Vanderbilt-Whitney Impersonator Picked Up at Hilton

The Page Sixxers note that:



Above: Himbo Manwhore (lavender tie, vacant gaze) and Mrs. Vanderbilt Whitney (smart white suit)

"MARYLOU Whitney, 77, was shocked last week when a 41-year-old woman was arrested for impersonating her, Saratoga Springs' most famous resident and the widow of the fabulously wealthy Cornelius "Sonny" Vanderbilt Whitney. Town Police Sgt. Welch confirmed that Regan W. Hyde, of Vancouver, Washington, had been arrested for forgery in the second degree ? and was picked up at the local Hilton after attempting to pass herself off as the vivacious Marylou. When Hyde was arrested, she was accompanied by her 14-year-old son, whose father had to fly from the Left Coast to take the boy home. The case has been adjourned to Dec. 23. Marylou told friends of the curious case when she came to town the other day for Judith Giuliani's birthday."

While Mrs. Whitney is a "youngish" 77, to be sure, 41 playing 77 is a fucking stretch of any fevered imagination. A strange tale, to be sure, but no stranger than la vida loca of the eccentric life of socialite, Marylou Whitney. New York Magazine ran this, from a profile of her on August 24, 1998, about the then 72-year old newlywed and her -- gulp! -- 33 year old "tennis champ" (Averted Gaze) husband:

"After ten months of wedded bliss, Marylou Whitney and John Hendrickson still can't stop touching each other. A short time before their party, 'Mrs. Whitney and John,' as their secretaries refer to them, are ensconced in the library at Cady Hill, Marylou's 21-room mansion in Saratoga Springs, a self-contained world with tennis courts, Victorian gardens, walkways that are heated in winter, and even a private chapel on a rise not far from the main house."

What does one find in common with a 77-year old aristocrat? Besides the mutual love of their bank statements, we mean. Does she require flapper-era Jazz to be played as background music during her well orchestrated "seduction"? After the degrading sex (... or so The Corsair is told that this is how these things progress) paid for with crumpled c-notes absently tossed at a sweaty bed (... not that we have any specific experience with these sorts of "transactions" ...), usually accompanied with the words, "man-whore," supplied in passing ( ... again, as we were told ...we've no experience) --

"'Where do you want my hands, baby?' John leers. Dressed in a crisp gray suit shirt and slathered in shaving lotion, he looks like an immaculately turned out cherub, with love handles he attributes to the tiny heiress's home cooking."

"Turned out" is probably the appropriate word to be supplied here; although "macking" might be equally applied. A 72 year old Whitney-Vanderbilt cooking something "edible," is how the writer describes the repast in question. And the himbo consumes it. Fuck James Brown, if this himbo actually consumed her flapper-era concoctions, no doubt seasoned with a timely splash of something "extra" from her hip flask of Prohibition-era "hooch (Averted Gaze)", then he is indeed the hardest working man in show ... or any other business.

"'You can put your hands anywhere,' coos Marylou in a whispery, society-girl accent.'"

Did she have pigtails and a lollypop when she said this? Did her signature cotton candy-color dyed "bob" shimmy in the evening wind? Is she doing "The Charleston"? The Corsair dry heaves a little after hearing this, stumbles awkwardly around the room, then continues reading, composed, but still shell-shocked:

"... A husbandly paw sneaks to just below her curvaceous bosom, brushing her tight shocking-pink dress. 'You're perking up, aren't you, baby?' Hendrickson says, giving his wife's firm little rump a playful slap."

What did Mrs. Whitney-Vanderbilt pay the New York writer to use the term "firm little rump" and "curvaceous bosom" on a 72 year old? For shame! After 7 decades of being subjected to gravitational forces, can anything "of the flesh" be referred to competently as either "curvaceous" or "firm"? We think not. At that stage in life, "wisdom" is the adjective most appropriate. Did Mrs. Vanderbilt toss the crumpled graft absently at the writer-in-question while supplying the words, "whore"? (BTW-- we are just kidding here, the writer was probably just being kind to an elderly lady)

"A few minutes earlier, Marylou, running a temperature of 103, was wilting, moaning that she'd die if made to pose in the humidity of the pastel-hued pool house."

You see, John Manwhore -- or whatever your name is -- and The Corsair is trying to be as cautious and humane as possible in saying this -- you ... cannot drive a 1934 Auburn 850Y Phaeton on the Autobahn. -- If you know what you mean.

... You have to take a classic car like that on the back roads, check out the scenery, be delicate on the clutch, keep it in first gear, even if it's in "mint condition." These "cars" can "overheat." -- If you know what I mean.

" ... But if anybody knows the show must go on, it's Marylou Whitney, onetime actress and the fourth and final Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt Whitney. Grabbing a pair of stiletto heels from a hovering secretary, she becomes suddenly animated."

Oh -- oh dear, where is this heading ...

" ... On cue, she and John flash practiced, dazzling party smiles for the camera, while a squirming Marylou perches herself on his knee."

Oh, dear Lord, no ... she thinks she's at the Zeigfield Follies back in '23.

"'Have you been a good girl?' John demands. 'Santa,' she replies, gazing deeply into his eyes, 'bring me something good.' Hendrickson scoops his five-foot-four, emerald-dripping wife into his arms. 'She's about 50 pounds lighter without her jewelry,' he says."

And, no doubt, about 185 pounds of "himbo" lighter without the fortune.