Honorable mention go to Tara Reid and Cindy Margolis, who did not fight.

And, speaking of crackheads, we give The Glass Dick Pirate to Whitney Houston, who presumably knows what to do with it, whose husband, Bobby Brown, was once arrested in Alpharetta while eating fish, of whom, "... we love us our daily dose of Whitney poop, and the 3AM Girls do not disappoint:'WE'RE all familiar with Whitney Houston's bizarre behaviour and she didn't disappoint at the World Music Awards.

"A 25-minute rehearsal on Tuesday night turned into a two-hour session, thanks to her oddball demands."'Whitney was acting really strangely,' says our spy. 'All she had to do was sing I Will Always Love You, but she kept stopping and pointing at people telling them to pick up rubbish - even though there didn't appear to be any. Everyone got really angry.'"

The Dude Pirate goes to Daniele Patini, yachtsman, Angela Jolie's latest -- "doood!" -- the former Owner of the Tecnomarine Shipyard, of whom they are saying, according to Ireland online, "Movie beauty Angelina Jolie has found love with a millionaire Italian businessman.The Tomb Raider actress has been spotted with 29-year-old playboy yacht broker Daniele Patini - and sources say the single star is smitten.A pal tells American magazine US Weekly: 'Daniele has dated many beautiful women, but this time he's admitted that Angelina has him entranced.'"

Dude!

Most Embarrassing Media Moment We could say the Paris Hilton porn tape, the Paris Hilton N-bomb, the Britney 55-hour marriage, but that would be obvious. Entirely lacking in nuance. No, we think we'll go with Al Franken, future Democratic nominee for the Senate in Minnesota, getting into a fistfight during the run up to the primaries:

"From time to time Al Franken likes to kick a little bit o' Ass -- Republican ass, playa. The other day he used just the right mix of hard power and soft power, so to speak, in a short term domestic conflagration, if you know what I'm sayin.

"Didn't you know that Howard Dean's aggro speeches would one day cause some kind of ruckus on the left hand side? The New York Times Magazine(subscription required) captures the frenzied mood surrounding Al Franken's rather 'punchy' ass-whipping of a confused protester at a Howard Dean campaign rally with the appropriate amount of gusto.

"But let me set a little ambiance for you, cornbread, cause that's the sort of thing Bloggers like to do. (plays Europe's The Final Countdown) It is 'the Sunday before the nation's first primary,' at a Howard Dean rally in downtown Manchester. The New England winter is crisp; the mood is one of fighting back. The Republicans have been eating the lunch of the Democratic Party since Ca-lee-fohrn-eeaaah, and the midterm elections and, of course, the Supreme's 5/4 dance number that handed the Bushies the keys to the White House.

"Anyhoo: Our man on the scene, the NY Times writer, one Russell Shorto, feels it important for us to know -- at the outset -- that Franken's tushy is the stuff of the Gods, ambrosial even, a hasty pudding, if you will:

"'From 1966 to 1969, Franken was a member of the varsity wrestling team at his high school in Hopkins, Minn. Six years after graduation, when he showed up in New York to begin work as a writer on the first season of 'Saturday Night Live,' he was still almost as much an athlete as a comedian.

'''He seemed like a total jock,' says the comedian Laraine Newman, who was a member of the original cast. 'He always had a football in his hands when they were writing. And he had this very defined musculature. His butt was like a cut basketball. Which, you know, you don't normally see in comedy writers.'"

"No, no, one doesn't, Mr. Shorto, to be sure; but The Corsair's former girlfriends don't complain, we are in our early 30s, after all, and the tush is so tight one could bounce a quarter off of it. Not that we've tried, mind you.

"Anyhoo: Let's bring on the rassling. Now for a spot of the old rough and tumble, Harvard-style --- bring-it-on!:

"'Onstage, Martin Sheen speaks first, then Dean's demure wife, then the suddenly embattled former governor of Vermont himself. Sometime after Dean begins taking questions from the audience, a manic-looking heckler starts to heckle, accusing Dean of 'covering up for Dick Cheney.' He gets louder. A couple of spindly members of Dean's security team approach him uncertainly; he swings his arms and keeps shouting. It goes on for several minutes and seems to be veering toward actual violence. Dean, the media, the members of the audience: nobody knows what to do."

"Oh, but our man Franken does, does he ever (wicked Rumsfeldian gleam in eyes):

"At this moment Franken turns, cocks his head slightly, gives that well-known magnified, tortoise-shell-framed gaze and says: 'I think the two of us can get him out. You wanna do it?' After a pause that is meant to be emphatic, I say, 'No.' But it's too late: he's off, in rumpled jeans and a big down jacket, plowing up the aisle."

"Al Franken's old school like that. When he cocked his head you just knew: it was on like Gray Poupon. The Corsair imagines the Harvard educated simian, rumpled jeans and big brown jacket ruffling in the wind, the acoustical sounds of Six Million Dollar Man bionic sound effects stacattoing in the background (da-da-da-da-da ...) as Franken-in-slow-motion-bolt approaches said interrupter, head low and spectacles fogged in anticipation of crunk:

"By this time there is a confused scrum around the heckler, who is holding his ground and still ranting. Franken hits the floor, wedges himself among a couple dozen legs and puts the man in a wrestling hold, grabbing him at the knees."

Oof! One can almost buckle at the beauty of the writing at this New York Times sports section style commentary, like that unfortunate freak, tumbling down the slippery slope into the immortality of Prose Heaven, and the subject of a million Timesmen's bon mots at dinner parties on Embassy Row. Oh, tell us more:

"That destabilizes him, and others now quickly push him down the aisle and out the side door of the theater."

Oh Al, destabilize the GOP; destabilize!:

"Franken gets up, looking dazed; his glasses are snapped in two. He's quickly swarmed by confused but excited reporters who want to know, like, what was he doing?"

He's kicking ass and taking names, gentlemen, Harvard-style. Snapped spectacles be damned! The Democrats are mad as hell and they're not gonna take it."

Runner up embarassing media moment goes to Natalie Portman, "According to Page Six, someone inside Natalie Portman's summer hideaway has made several calls summoning the police to check out alleged stalkers.

"In the latest tiff, 'Two cop cars showed up to interrogate the man who'd been sitting on a curb, reading a book and drinking a cup of tea.

"But the suspected 'stalker' turned out to be 21-year-old Antwone LeGarde ? a French-born college student staying with his girlfriend's family down the street. LeGarde had never even heard of the 23-year-old 'Star Wars' actress."

"LeGarde says, 'I was sitting on the sidewalk, reading 'The Alchemist,' and apparently it was near the corner of her house. The police show up and they asked me for my ID and ran a check in their car. I asked, 'Is it a crime to read a book now?'"

The Great Read Pirate goes to my pal Sue Shapiro's Lighting Up. It's a brilliant book -- funny, honest and insightful.

Either that or Elvis Mitchell's "unusual, nonlinear book proposal." According to the excellent Sara Nelson in NY Post in June:"Elvis Mitchell, former New York Times reporter, has landed in the middle of a book auction. His proposal for a book about the comedian Richard Pryor is currently on the desks of several prominent New York editors.

"The proposal is 'unusual,' says one editor who has seen it. It is nonlinear and suggests that the book will be part cultural history of America, part tour of the comedy world, part dishy anecdotes about Pryor ? including one in which the comedian's scatological language made New Yorker writer Lillian Ross not just blush, but faint."

Sounds like Elvis learned to bullshit like an champ out in Hollywood. Unusual as that is, apparently, leaving the New York Times and palling around with the likes of Bill Murray does wonders for one's career, I suppose, as Sara Nelson concludes, "The bidding is now in the low six figures, but one industry observer predicts that the book ? which Mitchell promises to deliver in two years ? will ultimately go for around $500,000." Which almost makes up for the fact that at the end of the day, he is, and always will be, a black man named Elvis.

Couple of the Year pirate goes to Dolly Parton's Double D's, and the Appalachian mists that cling about her ... dewey peaks and valleys *The Corsair shudders*. No, only kidding, but not really -- we're breaking off a piece for Flavor Flav and Gitte, "The September 17th edition of Entertainment Weekly had this rather interesting exchange between Surreal Life housemates David Coulier (the annoying voices dude from Full House) and Jordan Knight (the annoying lead singer from New Kids on the Block):

"On The Brigitte-Flav Hook Up:

"Dave Coulier: After they were fooling around in the pool, I didn't want to go in there anymore ... Flav and Brigitte called me the day after we left the show -- from a hotel room.

"Jordan Knight: Yeah, me too ..."

Way too much information.Page Six also notes today, about Public Enemy's Fashion week Maxim Party at Crobar:

"Flava Flav, who hopped up and down on stage, had good reason to celebrate. VH1 is said to be interested in doing a reality show with him and his 'Surreal Life' co- star Brigitte Nielsen, now that their televised antics have captured the nation."Nielsen, who allegedly was dumped by Sylvester Stallone because she had *allegedly* had an affaire with Eddie Murphy on the set of Beverly Hills Cop 2, may just like her men like she likes her coffee -- black.

And Flav just goes in for the crack. Like John Waters.

The Clothing Allowance Pirate goeth to Kelly Ripa, According to Fashionweekdaily, "Kelly Ripa, who just signed a five-year deal with 'Live With Regis and Kelly,' has been given a $45,000 fashion allowance by ABC to indulge her Jimmy Choo weakness ..."

With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility pirate goes to Page Six. Once again, the edgiest most feared gossip column in all the world wins the "great power comes great responsibility" pirate, proving that they wield their weight with elan, style, and, okay, I'm done kissing ass. But, seriously, where would we blogs be without the legwork of the Page Sixxies?

The Mischief Maker Pirate goes to Avril Lavigne, who kicks unsuspecting girls in their boxes, "Avril Lavigne is at it again -- and she can't; and she won't; and she can't -- From the 'Rocktober 2004' (yes, they actually called it "Rocktober") issue of Maxim:

"Maxim: When was the last time you had to smack a bitch down?

"Avril Lavigne: In a bar a few months ago. Some chick came up to me and said something, so I kicked her in the box and shoved her. I don't go looking for fights, but if someone pushes me, I'm not going to take it.

"Maxim: What did she say to you?

"Avril: 'You're not punk rock, blah,blah,blah!' Look, I never once said I was punk. I don't want to be punk. I'm just a really strong, opinionated person."

Is a "box" anything like "beef curtains"?

The Low Down Dirty Dog pirate goes to Chris Rock, comedian, chickenhead, who actually had a hand in the manufacture and distribution of "the crack rock" of which we are of late so preoccupied with! Way to be a role model, Chris; sling that rock, "I've been hard on Neil Strauss, and those of you who have been reading me a while know that I have been hard on Jann Wenner and Rolling Stone. That having been said, the April 29, 2004 issue is fantastic. Let's leave aside Uma Thurman, who, in an interview, defends Ethan Hawke's infidelity with a Buddhist assessment of his 'intentions,' and everybody's favorite possum eating hillbilly celebrity Billy Bob Thornton saying, a propos of nothing, as hillbillies are wont to do, ' I like waitresses. I met one at a waffle house in Nashville that I don't know if the devil could have charmed her ...' Why is this man famous?

"But, No, lest we lose our train of thought, none of that piffle crosses our radar, the real nuclear explosion comes from a Chris Rock interview by none other than our boy Neil Strauss. A unusually bold observation about 'the rock' turns Chris "Rock" very, very reflective ... a very special Corsair (soft, lush piano music):

"Strauss: So did you ever try crack?

"Rock: The closest thing I ever got to doing crack was selling crack. Me and a friend of mine, we took these jobs at a camp just to make money. We were going to get paid a thousand or two thousand at the end of the summer and take that and buy some crack to sell. But of course he got hooked on crack before we could go out and do it. And then, right after that, God brought comedy into my life.

"Strauss: I wonder what would have happened if you had started selling it?

"Rock: Who knows what would have happened. I would have been dumb enough to have done it. I'm not saying, 'If I wasn't for comedy, I'd be selling crack.' But I remember sitting with my friends, cutting up the coke like it was yesterday: cocaine, lactose, vitamin B12. Cook it up -- crack. I am so lucky I never tried crack. The most I did was put some coke on my tongue."

"Bravo to Neil Strauss for asking the hard questions -- the crack questions -- and Rolling Stone to briefly getting back to hard hitting stories. And good for Rock, who dodged a bullet that ravaged the inner city in the 80s. But, Chris, hey, yo -- lactose in the inner city?

The Meta Network pirate award goes toVH1, although it could just have easily gone to ABC, which was the most improved network, and gaining, what with the show Lost, which is like my crack, it's so addictive that show. God, how I love Lost.

VH1 clearly has gone overboard with all the "I Love the" shows, and Best Week Ever doesn't quite sparkle like it used to, although I'm not saying the show had jumped the shark, just that it is no longer as fresh as it once was, but The Surreal Life with Flav and Gitte was an out of the park home run. So, we'll give it to VH1.

The Thug Life Born, Thug Life Bred Pirate goes to Keifer Sutherland, because, according to that significant cultural artifact, The National Enquirer reports that the man who would be Mr. Julia Roberts -- but wasn't (a stripper named Raven in Vancouver, don't ask)-- Kiefer Sutherland spends lots of time knocking down scotch. At all hours. Not 24 Hours, but, you know what I'm getting at:

"'Kiefer's been a big drinker but now he's pounding down the alcohol morning, noon and night,' an insider (told The Enquirer)" "Kiefer Sutherland, star of TV's 24 ... was caught knocking back Scotch at a Hollywood gay bar at 9 o'clock in the morning!"

And another source said:

"Kiefer is well-known at dives in the scary Hollywood area where he lives.

"It's not unusual to see him downing glass after glass of J&B Scotch at one of these places any night of the week.

"And when they close at 2 a.m., then it's on to the after hours clubs."

"The ENQUIRER reported in March that the 37-year-old star got a gash on his head in a bar fight.

"And now The ENQUIRER has learned exclusively that on the morning of April 3, Kiefer was drinking at the Spot Light."

The Corsair cannot fail to note that LA.com describes The Spotlight thusly,:

"If you ever wondered where all the freaky trannies went during Hollywood's gentrification, this is the answer.

"The Spotlight is a dive and proud of it. This is where the flavorful underbelly of Hollywood gay life washes up. It's clear that most of the patrons have 'history'--we don't ask and don't tell--but who knew the place had history, too? It's the city's second oldest gay bar (the oldest is the Friendship in Santa Monica), open since 1963.

"It should be noted that it opens really early, which may or may not be factored into your conclusions.

The Enquirer continues:"'Kiefer was falling-down drunk,' said an eyewitness.

"He wasn't surly or anything -- just the opposite, he seemed very happy and was obviously feeling no pain.

"There was a movie shooting across the street when Kiefer came out of the Spot Light for a cigarette. Several of the crew members on the shoot recognized him and came over to have their photos taken with him.

"He was very obliging to everyone, including the female security guard on the movie and one young mom who came over with her toddler in a stroller to get his autograph.

"But Kiefer reeked of alcohol and was unsteady on his feet.

"Finally he excused himself, saying he had to go back into the bar to sit down. 'It was so sad seeing him that way.'And it goes on:

"A staffer at the Spot Light who was on duty that morning told The ENQUIRER: 'Kiefer started drinking at 9 o'clock in the morning with some buddies and didn't stop till after 1:30 p.m.

"'At one point, he was so hammered that he fell off his barstool and landed on the floor. But he just laughed it off.

"'He was drinking Scotch and his associates actually had to prop him up!

"'Some girl pulled down her pants and showed her butt to him and he said in slurring speech, I'll show you something."

Italics mine:

"'Then he pulled down his pants and exposed his butt to her and everyone else in the bar!'

"The eyewitness added: 'When Kiefer stumbled out of the bar, there were a bunch of cops hanging around the film shoot across the street. He laughed and said, Don't mind me, officers -- and just staggered away.

"'It was funny and heartbreaking at the same time.'" The story is reported by Michael Glynn and Rick Egusquiza of National Enquirer.

The Has Been pirate goes to Little Dogs. P Diddy had Sophie at Fashion Week. Britney's dog Bitbit ate a $180 steak. Paris Hilton's dog, Tinkerbelle, ran away.

The Never Was pirate goes to Kobe Bryant, whose cell phone is *allegedly* 310-946-6046.

The He Kept Us On Our Toes pirate goes to RZA. Of whom we wrote: "The Corsair has many media obsessions but one of his favorites is RZA. The RZA is crazy. Nutso. He eats ungodly amounts of colloidal silver, even proffering it to his offspring need we say more?

"One day RZA and his babies are going to turn blue from a colloidal silver overdose and then people will take me seriously. Anyhoo: here's what he had to say to FHM:

"FHM: How strong is your Kung Fu?

"RZA: Strong, but I've never used it. One of my uncles trains CIA agents. He was offended I was learning from someone else, so he showed me this one move. He said, 'I could cripple you.' I believed him but he had to prove it. I was hurt for three months."

"Okay ... leaving aside the relative implausibility that one of RZA's crazy uncles is in the intelligence gathering business, and not, oh, say, drinking malt liquor beverages on a stoop in Staten Island, how many people out there have familial relations that whisper Moon Knight-like threats. Being family is not about crippling one another. Season's beatings are not in order here.

"The interview concludes:

"FHM: Is there an RZA sex tape out there?

"RZA: I don't leave evidence like that. I form the lense with my hand, look through it and tape record with my mind."

What-the-fuck?!

The Wouldn't it be fun if He Were President Pirate goes to Al Sharpton, "As you can see, the progressive buildup to the Iowa caucus has thrown me off my usually sophisticated pop-culturally obsessed game, and gotten me all sexed up on politics. Blame Iowa! Bear with me, though, my little pomegranates, I will come out of this little poly-sci funk intact and, on the other side of the caucus, back in rare form. My fascination du jour, though, if you must know, is the Reverend Al Sharpton.And why not: His campaign is quixotic, to be sure, but there is also quite a bit of pathos and some, well, humor in it. Actually, there is lots of humor in his candidacy if you know how to look.

"... January 24, 2005: The Godfather of Soul is appointed Ambassador to the Holy See. 'The Pope can no longer call us a nation turning it's back on its soul anymore,' the President quips."

No posts till Monday, 2005 -- Happy New Year, and thanks for reading this blog in 2004,

Cheers,
Ron