A Little of the Old In and Out



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In: The Tragic Ballad of Senator John Thune. Remember how the closing of the Ellsworth Air Force Base in South Dakota radicalized Senator John Thune? (This just in: Connecticut's New London Base just got a reprieve; Lieberman must be dancing a lusty jig right about now) Thune's entire campaign was based on "What has Tom Daschle's Clout Gained South Dakota?" Thune's answer was: I know The President, Daschle doesn't. Our Party is in power: I will have real clout, I'll deliver.

-- Or so he thought.

It's quite an interesting Southwestern Dakota tale, this here ballad of Senator Thune (The Corsair sticks a strand of hay in his mouth). Our favorite Dickensian villain Robert Novak chronicles the sad tale of South Dakota Senator John Thune. It's a pisser, folks (The Corsair strums on a banjo), a real pisser, yes it is. It could be set to Johnny Cash. Sit back, grab yourself a spoonful of Dinty Moore, pour yourself a mason jar of "the fiery waters," as Novak takes us to a special, bucolic-like place:

"President Bill Clinton saved Ellsworth for Daschle during the last BRAC process in 1995, but President Bush was detached in 2005. The resulting closure demolishes Thune's home-state prestige and threatens Republican domination of western South Dakota (where Ellsworth is located) by eliminating 6,000 civilian jobs. Local political setbacks may be reversed, but damage to Thune as a national fund-raiser and candidate-recruiter seems irrevocable. He has been transformed from regular to maverick. Bush might ask himself: Is closing one air base worth this?

"... Were it not for Bush, Thune would be finishing his third year as governor of South Dakota. Anxious to regain control of the Senate in the 2002 elections, the president pressured Thune to challenge Democratic Sen. Tim Johnson. Thune lost by 524 votes thanks to questionable election procedures, but instead of protesting, he moved on to challenge Daschle.

"... Campaigner Daschle told how in 1995 the Air Force marked Ellsworth for closure and he went to Clinton. The president telephoned the Pentagon to take Ellsworth off the list before it reached the BRAC.

"Thune tried the same thing this year, but Bush withheld himself from the process. The new senator talked to Vice President Dick Cheney, Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld, Bush political adviser Karl Rove and Cheney aide Scooter Libby. But the same people who could not do enough for candidate Thune could do nothing for Sen. Thune. The Air Force, still smarting from Clinton's intervention, made the Ellsworth closing stick this time."

Wow. Is Senator John Thune, like, the Tara Reid of the Republican Party, or what?



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Out: Mickey Rourke. The Corsair loved Mickey Rourke in "The Pope of Grenwhich Village "("Italians don't outgrow people. They outgrow clothes")," but, to be frank, what has he done for us lately? Besides, we mean, providing a juicy target for this blog. According to MSNBC's The Scoop:

"Mickey Rourke has been sounding like he regrets one of his most famous roles. While in Brazil promoting 'Sin City,' Rourke was asked if people still ask him about '9� Weeks,' the 1986 romantic thriller he made with Kim Basinger. 'They do,' he replied, and, according to our translator, made a facial expression of disgust."

We're talking about Mickey Rourke's plastic surgery ravaged and botoxed-to-the-max visage here. How could anyone -- even Charled Darwin -- make out human emotions on that compromised canvas, that ... amorphous mass of goose liver pate that Rourke deigns to call a face (Averted Gaze)?



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In: The VMA Swag Bags. It's enough to make you shout with envy (The Corsair suppresses the urge). All that goddam swag. As if it wasn't bad enough that Usher didn't invite The Corsair to his post-VMA party ... According to Fashionweekdaily:

"Included in the bag are an American Couture tee with Swarovski crystals, a customized iPod shuffle, a Dooney & Bourke travel bag, the Frederick�s of Hollywood Mixed Media Corset made from herringbone tweed and velvet ..."

You've got to be fucking kidding me ...

"... Givenchy fragrances made from the new Liv Tyler roses, a series of vintage-inspired MTV T-shirts, a custom-designed Paul Frank watch, a pack of Revlon goodies, a Shay Todd one-piece bathing suit, Taryn Rose Shoes, a Vanessa handbag, a Sean by Sean Combs T-shirt, and the newest Missoni sunglasses, all packed in a specially designed Gap VMA Gift Bag. Also included are two bottles of Jos� Cuervo�s limited edition tequila, which many VMA guests� including the aforementioned Ms. Lohan, plus Hilary Duff, Ashlee Simpson, Bow Wow, and Joss Stone�won�t legally be able to drink for a few more years. "

Stop, please. More here; don't hate the playa, hate the PR department that doesn't invite us to these things.



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Out: Jack Be Nimble Jack Be Quick. Evidently, the newly svelte Jack Osbourne is sowing his wild oats on the other side of the Atlantic. Briskly (Exaggerated cough suggesting feigned detachment), very, very briskly ...

What we mean by that is, unfortunately, "Jack O" leaves something to be desired in the, uhm, endurance department (Averted Gaze). Hint, Jack: Take care of the lady first, then worry about your own "O." Questions as to whether this affliction is congenital or not are, uhm, "premature." According to Newsoftheworld:

"Stunning olive-skinned dancer Lydia Worth was the envy of millions of women this week, snapped enjoying a string of dates with big-screen legend Mickey (Rourke), who wowed the world in steamy lustbuster 9 1/2 Weeks.

"But those green eyes will be streaming with laughter at how it all ended�between the sheets with reality TV geek Jack, the half-cocked lover she now calls a '20-second wonder'!"

(A considerable pause; The Corsair sparks up a Fuente Fuente Opus X cigar; continues)

"'Compared to Mickey, Jack's such a loser,' admitted lovely Lydia. 'But I sneaked off at the end of the night to see him because I really liked him.'

"Not any more, though. Just as you thought Lydia's luck couldn't get any worse, Jack rubs it in by trying to pull her best mate!

"Angry Lydia stormed: 'I can't believe he's treated me so badly, especially after I broke off my night with Mickey to be with him.'"

Mickey Rourke, Jack Osbourne: Obviously, dear reader, we are dealing with a woman of high calibre, a connoisseur of -- I can't be sure (Exaggerated cough suggesting feigned detchment).

Jack, son of Black Sabbath rocker Ozzy Osbourne and X Factor judge Sharon, met Lydia out clubbing in London's West End and invited her to a party in his room at the Metropolitan Hotel.

"There was no sex that night.

"'It was on the second date that he lunged at me on the balcony and kissed me,' said Lydia. 'He then pushed me on to the bed and before I knew it he'd finished.'"

Thanks for sharing!



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In: Urban Fashion. According to Fashionweekdaily, " Weeks after WWD proclaimed 'urban fashion is having an identity crisis,' they�re running an entire photo spread on hip-hop style, shot in Washington Square Park (look for it this Thursday)�"

*Full disclosure: In the interest of journalistic blogging integrity, The Corsair cannot tell a lie. We ran this item for no other reason than to justify the cheesecake "curvy woman bending over" photo seen above.



(image via NySocialDiary)

Out: Brett Easton Ellis' Lunar Park. Like John Irving's "Until I Find You," the action in Brett Easton Ellis' new book, "Lunar Park," is propelled by longing for fathers; unlike John Irving's book, Ellis disappoints. Big time.

Lunar Park could have been a fine book, but for some unknown reason, Ellis is obsessed with gore. He throws in some cheap haunted house gimmick which falls flat. Just as Patrick Bateman in American Psycho shocked -- shocked! -- the reader, so does the meta-Brett Easton Ellis, the author's alter ego, as he combats the forces of darkness in his haunted house. I can't even tell you how stupid it is. Ellis has a house haunted by a toy flying bat creature, a "Terby" ('Y Bret' spelled backwards; don't ask). Was he smoking crack?

Irving, on the other hand, is still a Master storyteller -- our Dickens -- but his autobiographical novel goes on a bit too long, over 800 pages, and is chock full of too much wish fulfilment (impossibly handsome boy becomes wrestler, then movie star, then breaker of a thousand hearts). If a dream can be a wish fulfilment, then why not a novel? But the research -- especially on the international culture of tattoo artists, is fascinating. And the feeling of deep melancholy over the search for his lost father is honest, poignant, and new to Irving.



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In: Toure. When the nice PR lady sent us a copy of Toure's "Soul City," we were somewhat skeptical and more than a tad jealous. He's supposed to be the competition, isn't he? As everyone knows (Averted Gaze), there can only be one African-American pop cultural media correspondent on television, right?

We got a pleasant surprise. Toure's book, an aquired taste, is quite interesting. Okay, it was really clever, we'll admit it. "Soul City" is like an extended conversational monologue from the urban landscape. If 125th Street could talk ... that sort of thing. There are hints of soul, funk, rhythm and blues, rock -- and why shouldn't there be, Toure's best known gig was at Rolling Stone; the book feels like a history of African-American music played in words. Tom Wolfe, on the jacket cover, calls the book "experimental fiction." Sort of, but wide of the mark.

Actually -- and Tom Wolfe wouldn't know this -- the book is more psychedelic funk, which is a musical tradition, than Marcel Proust (Although the now forgotten American genius Edmund Wilson makes an interesting case in his equally forgotten landmark essay in "Axel's Castle" that "A La Recherche du temps perdu" was hugely influenced by contemporary classical music). The Corsair read Toure's "Soul City" in one sitting (which is good, considering the deadlines ), and loved it. The book presently occupies a space in The Corsair's library between Darius James' magesterial "That's Blaxploitation," and Iceberg Slim's gritty autobiography, "Pimp."

You will too, but you have to be in the right frame of mind. The music, like all good psychedelic funk, has no teleological goal. As Toure writes in the book, "He wasn't playing a song, wasn't confining himself to a structure, he was just playing, improvising, exploring his guitar and himself, getting to know them both all over again."

Exactly.