A Little of the Old In and Out
In: Fallen Princeling James Truman. Truman did it with dignity (Somewhat). He didn't go out like a Conde Nast punk (Sort of). Anyway, he's gone. Truman ventures softly into obscurity, gently into the night, with a pimp strut -- a "slow roll," as they say in Harlem, perhaps a loaded six-string on his back.
The Independent (link via iwantmedia) is especially kind to the abdicated Princeling, James Truman. Now, readers, put on your ermine robes and perambulate with me presently, through the hoary, August Halls of Conde Nast, via The Independent, with Purcell's Music for the Funeral of Queen Mary to guide us, like Beatrice, through the Inferno:
"Of the triumvirate of British editors - Tina Brown, Anna Wintour, and Truman - who were hired in the mid-Eighties to energise what was then a sleepy company, only the formidable Wintour remains in place. Truman's exit is unusually graceful. At least in the US, Cond� Nast is company energised by intrigue, and nothing creates more excitement - titillation, really - in the chic corridors of its towering headquarters at 4 Times Square than a dramatic firing.
"Typically, under-performing editors arrive back from holiday to find their pass-keys revoked and offices locked. But there hasn't been an execution for some time, or even a public flogging. By leaving the media altogether, he avoids the fate that often befalls former editors. Without title, the fact and aura of power evaporates (ask the former New Yorker editor Tina Brown); and so, sometimes, does life itself (soon after being nudged into retirement, the longtime GQ editor Art Cooper suffered a stroke and died)."
Downer. What's up with the "impending doom" vibe? They're harshing on my mellow, and now we need a Vicodin and some Chevalier-Montrachet to make us feel all copacetic and snarky once more. Art isn't dead, per se, it's only in a bad place right now.
Out: Bernard Weinraub. Twilight of the Media Gods? Is it Ragnarrok already? The Vicodin threw us for a loop. And we were having such a good time roasting marshmallows at this bonfire of the vanities. Romenesko alerts us to the exit of Bernard Weinraub, of whose farewell party, LAObserved notes:
"Making the trip from New York were said to be culture editor Jonathan Landman, columnist Maureen Dowd, business writer Geraldine Fabrikant and movie editor Michael Cieply. The Hollywood figures included Brian Grazer and his wife Gigi Levangie Grazer, Nora Ephron and Nick Pileggi, Donald Deline of Paramount, Jeff Berg of ICM and producers at Sony Lucy Fischer and Doug Wick."
And, to throw a little Bourbon into everyone's Earl Grey, Slate's Mickey Kaus on Weinraub (Nov 7,2003):
"I'm not saying Weinraub would write a bland, hack, just-shy-of-fawning piece on Valenti in order to please his wife. He did write a bland, hack, just-shy-of-fawning piece, but that's probably because it's the kind of piece he almost always writes these days. By that, I'm not saying that he's a behind-the-curve embarrassment to the Times, snickered at by other reporters, who habitually either misses the story or gets it after everyone else is sick of talking about it. ...Oh, alright, that is what I'm saying.
"It's bizarre that the Times would relax its conflict-of-interest rules to get more of this buzzless voice into the paper. The paper has apparently tried to keep up appearances in the past by not letting Weinraub write about certain topics, but that regime has obviously broken down."
Broken down like Robert Deniro's street cred; Broken down like Newt Gingrich's buzzless trial balloon campaign after 2008 ('96 was his year).
In: Madonna. The Corsair is not going to buy Jose Canseco's scuzzy snitchography. Snitches are the lowman in Gen-Pop, as Addebezzi of Oz might relate. Besides, Canseco's tremendously steroidal horsejaw on display on 60 Minutes last night put the fear of god into us. It jutted forth from his fire hydrant-like neck as a Medieval Gargoyle might from a Gothic Church.
And what can only be described as Josie's "aggressive sniffling" on camera put an abrupt and unfortunate end to our lovely Sunday dinner. Might Mike Wallace have offered Frankenstein's Monster a handkerchief? Or a bail of hay?
But we will run excepts from St. Louis Today. This one in particular caught our snarky eye:
"According to On romance with Madonna: 'As curious as I was, though, I just wasn't that into her ... There was no real chemistry there.'"
And Canseco would know about "the chemistry," right? He's an alchemist like Marion Barry that way. Canseco made out with Esther, apparently, but nothing happened. Apparently, there are some things Madonna wouldn't do. For once, the Material made the right move. We won't mention the ubersleazy Hollywood director, Peter Berg. Or Dennis "The Worm" Rodman. Eew.
Out: Jennifer Nicholson's FashionWeek Coca-Cola Sponsiored After Party. What do you get when you have a Nicholson Party without Jack Nicholson (He was busy "working")? Well, a Nicholson party without "The Chief" is a bunch of sorry-ass B-Listers getting drunk, as Fashionweekdaily reports:
"An US Weekly fan's wet fantasy. Radiant Ashley Olsen lounged calmly on a couch, Foxy Brown spilled out of her bandeau top, SNL's Kenan Thompson took up a banquette, and Naomi Campbell drifted across the dance floor. There was Shannon Elizabeth at one table, Shannen Dougherty at another, and more reality stars than Mark Burnett could shake a stick at: Bachelor Andrew Firestone, Apprentices Stacy R. and Heidi, and a few drunk Survivors lounging about. Chanel's Caroline Beak held court in a corner, while music exec Peter Katsis bobbed his head to Kelis, and Jess Meisels fluttered to the bar in a chiffon top. A shy Jennifer Nicholson disappeared quickly, but while Annabelle Dexter Jones skipped the bash entirely, designer Annabelle McCraney took center stage with her gorgeous homemade dress."
Whew! The stink of "has been" was unbearable! How long do you think they had to air out Marquee to remove the acrid stench of thwarted ambition?
In: Grouphug. The Corsair loves this site. Especially the odd, timeless sensation of eavesdropping in on the inner consciousness of a freak. Confessions range from the shameful, "I listen to Shakira," or the sublime, like, "I think I have a crush on my husband's cousin. He smells really good. My husband stinks." Or, a really disgusting post about Missy Elliot.