Billary Shrugged

"Howard Dean laughed.

"He stood boldly at the edge of a political crossroads. The nomination lay slightly ahead of him. A frozen explosion of granite burst in flight to the sky over the motionless establishment. The Democratic Party Establishment seemed immovable. The establishment had the stillness of one brief moment in battle when thrust meets thrust and the currents are held in a pause more dynamic than motion. The stone glowed, wet with sunrays."

Submitted for your approval: The Fountainhead a la Howard Dean and his Rage Against the Party Machine campaign. So let's review what has happened thus far in the Democratic primary soap operetta, shall we? Al Gore, out from the wilderness of a Japanese trip (whiskey commercial?)decides, rather abruptly -- okay, very abruptly -- to endorse Howard Dean, the hard charging but affable former Governor of Vermont, in the process bitchlapping his loyal former running mate Senator Joe Lieberman in the process, effectively ending that man's bid at the Presidency.

Lieberman isn't the only one to get Gored. Billary faced real damage by this endorsement which, obviously, contained some spite, as Dean is the anti-DLC Billary candidate. Al never got over the Lewinsky; even Monica's over it, but not our Albert. Gore Vidal, a relation, once quipped on the Gore family that if a poisonous snake were to bite a Gore, it would die, envenomated. We get his point.

God it must suck to be Billary right now. Gore, in playing Kingmaker to Dean, places himself smack dab in the path of Hillary as being the de facto leader and moral voice of the Democratic Party. He also puts a thumb in the eye of his former boss, Bill Clinton, insinuating himself in his wifes path, rejecting a his boss' legacy in which he himself was a prime player, and aiding and abetting the enemy.

Everywhere, Bill Clinton's legacy is being torn to pieces. The recent elections in Ireland had caused Clinton's Good Friday Accords to evaporate. The Democratic Party has repudiated Clinton's centrism and veered back to the left. The golden age of the 90s has been dismissed as irrational exhuberance. Everyone and their brother has a book out calling attention to Clinton's Rwanda failure. Clinton backed milk dud munching geek Gray Davis got his ass handed to him on a platter by the Governator; Clinton's team now works for Wesley Clark, whose candidacy is about as thin as the hair atop Donald Trump's head. Even Linda Tripp was awarded back pay.

Billary shrugged indeed.

Paris: Troubled Teen In Love With Her Reflection

Paris Hilton attended a school for troubled kids? No! Say it aint so! The National Enquirer gives us the lowdown on Paris Hilton's brief stay at the exclusive CEDU school in Running Hills, Ca. The website for the school says:

"CEDU High is an emotional growth boarding school for adolescents who exhibit behavioral and learning difficulties. The curriculum has three cornerstones: The original CEDU Emotional Growth program; college preparatory academics; and an outstanding outdoor adventure program. Woven through this triangle is an enriching theme of visual and performing arts. CEDU High School is the original emotional growth boarding school. Since 1967, it has worked with teens and families to redirect negative behavior, teach vital life skills, create academic success, and reunite families."

There are a million rather snarky comments The Corsair could make about "performing arts," and Paris Hilton and "negative behavior" and Paris Hilton, but we shall refrain. Oh, how we shall refrain.

Anyway, back to the Enquirer because enquiring minds want to know. Patricia Shipp writes:

"(Paris) acted like royalty from the time she arrived until she made her escape -- by limousine -- after two months, charges the source, who attended the school with the hotel heiress.

"'She was a mess from day one,' the insider told The ENQUIRER. 'She was such a spoiled brat that the other rich kids were disgusted with her too!'

"Paris was admitted into the school partly to help her to stop her abuse of drugs and alcohol, but all she talked about was finding a way to get out.

"'She arrived with several bags of designer luggage like she was going to a resort on vacation. She was more concerned about what she was wearing and what shade of makeup to put on rather than talking about her problems.'

"Stuck-up and in love with her reflection, she threw a fit when she learned she could wear only the jeans, T-shirts and sweatshirts supplied by the facility, divulged the insider.

"'But that was nothing compared to the tornado she created when they told her absolutely no makeup.

"'Oh, my God! I thought the end of the world was coming the way she reacted to the rules. If Paris wasn't crying, she was angry -- refusing to eat the food or figuring out how to escape.

"'Everyone was expected to do assigned chores and to participate in group discussions -- but Paris did nothing, except cry like a baby.'"

The Corsair has absolutely no comment. Judge for yourself.

Eminem and the Secret Service

My friends at Moneyjungle.org are taking on the Eminem contretemps, lock stock and smoking barrel, so you better recognize! The Corsair has largely avoided the issue on the grounds that any man who would threaten to kill the mother of his children and engage in a very public and very ugly lawsuit against his mom, would feel no hindrance in hunting down a lowly blogger like a New Jersey black bear. And our philosophy is very pro-life, namely my own. I'm too cute to die.

Anyhoo: Moneyjungle says:

"The thing is, I don?t think Eminem is the problem. I don?t even think it?s rap music. I think it?s a much larger problem. I think it is the ?urban? agenda - a close ally of the ol?homosexual agenda in the battle for our hearts and minds? it?s ruining our country. I mean, first Bob Marley shoots the sheriff. Then Ice-T is telling kids to kill cops and now they have set their sites on the president. And we?re at war.

"Does Eminem have no shame?"

She's Easy Like Sunday Morning

Star Magazine, that significant cultural artifact, shows us some of the interesting footage that didn't quite make the cut at Fox TV's hit The Simple Life, starring Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie. Our favorite little chesnuts:

"They were kind of pumping gas at the Exxon for one or maybe two days but they didn't do much," says Chris Trotter, who works at the gas station/grocery store. "They pumped a few cars, but just for the cameras. Fox offered $5 off a tank of gas to get a lot of people to come in [to the station] those days."

and:

"I heard Paris say that it was just innocent flirting, but I think it was a lot more than that," insists Trotter. "She hooked up with several guys."

Oh that Uptown Girl livin la vida loca!

Gore Comes To Harlem

Forget about Cotton, Al Gore has come to Harlem to endorse Dean! But his trip is, uhm, quixotic for two reasons:

1) Harlem is the location of the office of Bill Clinton-- the biggest cat in the jungle -- who is all but against the Dean run. Dean is the anti-Democratic candidate (read: Anti-Clinton-Terry McAuliffe , centrist DLC, moneygrubbing, poll taking, lowdown suckas). So this brings up the thorny question: why Harlem, Al? Did you really have to take it to the 'hood? So it's like that, brother?

2) Joe Lieberman, Gore's Vice Presidential pick, was completely blindsided. Actually bitchslapped is a more accurate description, but try as we might, the image of Gore bitchslapping the stately Senator from Connecticut didn't pass muster. At the very least it was bad manners, at its worst, um, it's pretty bad (The Corsair can imagine Washingtonians like socialite Sally Quinn covering her mouth and whispering into beltway insider Ben Bradlee's ear: oh no he didn't).

So, when is Lieb going to pull out? The Corsair is talking all predictions at papermag@yahoo.com. My own bet is before the end of December, and his withdrawal will be a nasty Zell Miller type affair.
We cannot wait to watch how Lieberman handles his treatment at the hands of the Democrats.

At this moment, Bill Clinton is sitting in Sylvia's in Harlem on his lunch hour, sampling the smothered pork chops, hungrily eyeing the women of 125th street contemplating his next move.

Bill Clinton's old school like that.

Checkmate: White Knight to Rescue Lord Black: The Canadian Media Invasion Begins

Will Mort Zuckerman be the white knight to rescue Lord Black and the embattled Hollinger, Inc, and, more important, will the media ever stop preceding Hollinger with embattled? That cannot be good for the share price.

Oh, it's all good, The Corsair is only having a little bit of shadenfreude at the expense of the mogul Canadians. And you can bet your black clothing that somewhere,--somehow -- Graydon Carter is lighting up, secretly avoiding the Blooberg's finest and chuckling at the end of irony and this curious media development.

Chris Tryhorn of the Guardian writes:

"Mr.Zuckerman, who owns the Daily News tabloid is the latest high-profile figure to be touted as a potential white knight who might rescue Lord Black's companies.

"According to reports, Lord Black is hoping to persuade him to invest in Hollinger and is not in talks to sell any of his titles, which include the Daily Telegraph, the Spectator magazine and the Jerusaleum Post.

"Mr Zuckerman, like Lord Black, was born in Canada and made his fortune in Boston real estate and has owned the market-leading Daily News for the past decade."

In Richard Sikios' 1995 book Shades of Black he tells a compelling story of how Mort Zuckerman beat out Lord Conrad Black to buy the NY Daily News. Black eventually went on to back the New York Sun.

Lord Black of Crossharbour was always a fan of the New York scene and was after an American flagship. In 1992 he met Barbara Walters at a cocktail party in London. Walters suggested to Lord Black (okay, I just like saying that) that he talk to her investment banker friend John Veronis about buying the troubled Daily News. Lord Black did and things started rolling.

He assessed that the Daily News was overmanned and needed a new printing plant, but, as a businessman, approached it all from the point of view of getting a "a good deal or no deal." Enter Mortimer Zuckerman, an individual not tied to any company or justifications for his purchases.


Zuckerman made his wealth in real estate and wanted "face" in the New Yorkmedia swirl after buying US News and World Report and The Atlantic. Black and Zuckerman initially talked about buying the venture together. David Radler. president of Hollinger, Black's company, told Siklos:

"At one point (Zuckerman) talked, for instance, that we would switch every year who would control the editorial page."

Conversations broke down and a bidding war ensued. Rupert Murdoch weighed in, unsurprisingly, on the side of fellow conservative Lord Black. "I think Conrad would be very good for the News," said Murdoch at the time,"and he'd be better still for the city."

On August 17 Lord Black offered $75 million of Hollinger money and won backing of both the Board of Directors and management of the Daily News. Zuckerman won the drivers and pressmens unions. In the end Zuckerman won because he offered a more positive vision for the company as an individual buyer not linked to a corporation. Lord Black would have had to cut jobs to justify the purchase to investors in Hollinger. C'est tout!

Russ Smith On Michael Wolff

Where did I go wrong and how is it truly done, seem to me to be the laments arising, prayer-like, from Russ Smith's tender assessment of Michael Wolff in, of all places, the embattled Hollinger Inc's New York Sun.

Can I too be a daddy cool of the media, Michael? Lunch with me, oh successful media critic, and tell me where I went awry ...

"Mr. Wolff is the quintessential caricature of Manhattan�s insulated, effete, and self-important insider," writes the scrappy Russ Smith, by way of wind up. But from then on, (and on) the drool quotient increases arithmetically as Russ does a one hundred and eighty degree turn from his usual role as irascible conservative, now trying on the ermine hat and spaniel-like eyes of the courtier.

Please, Michael Wolff, invite Mugger to Michaels and put him out of his ass kissing misery! We actually kind of liked him when he took on the power elite of this city and Washington, arms swingling, eyes closed,broad haymakers rarely, if ever, connecting with the intended smug liberal media target: it was somehow touching.

But now Smith continues, shamelessly, nose shaded an autumnal brown:

"Mr. Wolff, along with a group of investors including advertising legend Donny Deutsch, is one of the bidders for New York magazine, which is currently up for sale. At the same time, he has been discussing with Roger Ailes a possible television slot on Fox News.

Please step lively, butwatch the drool. Smitty goes on:

"Mr. Wolff holds court at Michael�s � the favored restaurant for such worthies � nearly every day; he�s a frequent talk-show guest; he owns a Rolodex that�s the envy of competitors; and he is a regular on the lecture circuit. He speculates at will on the failures and successes of companies such as TimeWarner, News Corp., the New York Times, Viacom, Vivendi, and Cond� Nast, and the (mostly) men who run them.

"He�s on a first-name basis with Rupert Murdoch.

One can almost feel the pathos, the longing; but it is not over:

"One attribute Mr. Wolff possesses, however, separates him from all the other vain characters who read the New York Observer every Wednesday to see if their name is mentioned (if only that paper had an index!): He�s got thick skin and is less prone to hold grudges than most of his lunch companions."

And surely Russ Smith would be an excellent one of those lunch companions.

The Corsair can feel the love and -- dare we say it? -- envy from over here (envy is great weakness of the writer, after all), even at the far end of the rarified media elite precincts.

The Corsair would like to suggest that Mugger get himself a blog, as he will get far greater visibility in this manner than as a columnist for the moribund and irrelevant New York Press.

And good luck on that invite to Michaels.

David Brooks: Brother From Another Planet

For a month now I have been reading David Brooks' Op Ed column for the New York Times, trying for the life of me to get his angle. Now, I belive I have.
David is the Brother From Another Planet ... a Conservative soul brother, to be sure (hereafter The Corsair will call him Brooks Brother), giving us the lowdown on his sometimes humerous encounters with those wacky liberals.

It is not so much that David is an alien being to the eastern seaboard media-- he is not: he just writes in a manner that calls to attention his cultural differences with the Upper West Side of Manhattan, like in his December 6th letter to Tom deLay on the conditions of this third rock from the sun:

"Dear Tom:

"This week I read that you have abandoned plans to house Republicans safely on a cruise ship off the island of Manhattan during the G.O.P. convention in New York this summer. Have you paused to consider what this will mean?

"It will mean that instead of spending time in a secure environment offshore, kind, decent Republicans will be wandering innocently among packs of inflamed New York liberals. They'll be subjected to long harangues that rely heavily on the words 'multilateral,' 'Kyoto' and 'John Ashcroft.' They'll get condescending looks when they go into a deli and order a strawberry and chocolate chip bagel with pineapple cream cheese ? a perfectly acceptable bagel option in most suburbs. They will na?vely pick up The Village Voice, thinking it contains small-town news.

"When the Utah delegation pauses to say grace before dinner at Elaine's, the cultural dissonance will be so great it will be measurable on the Richter scale.

"Tom, New York is not a place where Republicans can feel at home. New York has Central Park, which is a large pastoral area without a single putting green. It is a city with nearly eight million people, none of whom own riding mowers. "

Very funny, Brooks Brother, but also an interesting expression via irony of the sociological differences between the Bush red states and the Gore blue states.

Our man from the planet Conservative, in the Evangelica star system, goes further:

"New Yorkers suffer from liberal anhedonia, which is the inability to derive pleasure from grossly oversized pieces of machinery. So when a Republican starts a perfectly normal conversation about the glories of his powerboat, snowmobile, combine or hemi, the liberal is likely to screech out something about the ozone layer.

"New York is a city of strange rituals. The people live in these vertical gated communities they call apartment buildings, but they don't seem to have normal family structures. If a Martian landed in a Manhattan playground, he would conclude that human beings start out small and white, and grow up to become middle-aged Jamaican women. In Manhattan, when an oldest child turns 12, entire families disappear overnight."

The Corsair likes the part about the Jamaican nannies, which is a deadly accurate spitoon, just dropped out of the side of the mouth as if it were an aside, rolled down the 92nd Street Y, and taking out a phalanx of pink-shirted NPR-listening yuppies like bowling pins. The Jamaican Nannies are a staple of the Upper West Side, like Balducci's, and PBS tote bags, and are just as appreciated.

Also the idea that children going off to boarding schools at 12, which is fairly odd in other parts of the country, is also
a keen Brooksian observation.

The Corsair likes David Brooks' offbeat but culturally significant columns
on the experience of an offworlder in Upper Manhattan.

Hillary on Stephanopoulos?!

Fresh from visiting war torn Afghanistan and Iraq, Senator Hillary Clinton visited hostile territory in the form of George Stephanopouols' failing ABC Sunday chat show.

Sunday morning after the snowstorm: The Corsair is channel surfing and nearly pours his Kenyan blend coffee all over himself when he spies, on ABC, George Stephanopoulos interviewing Hillary Clinton on his show, with George Will sitting in for cross examining honors. What the fuck?!

Is this the same George Stephanopoulos, who, in his Clinton years memoir All Too Human (All Too Ambitious), wrote luridly of The First Lady breaking down and crying during a Whitewater strategy session?

Yes, it was. And is that the same George Will that used to snidely criticize the dignity of Bill Clinton?

Yes it was.

Whatever your political background, you have to admit that Hillary -- a Scorpio, to be sure -- is racking up military cred not only on the Senate Armed Services Committee.

Jack Valenti's Screening Room

Ultra sleazy Washington lobbyist and MPAA head Jack Valenti took a bit of an ass whipping at the hands of Federal Judge Michael B. Mukasey in New York.

Citing "unlawful restraint of trade," that the MPAA's "screener ban" would significantly harm independent films, Mukasey granted a preliminary injunction, effective immediately, blocking the policy.

Falling back on the old chesnut that screeners are major sources of piracy, we won't entertain the possibility that old Jack is trying to protect the Oscar from deserving independent films, who have cleaned the clocks of the tired, formulaic old studios. No ... our Jack wouldn't do that. He's much too "ethical."

In other news, Louisiana Congressman Billy Tauzin is slated to take over from Valenti soon. Why would a powerful Republican in the majority party want to become head of the embattled MPAA?

A $1.03 million salary might be incentive. How about that sweet screening room at MPAA's Washington headquarters (perhaps third in coolness behind the White House screening room and Steven Spielberg's), then there are the orchestra seats at the Oscars, and first class travel to film festivals.

Ah, the line between K Street and, er, uhm, K Street is blurred.

Siegler Sued: Fuggedabouddit!

Meadow pinched? Hey! Whatsamatta you? Media Life Magazine reports that Soprano's troublemaker and thwarted teen singing sensation Jamie-Lynn Sigler has stepped into the proverbial Pasta Fazool.

"Sigler is facing a lawsuit from her talent agency for unpaid fees. According to Writers & Artists Group, the agency negotiated for Sigler to continue playing Meadow Soprano for the fifth and sixth seasons of the show and is therefore still owed a 10 percent commission. The agency is asking for at least $40,000 in damages."

The Corsair thinks that Paulie Walnuts and Christopher Moltisanti should go talk to those pansy-assed "writers" and "artistes" and take care of "that thing" by making them an offer they can't refuse-- ninja style!

SAG cards? I'm talkin about a 300-lb saggy goodfella with a louisville slugger.

Graydon Carter: Civil Rights Leader

Mahatma Gandhi. Martin Luther King. Nelson Mandela. Susan B. Anthony. Now, we have libertarian Graydon Carter to add to that pantheon of civil rights leaders.

'Cause my favorite gossip read, Page Six, said so:

"Carter seemed surprised by his new persona as a civil-rights leader. 'I make the front page of the [International] Herald Tribune not for having written a great book or having painted a great picture or anything, but for having an ashtray in my office.'"

As an occasional inbiber in tobacco products, The Corsair tips his pirate hat to Conde Nast's resident libertarian in tribute. Man-to-man, Graydon: Conde Nasties of the world, Flame on! But, alas, I blogged too soon. Page Six continues:

"No longer. His spokeswoman said, 'There are no ashtrays.' And a source who works nearby told PAGE SIX: 'I haven't smelled smoke coming out of his office this week.' Sounds like surrender."

Oh, say it aint so Graydon; say it aint so!

MSNBC Layoffs

The Drudge Report reports that MSNBC is giving out seasons beatings of a sort -- employees are finding that tis the season to be sorry: layoffs.

What? Jesse Ventura's America-- the hungry man's Savage Nation -- is not garnering those premium sponsors? Sheesh.

MSNBC, like Michael Jackson, has identity issues. It is not conservative or liberal and isn't aware that reruns of Matt Lauer's Headliners and Legends is not the way to rivet important demographics to the tube, unless the networkette thinks viewers are interested in watching his hairline recede; which, incidentally, we are not.

How long before Microsoft realizes that this experiment in television has gone horribly awry and divests? The Corsair gives it nine months, all told.

Secret Witness Saw Jacko Abuse Boy

The National Enquirer, which has ironically become the clearinghouse for accurate and timely information on all things pertaining to celebrity criminality, once again scoops the competition, which often on the subject comes across as sloppy. Then again, Enquirer gossips have been at this game, hiding in the bushes, peeling through trash, flashbulbs at the ready, for some time and have something to prove: they want to clean the clocks of the real reporters -- you know, those George Polk Award winning, Chardonnay sipping snobs.

Anyhoo: The Enquirer reports that a secret witness has come forward with testimony that may put Michael Jackson behind bars. According to the website:

"The secret witness was in Michael's bedroom with the singer and his alleged victim, and has told authorities he saw Jackson sexually abuse the boy, according to a source close to the case.

"The issue that goes on sale Friday details the witness' encounter with Jackson, reveals that the star tried to send the boy and his family out of the country for good"

How do they get this information? The Corsair guesses very substantial tip fees.

Rush Limbaugh's Drug Stash: Excellence in Pill Popping

The folks at TheSmokingGun have published a voluminous list of all the drugs and their dosages that Rush had on hand, and it looks like enough to stun a rogue bull elephant. No, no amend that prescription: there are enough drugs involved in this list to stagger a sperm whale.

It appears that Limbaugh's long winded soliloquy's on will power should've contained few footnotes, say, as to the pharamceutical accompaniment to each act of will, like niacin, on lowering cholesterol, or Oxycontin if you are just getting your high on. Checkit:

"Rush Limbaugh illegally purchased hundreds of prescription pills a month and sought a quartet of doctors to fuel his drug addiction, according to search warrant applications unsealed yesterday in Palm Beach County Circuit Court. Investigators executing the searches, which took place November 25 at three offices used by Limbaugh's South Florida physicians, accused the radio personality of 'doctor shopping,' or improperly seeking out practitioners to supply him with an inordinate abundance of painkillers OxyContin, Lorcet, Norco, Hydrocodone and Kadian, the anti-anxiety drug Xanax, the cholesterol-lowering drug Niacin, and Clonodine, which treats high blood pressure."

Whew! Everything makes the Limbaugh cut but the Xanthan gum!

To "Sir" With Grudge

You could just see this one coming from out of the stadium, no? Keith Richards, rarely the voice of reason, is a downright surly man-beast, a god of a guitar player, who is hitting the right note in his devastating criticism of Mick Jagger, perhaps the coolest man in the world, but, of late, something of a whore, for accepting an honorary title from the British establishment.

Why does The Corsair side with Keith over Mick in this family squabble? Let Keith tell us in his own words, as he did to Uncut Magazine:

"'I don't want to step out on stage with someone wearing a ----ing coronet and sporting the old ermine,' declared the 59-year-old guitarist.

"I told Mick, `It's a ----ing paltry honour.'

"'I thought it was ludicrous to take one of those gongs from the establishment, when they did their best to throw us in jail.'"

And on that matter Keith Richards is quite correct. And we don't know his from Adam. Recent reports indicate that Scotland Yard detectives trumped up drug charges against the Stones -- as well as other rock and roll associates -- in order to get them in prison as a little love message from the establishment.

At this point Richards, long characterized as the "elder brother" and "conscience" of the Stones, stepped up his rhetoric, hinting that the knighthood was pathetic, beneath Mick, really; and hypocritical besides, to Uncut:

"I thought it sent out the wrong message ... It's not what the Stones is about, is it?"

"If you're into this s---, hang on for the peerage," Richards sneered. 'Don't settle for a little badge.'"

Jagger's response to the attack in the Herald Sun, was to describe Richards's views as "endearing" but sometimes "very irritating."

The Corsair knows that growing up is selling out -- somewhat, at least; but wouldn't it be a sad world indeed, if His Satanic Majesty, the king of all hellraisers, were to run after a knightship like a cocker spaniel in search of a dog yummy? If rock stars sold their artistic statements to sneaker companies or Jaguar? If 60s icons would win the Presidency and toss aside idealism to legislate by polls?

Oh, who the fuck is Mick fooling, keemo sabe: the 60s sold itself out decades ago.

Trio TV Does It Again

Laura Zalaznick's Trio TV, the channel for the sophisticated media junkie, takes on awards shows in December. The Award Show Awards Show is their latest contribution to their particular brand of refined media navel gazing.

Zalaznick's strategy is to stay within Trio's modest budget by conconcentrating on its special programming, which is essentially, orignial narration by media insiders on some of the greatest moments in television. Not a bad idea; and not expensive.

This particular show -- focusing on awards -- is narrated, with wonderful ironic effect, by the delicious, if slightly bitter, Tatum O'Neill, Oscar's youngest-ever winner in a competitive category. As a child star who was discarded by Hollywood as past expiration, Tatum is the one to discuss awards.

O'Neill developed an ulcer at 7, when her parents divorced; chased in vain after alleged pedophile Michael Jackson; married and divorced tennis star John McEnroe. So you know she has got the world weary voice and battle scars that are needed to delve into this world of glitz and glamour and profit and perfect gaudiness; Tatum is particularly compelling as an analyst of America's fascination with awards shows.

Frasier Morre at the AP writes:

"In 1974 (O/Neill) walked the red carpet as a 10-year-old Oscar nominee for best supporting actress in her first film, Paper Moon.

"She even practiced weeks beforehand with her father and Paper Moon co-star, Ryan (O'Neill).

"'He wanted me to rehearse,' she recalled in a recent chat with a reporter. 'I remember him dressing me up and letting me wear platforms, which I always wanted to wear, and we pretended to walk down a red carpet.'

"But on that April 2, when she became Oscar's youngest-ever winner in a competitive category, neither parent was present. Her grandparents brought her.

"'For years I didn't think about it,' said O'Neal, 40. 'Now, today, it makes me sad.

"'Winning was a great honor,' she added. 'But the truth is, I had no idea what Oscar meant. I just knew there was a lot of people and it was gonna be a long time that I was sitting in that seat.'"

Trio is so definitely in the cut; Laura Zalaznick still feels the Boomer idealism.

Whatever Happened to the A List?

Entertainment reporters, tabloids, shock jocks and bloggers have all waited paitiently for Tom Cruise's calculated star to fall from its celestial heights, and now that it has, it is kind of anticlimatic.

Thus far reviewers have not been kind to Tom Cruise's new flic The Last Samaurai. And, as the weekend progresses, the critics are piling on. Cruise is one of the last of a dying breed, namely: A List celebrities.

Once our solar system was filled with such stars, now no longer. Once we had Madonna, Oprah, Britney Spears, Bennifer, Michael Jordan, Jack Nicholson, Justin Timberlake, Christina Aguilera and Brad Pitt.

Each one of these stars has taken a beating in the past year. Jordan is a serial adulterer, grungy Fred Durst had sex with pristine Britney Spears, Jonathan Franzen bitchslapped the inscrutable Oprah, Madonna's Marxist British film with her husband was such a flop it wasn't even released in the UK, Bennifer Flopped, Aguilera's second studio album, 2002's Stripped was a commercial flop, Brad Pitt went into haitus to do his Troy film, and even Jack Nicholson isn't quite so nimble anymore, as he settles down, away from the camera flashbulbs with his new sweetie, Diane Keaton, finally accepting his late middle age in interviews.

If you were to ask me -- today, December 6, 2003 -- who are the A List stars are, the people who make everyone stand at attention, especially the gossipers and East Coast media types, I would say, of the top of my head, Al Sharpton (the B Lister of the Democratic Party), Paris Hilton, maybe Halle Barre, Michael Jackson.

Basically, B List freaks (sorry, Halle)

So, I guess Radar Magazine's B List nation was about right.

Where are you Maer Roshan, we need your wise magazine to guide us through the upcoming celebrity freakshow.

Al Sharpton on SNL

Oh yes (devilish grin widens, rubs hands together) ... oh yes. The funniest guy at the otherwise regrettable Democratic Party debates is taking his shtick up in Lorne Greene's bitch. The stars are all aligned in forming a cosmic happy face. The wise men are coming from the east bearing gifts of Frankincense and Myrr. It's Christmastime in the city and on Saturday Night, Al Sharpton is going to help us all get our laugh on.

"Paris Hilton," report Rush and Molloy, "who has canceled all interviews, will join guest host the Rev. Al Sharpton and musical guest Pink on Saturday Night Live." All the better.

That's right: Al Sharpton's hosting that countercultural Baby Boomer stronghold Saturday Night Live. The Corsair is salivating at the thought of Harvard Lampoon writers trying to not trip over themselves writing for the Reverend, who needs little help in cracking up an audience.

There are so many ways we can go with this:

11:32: Opening Skit. Flashback: Sharpton debates patrician Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan (played deftly by Darrel Hammond in Harvard tweeds) for Senate in 1994. A rhyming Sharpton engages in "the dozens," while Moynihan, in vain, tries to steer the debate towards his pet sociological issue, namely, "Iatrogenic Government." Hilarity ensues. No--wait -- that wasn't a skit, that might have really happened.

11:40: Al Sharpton medallion skit.
The secret origins of Al's eye-catching medallion. Apparently it has come down from from an ancient African civilization of hustlers running "scampaigns" not to win the Presidency, but to get a tv gig. The medallion imparts the gift of gab. Sho nuff.

11:50: Al Sharpton: The Early Years. Driving around down south doing doughnuts late at night with James Brown in parking lots. Hair coiffing techniques are discussed. That sort of thing.

11:55: Weekend News. Anchors Tina Fey and Jimmy Fallon, telling Sharpton jokes, are interrupted by ... you got it: the Rev! Oh no, they didn't! The Reverend does Soul Weekend News, putting a little salt in the SNL the Harvard-educated writers' game.

12:05: President Al Skit: What would happen if Al Sharpton won the Presidency? Pink Performs "Get The Party Started" at the Inauguration as Al gets his boogie on. Shuttle diplomacy over the East Coast West Coast gang friction. Al brings peace to the Middle East by bringing up his love of James Brown's early music, bringing together Sharon and Arafat in a stunning rendition of "Hot Pants." Al Sharpton marries a gay couple (Maya Rudolph and Rachel Dratch) and brings together both left (Amy Poelher in hippie garb) and right in a sermon (Jimmy Fallon in preacher garb) on that funny thing called love, over some down home southern cuisine.

12:10: Pink performs. Sharpton, drunk on attention, does back up vocals on "Hooker" uninvited. Pink is not impressed.

12:30: Paris Hilton- Al Sharpton tape surfaces, making the rounds at office Christmas parties. On tape Al is shown answering his cell phone and posing lewdly for the camera. Al tries to escape the media spotlight by heading home to Harlem, unfortunately, guys on 116th Street accost Sharpton for "getting with a girl that don't have no ass."

12:45: Reality show. Al Sharpton must spend a month in The Hilton's world, attending premiers, walking past the velvet rope-- scantily clad. Sharpton must hold Hilton's teacup chihuahua Tinkerbell. Moral of the story? In the end, a teary eyed Sharpton confesses that "a kid from the streets ... cannot manage this much papering."

1:00: Signs off reading Twas the Night Before Christmas to Pink and Hilton.


Set your Tivo's on stun.

Dropping the Dime on Reagan

First 50 Cent was being stalked by Vivika Fox, and now Conservatives want to put Ronald Reagan on 10 cents: has everyone lost their senses?

Look, The Corsair tries to be fair here, looking at issues cultural, political and gossipy from all angles, with proportional amounts of snark, but has the Republican Party lost it's fucking marbles? Let's put it all out on the table: They want to replace FDR with Reagan?

A few things:

FDR was the man who, despite polio, assumed the Presidency at the height of the Great Depression, where 13 million were unemployed and nearly every bank was closed. FDR revived America and took it to the status of superpower. FDR presided over ther victorious allies on the right side of the greatest war mankind has ever known, breaking the back, in the process, of the Nazis and Imperial Japan. Now supporters of "The Ronald Reagan Dime Act" want to replace FDR with Reagan. What the fuck?

"I certainly would not look at it in any way as dishonoring FDR. He's also one of my favorite presidents," said Rep. Wally Herger, R-Calif. "He was also interestingly enough a personal hero of President Reagan's, but frankly I feel more connection with Reagan. He's a Californian, also closer to us now in history."

It's good to see that intellectuals like Herger are in our congress, no? I guess Reagan's ass backward "Constructive Engagement" policy with Apartheid's totalitarian South African regime is the stuff of legend ... and dimes.

UPDATE: Nancy Reagan is the voice of reason here. Reagan has asked that FDR not be replaced by her husband.

In a statement, Mrs. Reagan says: "While I can understand the intentions of those seeking to place my husband's face on the dime, I do not support this proposal and I am certain Ronnie would not."

The former first lady goes on to say: "When our country chooses to honor a great president such as Franklin Roosevelt by placing his likeness on our currency, it would be wrong to remove him and
replace him with another. It is my hope that the proposed legislation will be withdrawn."

Thank you, Nancy Reagan.

Page Six Fucks With Lenny Kravitz

The intrepid folks at Page Six are making life hard for rocker Lenny Kravitz to close the deal and marry his galpal, Aussi A-List hottie Nicole Kidman. Real hard. They are really getting in his face on this story, doing somewhat back to back Lenny Watches on Wednesday and Friday.

Page Six says Lenny has told friends that he is using Nicole Kidman to boost his career. Typical playa talk (for further reference see 50 Cent). And now Page Six reports that Lenny was with another stunning woman at Shore Club's Sky Bar:

"'(Kravitz) spent a lot of time with this woman and ended up grinding on the dance floor with her,' said our spywitness. The photos ... show Kravitz eyeing the beauty like a pork chop."

The words "Kravitz" and "pork chop," when placed together in a sentence, do not augur passion, Page Six is always solid on reporting; and, besides, The Corsair likes the Page Sixers better than Lenny anyway.

Hollywood Cheapskates

Hey, don't call them cheap ... call them thrifty. This week's Star Magazine reports on some of the thriftiest Hollywood stars. Despite the millions they make on film and in Japanese commercials, celebrities cannot shake off the american thrift of their unmonied youth:

"When Julia Roberts wed Danny Moder at her ranch in Taos, N.M., in 2002, the Mona Lisa Smile star relied on Wal-Mart and Ace hardware for last-minute decorating supplies, including a $150 wood porch swing and about $200 for additional plants. The food was down-home as well: Hot dogs, burgers, corn on the cob and coleslaw rounded out the menu. Julia's thrifty with her wardrobe. In February, when Julia fell in love with a vintage dress at a second-hand store in Santa Fe, N.M., she bartered her jeans to buy it!"

Can you imagine her pal Denzel Washington noshing on coleslaw? Me neither; by the way what is noshing anyway?

Nick Cage Almost Remarries Lisa Marie

Although there were some hints of a budding psychosis in Peggy Sue Got Married, it wasn't a true car wreck in slow motion until David Lynch's creepy artsy Americana horror flic Wild At Heart, where Nic Cage showed us, in full glory, his unhealthy obsession with Elvis. Nic Cage's didn't just play characters that bore a striking resemblence to Elvis Presley, Nico wanted to be Elvis Presley.

It was not until Cage married Elvis' crown jewel Lisa Marie Presley that his ambition-compulsion was fully satisfied. And with the dissolution of their Hollywood marriage, things seemed to have gone back to normal for both.

The National Enquirer reports that Nic Cage came thisclose to remarrying his sleepy eyed hottie ex-wife Presley. But then they remembered why they broke up in the first place, according to the Enquirer.

Michelle Caruso writes that in between bouts of incredibly hot sex, the two fought like cats and dogs:

"As The ENQUIRER reported, Lisa Marie has been suffering gastrointestinal problems that are aggravated by the stress of performing. When Nic learned of her anxiety, he dropped by for support.

"'In addition to being enormously sexually attracted to Lisa Marie, Nic has always had a soft spot for her,' says the source."

A "soft spot" is one way to put it; The Corsair sees it more as revisiting a compulsion.

Anyhoo: one thing led to another, and the flames of l'amour were once again crackling.

Alas, it was not to be. Nic likes to party in LA and N'Orleans, the article says. And then there is that longstanding crush on Angelina Jolie, who wore that red dress that "knocked Nic's eyes out of his head," as Caruso writes. (Didn't Jolie steal Billy Bob from Laura Dern?)

The Corsair knows that actors have a fragile sense of self. Actors tend to form very close relationships with the cast of a film, only to blow them off the minute that shooting stops. Such is the plasticity of Hollywood. That having been said, it is pretty creepy that Cage has kept up this Elvis obsession for so many years.

Move on Nicky boy. Elvis was a hero to most, but he was a karate loving, B-Lister druggie who died on the bowl to The Corsair. And while you're at it, Nocko, get rid of that comic book collection.

Vivica Fox Won't Leave 50 Cent Alone!

According to the National Enquirer, Vivika Fox will not leave bullet riddled hip hop star 50 Cent alone.

"She has called, and called, and called � trying unsuccessfully to get him on the phone so he could explain to her what happened," revealed a friend of the actress in the Enquirer.

Apparently the man named after the price of Olestra filled potato chips (elegant, no?) feels that Fox is too posessive.

Odd, though, considering that in recent interviews --where he has gone into specific sexual positions they engaged in -- he blames the break up on the premise that Fox used him to promote her hit film, Kill Bill.

Ah, well, The Corsair could have told you that a relationship between the upwardly mobile actress, Fox, and the criminally minded bullet dodger was not meant to last. Chateau D'yquem does not mix with St.Ides.

Vagina Monologue

Showing off our classical liberal arts education, this particular monologue comes from Machiavelli's Discorsi Sopra la Prima Deca Di Tiudo Livio, III, 6: it concerns Caterina Sforza Riario, a great beauty of her day and a woman Machiavelli thought of fondly, "(Some conspirators) killed Count Giordano, their lord, and took his wife and small children. Since they did not see how they could be secure if they did not become masters of the fortress, and the castellan were not willing to cede it to them, Madonna Caterina (so the Countess was called) promised the conspirators that if they let her enter it, she would deliver it over to them and they could keep the children with them as hostages. With this pledge they let her enter. As soon as she was within, she stood on the walls and berated them for the death of her husband and threatened them with every kind of revenge. And to show that she did not worry about her children, she showed them her genitals, saying she still had the means to make more of them."

Say what you will about his politics, but Machiavelli knows how to tell a story, dammit.

Udon Noodles Made Her Bloated

TV Guide reports that It Girl and all-but-certain Best Supporting Actress for 2004, Scarlet Johansson did something deeply naughty with director Sophia Coppolla and The Corsair, your humble scribe, wishes to God he was in the room when that shit went down! Apparently there is some interesting backstory (excuse the pun) behind (again, sorry) that, um, erotic opening scene in Lost In Translation.

TV Guide's Angel Cohn writes:

"The shy thesp admits director Sofia Coppola had some convincing to do on the day they shot that one: I said, 'Sofia, I don't want to wear sheer underwear because I've just been eating a lot of [Japanese udon noodles], and I'm bloated. I just don't want to do it. Can't we just use regular underwear with my ass crack [showing]?'"

"In response, Coppola assuaged Johansson's fears about the panties by modeling them for her! 'Sofia's got such a nice figure,' Johansson says. I thought, 'Wow, if my ass is going to look like that in those underwear, get them on me.'"

And in similar but less porny news, Jeanette Walls reports that Barbara Walters admits to checking out naked women. �I like to look,� the newswoman said while discussing what she does when around nude ladies in a hot tub on The View. �They�ve got beautiful bodies.�

I always said Barbara Walters was one of the guys.

Musical Chairs at Conde Nast Bash

Ah, the holidays are here again, and that means missletoe, the ambient tones of Manheim Steamroller, pine needles, that silly woman who invariably gets carried home through the chilly streets of New York by her patient chums because she drank too much egg nog at the company party, and, of course, the Conde Nast Four Seasons editor and pubisher bash. Imagine the collective egos assembled in that one room; all that hot air in a single location.

Accompany me through this gallery of 'what fools these mortals be.' Why, look over there, it's Graydon Carter and his boy wonder, James Truman lighting up -- oh, those scamps-- tobacco products--indoors! And in direct defiance of Mayor Bloomberg's anti-smoking ban. That contrarian Canadian libertarian is just being rowdy!

Oh, and there's Lucky Editor in Chief Kim France who, like Christ's neighbor, the crucified robber who repented at the last minute, now sits on Si Newhouse's left hand, at the power table.

Metaphors of paradise ring true here and not politically incorrect, by the way, as Conde Nast is the Nirvanna of glossies.

Just as Dante Aligheri places the true Paradiso in the Empyrean, situated outside the universe, and therefore outside space and time, those outer tables, far away from the Mystic Rose, that celestial choir that is Si Newhouse, are less appealing, less -- shall we say -- "holy."

And would it be a far stretch of the imagination to envision the editors at Conde Nast dressed in ermine?

Why, Teen Vogue Editor-in-Chief Amy Astley is seated so close to Si that she can just ... just dip her head, slightly and gently brush her rose lips against his signet ring.

Not since the Court of the Sun King has anyone assembled such a crowd of nonpareil beauty and excellence.

That image I have conjured of Amy Astley is so beautiful ... so sublime, I believe that I shall now weep.


"The seating arrangement means everything - and nothing," says Maurie Perl, the vice president of communications told Keith Kelly of the Post, who sat at none-too-elite Table 8. "The important thing is that you're in the room."

Sure, Maurie, whatever you say.

Thank you Conde Nast, thank you for trapping beauty timeless in your glossy and quite fragrant pages, thanks to you editors great and small, who give me such material and vanity to work on.

Vanity Fair's Plame Game

The most famous spy in the world, Valerie Plame, shows up in, of all places, jet set bible and doctor's office staple, Vanity Fair.

When she's not hobnobbing with Ben Bradlee and Sally Quinn, our "Jane Doe" is speaking with Vanity Fair writer Vicky Ward .

The slim, sharp white-blond Jaguar driving fortysomething "secret agent" must have cut quite a figure in Niger. Like nobody would ever peg her as a spy: ancient Chinese secret, huh?

But Valerie is a tasty dish in an older woman kind of way. She is indeed our favorite "yellow cake" ... our favorite ... cheesecake! Ha ha! We couldn't resist the urge.

Note to the CIA: People who look like they have just walked out of the pages of Lisa Birnbach's Official Preppy Handbook stick out like a sore thumb doing cloak and dagger wqrk in Third World Countries. At the Ugandan embassy, where I spent much of my childhood, we had a whole species of jokes about how conspicuous CIA agents were in Kampala.

I must now relate some words by R Kelly: Hey, Valerie, keep it on the down low ... aint nobody has to know.

Consentual Cannibalism

Can a consenting adult give another consenting adult the permission to eat his liver with some fava beans?

In what has got to be the freakiest story of all time, one Armin Meiwes, a German (can you say the byproduct of repression, people?) has confessed to killing someone who he met through the Personals. In the ad, Meiwes wrote looking for someone to meet and eat. Yuuuck!

How does Graydon Cater's libertarianism weigh on this one?

Diana Vreeland Loved Soul Train

Which high powered Conde Nast editor wrote this?

"I earned my Masters degree in French literature in the Spring of 1972. My topic was the pivotal role played by all the fabulous, exotic North African women in the world of poet Charles Baudelaire and painter Eugene Delacroix. My thesis was based on the whole sense of importance of Africa to the conception of Orientalism as it influenced art and literature in Nineteenth Century France, a topic in which I have a keen interest. Delacroix's Les Femmes d'Algiers featured prominently, as did Flaubert's Salambo. I truly loved writing my Master's thesis, and although I still yearned for the world of fashion, I moved on to pursuing my doctorate without hesistation."

Can you guess who wrote this?

One more clue:

"You see (Diana) Vreeland loved black culture. She loved the Saturday Morning Dance Show Soul Train; my grandmother cared nothing for it ... she went hog wild over every manifestation of black style. It all began, I think, with Josephine Baker, who truly was one of the most stylish women to ever walk this planet. Mrs. Vreeland loved to tell the story of watching a movie one night in the balcony of a Paris cinema back in the 30s. She had her elbows on the armrests and was intently watching this film, when all of a sudden, one of the armrests moved. She turned to see what was going on and found out that she had been resting her elbow not on the arm of a seat, but on the head of Josephine Baker's pet cheetah, and that both the magnificent cat and its magnificent owner were now getting up to leave. Mrs. Vreeland watched speechlessly as the cheetah padded in a stately fashion up the aisle of the theater, Josephine Baker walking regally behind, wearing a daring, bias-cut Vionnet dress with no underwear on underneath."

If you guessed that this is the wonderful Andre Leon Talley's ALT, then give yourself a pat on the back. Basta!

Mia's Mission

George Jacobs, Mr. Sinatra's manservant, recently came out with a tell all bio called Mr. S that is fascinating. Aside from noting that Ava Gardner told him she was part African American, Jacobs spills the beans on the Machiavellian Mia Farrow. He writes:

"Motherhood was, only after stardom, the most powerful imperative for her. At times, she'd sit with me and go down her list of all the great and famous men she wanted to have children with after Frank. She knew the relationship would end sometime, but she assumed it would be at her time, and only after she had created one of what would be her master race of offspring. She was talking some major names, on her wish list. Leonard Bernstein, who was gay, Picasso, who was almost dead, J.D. Salinger, who had disappeared, and Bob Dylan, who was badly disabled from his motorcycle accident, and was underground. The girl thought big. She was that focused ..."

The Charlie Rose Drinking Game

The art of the interview is to draw out the subject while the interviewer recedes into the background. Although Charlie Rose delivers the goods on any given weekday, he uses the first person singular personal pronoun often. Excedingly often. Okay: all the damned time. Charlie, thank you for giving us those great interviews with Will Ferrell and Luca Cordero di Montezemolo, but honestly: It's not all about you. All those I's and me's Charlie; it's not all about you.

So, in the spirit of Charlie Rose's energetic use of the first person singular personal pronoun, The Corsair proposes The Charlie Rose Drinking Game. It's late at night, it was a hard day at work, you are about to go to bed and Charlie is interviewing some Master of the Universe -- so why not have a drinkie poo on everyones favorite social climber- cum-interviewer? Every time Charlie uses the first person singular personal pronoun, down a shot.

And don't use any of the cheap stuff, ladies and gentlemen, this is Charlie Rose we're talking about, and that whole "corridors of power Illuminati Trilateral Commission" power nexus. One doesn't just down muscatel with Charlie Rose; you better recognize.

If you are still conscious after the drinking game, then you are a candidate for the Jared Paul Stern Ironman Drinkie-poo competition.

We Love You, Shiela

My buddy, the very cool Ivy Supersonic informs me that Sheila Horne Brody, aka Amuka, is leaving as the lead female vocalist for George Clinton and the P-Funk Allstars to tour for her Billboard Top Ten Hit Appreciate Me, which is a must have. The Corsair wishes Amuka all the luck in the world, not that she will need it.

Jacko May Give Up His Kids

The Star Magazine reprorts that Michael Jackson is considering giving up his kids to his own mother or, possibly, Debbie Rowe, who enlarged the possibilities of a turkey baster from that of being merely a holiday accoutrement.

"The children are with Michael right now -- there no reason why they shouldn't be," Michael Sands, a Jackson family spokesman told Star. "He's their father. If circumstances change, though, they will go to Michael's mother, Katherine, or to their mother, Debbie Rowe, until this whole business is over."

And as if this is not bad enough, Fox's Roger Friedman reports that Jacko's current manager, Dieter Weisner, the man who helped hired his pit bull lawyer Mark Geragos, operates legal sex clubs and brothels in his native Germany.

Resign Eisner ... Resign

Michael Eisner will eventually resign for his pathetic management of Disney, his stupid purchase of ABC, those idiotic themeparks, EuroDisney and other mega-blunders of this public company, but it will not be pretty because Eisner is an adolescent asshole, after the Hollywood ego-driven manner. Shareholders should demand it. I want to see Eisner crying like a bitch being escorted from the premesis, like Jim Bakker was years ago before he complained of aliens.

The following is a blog I wrote on November 19th that is even more valid now that Roy Disney has resigned and called for Eisner to step down:

Wasn't November supposed to be the month that Eisner either showed some miraculous growth numbers for Disney or he was to be shown the door? Sheesh. Will someone fire Michael Eisner already!

We all know that he is antagonizing Steve Jobs and the guys at Pixar who are singlehandedly saving Disney's bacon.

Michael Wolff made an interesting comment on Eisner a while ago in his column in New York.

Eisner has made himself indispensible at Disney. He has a large amount of shares and, like an African dictator, he has (consciously) never groomed a succesor. So it would be hard to fire Eisner without greatly affecting the already bad stock price.

Sad that a public company has to be held hostage to the Hollywood tactics of a real punk like Michael Eisner. Will the Board of Directors react? only time will tell.

Being Fisher Stevens

Imagine that you are Fisher Stevens. That would mean that you are an accomplished stage actor who is respected by his peers. You are popular with all the right people. You were executive producer of the critically acclaimed "In The Bedroom." But no matter what you do, how many awards you win, every mention of you in the gossip pages involves the fact that you are a former paramour of Michelle Pfeiffer.

The Corsair is a modern man, and there is no shame in the game of being called Mr. Celebrity Ex Diva, but, man to man, that has got to hurt you in the solar plexus. You know, all dark night of the soul, alone in your bedroom contemplating -- that sort of shit. Fisher Stevens is accomplished. If he were a better looking man (who are we kidding, if he were a good looking man), Stevens would have been thrust into the floddlights of Tinseltown. Alas, that was not the case; and so he is, for all intensive purposes, in every gossip column, for the duration of his time on this planet, "the guy who dated Michelle Pfeiffer."

Life, John Kennedy once said, is not fair.

Fuck Joan Rivers

No, don't fuck her literally, as with all that plastic surgery, such an operation may be on the impossible side. Besides, any chance of finding a supple piece of flesh on Old Phoney Joaney is highly unlikely. I'm being figurative here. I mean, who does Joan Rivers think she is anyway? Her fifteen minutes ended the instant she rat fucked Johnny Carson with that low grade piece of ass late night comedy show on the Fox network all those many moons ago. But nooo, never ever count on Joan Rivers to make an elegant or timely exit.

Instead, Joan Rivers, like the proverbial guest who will not take the hint that the party is indeed over, has extended her stay on the national landscape, taxing all of our patience, and generally fucking up our good time as media voyeurs. Insinuating herself on to the red carpet with that bitter, venomous mouth that we all know and hate, Joan Rivers gets to stand in between legitimate celebrities and their entrance to the Oscars and, of late, the Golden Globes as well. With her talentless "offspring," . With her talentless daughter, Melissa in tow, Joan aggressively barrs celebrities from making an entrance unaccosted to an event that they have indeed been invited to.

The Corsair has a feeling that celebrities are too affraid to be mean to Joan because they fear the opprobrium of the E! Network or, even worse, a cutting remark on their perfect night. Remember Lynn Redgrave, nerves on end after allegations of her husband's affair, hoping to win Best Supporting Oscar, in abject horror as Joan asked her who she was "wearing."

Publicists can get panicky as well; celebrities with jitters as to whether or not they will get an award are naturally vulnerable. And, like the puff adder that she is, Joan Rivers has anticipated that vulnerability and preys on it, plays it like a Stradivarius. Rivers plays on the fear to judge these stars on their sufaces -- their looks and their fashion. Imagine the shame of an elderly woman so shallow as to judge celebrities on their surfaces. But then, Old Lady Rivers seems immune to shame.

Everyone: celebrities and journos and viewers alike are waiting -- with baited breath -- for someone, anyone to deliver a much needed bitchslap to Madame Joan Rivers' surgically stretched cheek.

Retire, Joan ... retire!

An Interview With Senator John Kerry's Hair
By: Ron Mwangaguhunga

After several frustrated attempts, we were finally granted this important historical moment. So, without further ado, we proudly present for the first time: a
print interview with Senator John Kerry's hair.

Interviewer: Charmed, I'm sure; why now?

John Kerry's Hair (hereafter JKH): I will concede that I have been reluctant in the past, but setting the record straight is important to me.

Interviewer: That, and the upcoming Democratic Party primaries. Would you care to take the opportunity to sum up your opposition?

JKH: Rather than disparage the talent in the room, I'd like to state categorically that I am the best head of hair among the Democratic Presidential candidates.

Interviewer: That is a bold statement.

JKH: Bold times call for bold statements, my good man.

Interviewer: Well, there is no denying that you are a striking coif.

JKH: Even by the considerable standards of Massachusetts, which were instituted by the Kennedy family. I am the measure of all things hair.

Interviewer: What aboutJohn Edwards? He has impressive hair, no?

JKH: (averted gaze) Well, if you go in for that sort of thing.

Interviewer: What is this that we are hearing about Dick Gephardt dying his eyebrows?

JKH: One hears rumors to that effect. (Unnerved) Look,
what about me?

Interviewer: Sorry. So, tell us: what are your secrets to looking good. (confidentially) Is it Washingtonian power hairstylist Christophe?

JKH: Please. Christophe is so over.

Interviewer: So tell us.

JKH: You're going to laugh.

Interviewer: No, that would be unprofessional. Trust me, I won't laugh. What is your secret for looking so good?

JKH: Heinz Dark Brown Mustard

Interviewer: Oh dear.

JKH: Smeared liberally overnight, it works wonders. Also, I like to tell my constituents in Massachusetts that said mustard is just grand for use in grilled crab po' boys.

Interviewer: I'm sure it is.

JKH: So you see there are many political advantages to my wife, Theresa Heinz.

Interviewer: Yes, I was meaning to get to that.

JKH: I really am not at liberty to discuss her.

Interviewer: (crestfallen) Well, okay, how about the President�s economic stimulus plan?

JKH: Can't talk about that either, old boy. I'll leave the meditations on the merits of the President's plan to help Americans earn ends meet to the Senator. My primary concern, rather, is the avoidance of split ends.

Interviewer: Very well. Let's try something innocuous. What color are you?

JKH: That�s not a political minefield. I am chestnut with a liberal sprinkling of dusted gray.

Interviewer: Liberal, you say?

JKH: A poor choice of words, in retrospect. Let's just say I am a well textured mop of dusted-grey hair.

Interviewer: Are you worried about going completely gray?

JKH: Pardon?

Interviewer: It's a well known fact that the rigors and the burdens of the office of the Presidency turn their resident gray within the first year. That's a fact: look at Bush and Clinton and, as we speak, George W. Are you saying that you are not aware of
this fact?

JKH: (hesitant) I am not unaware ...

Interviewer: Well then what is your position on going prematurely gray?

JKH: Ah, hair today, gone tomorrow?

Interviewer: If you say so. Now ...

JKH: You say that this going gray is an established fact.

Interviewer: Of course.

JKH: Right. Well, I'm going to have to close the lid on things.

Interviewer: -- But.

JKH: So good of you to drop by, but I have things to discuss with the Senator.

Interviewer: Oh well. Good luck in the primaries.

The Corsair's Remote Control Tour Diary

There are over 500 cable channels nowadays, so who better to give you a tour of some of the major ones? (This idea is so good my fingers are crossed that no one steals it from me without attribution; unfortunately, most bloggers have sticky fingers)

Anyhoo: 500 channels means "niche marketing." And with all those niches, things can get confusing as to what is being marketed. So, The Corsair will help the viewer through the wonderful world of cable with these pithy explanations, In Media Res:

TNT: Lousy with Middle aged Testosterone. A musky-smelling channel. Bruce Willis and Steven Seagal action flics and basketball. Big in New Jersey.

CNN: Used to be a channel for Kings and Queens and heads of state, but of late it is the channel for cranky retired people with an angry opinion on everything political ("Those libs are holding up Medicaid!"). Poor CNN: They used to wine and dine with kings and queens, but now they are laying in the gutter eating pork and beans.

Lifetime: A channel earnestly devoted to the smouldering resentments of Midwestern housewives. Husbands are to blame in most of these story lines. Anger is the predominant emotion. Hollywood has not been kind to Nancy McKeon. Hell hath no fury like Joanna Kearns scorned!

Family Channel: The channel devoted to Christians in a nuclear family with a conviction that human history has a purpose beyond this world. Halleleuia. Lots of Mary Kate and Ashley films, which, ironically, attract a very different sort of crowd than the ones that these cats are aiming after.

CNBC: This channel serves as "White Noise" for the various strip joints in the Wall Street and financial district vicinity. As your Bud Fox-like trader with a "Lawng Island" accent sips a Stoli on the rocks on his lunchbreak, sniffing his "Bolivian white Powder" ("Vitamin C"), getting a "friction dance" from his favorite "dancer," he can look over her shoulder, casually, and catch a brief glance at just how the markets are doing, and get a gauge on when he should return to the office.

A&E: An elderly folks network with lots of Murder, She Wrote, and "original" films like "Horatio Hornblower," for viewers who can remember their glorious years of service in the British Imperial navy policing those hectic colonial ports.

History: This is the Hitler and Outlaw Biker channel. At any time of the day, there is a hilbilly bar with serious discussions going on as to Hitler's "tactical blunders" and what they would have done "different," with this channel serving as the background noise.

Discovery: This is the older, skeevier companion network to the already low rent History Channel, which means that it attracts a comparatively downscale sort of viewer than one would expect at History, which is not saying much at all. Seriously, though, This is the straight up serial killers network. No joking, yo. Somewhere in the Yosemite Valley there is a man, in a dungeon, sweating profusely, wearing clown makeup and laughing at the moon. He is surrounded by dog collars and he is described by co workers at the post office as "a solitary man."

Guess which channel this guy is watching to drown out the screams. That's right (sotto voce) Discovery. Homeland security must needs to monitor anyone who watches more than 3 hours a day of this shit.

VH1: Perhaps the coolest channel on basic cable or otherwise, my little pomegranates! Suffused with irony, snark and nostalgia, this channel supplies the basic components of the Gen X diet. Michael Hirschorn is our god; we are not worthy.

MTV: No longer cool: a little resentful of the joie de vivre its older, more successful brother, VH1. It will never be the 80s again and the blush has wore off that ordinary looking frat boy Carson Daly. No one over 16 should be watching this channel, even for the misguided purpose of irony.

E!: Creepy celebrity stalking and gossip. Everyone on this channel reeks of thwarted Hollywood ambitions and plastic surgery gone awry. This channel hasn't had a hit since Gregg Kinnear was up in this bitch, and Jules Asner snatched Steven Soderberg, using the Asner name (she divorced Ed Asner's son years ago).

ESPN: This is reality tv for the Maxim set. Faint but palpable homoerotic subtext via "hero worship" of alpha males, like, say, Shaq or Sprewell (but viewers call him Spree, cause, like, they know him personally in a Calvin Klein kind of way), although your average Joe Fratboy will never acknowledge that distrubing little truth.

Bravo: For the affluent gay man. Cultural programming(National Dog Show, Cirque du Soleil, Inside the Actors Studio) and Queer Eye For the Straight Guy rebroadcasts. If you go in for the National Dog Show, collect Lalique crystal ("Steuben Glass is for amateurs"), or the like, then this is your network.

BET: A seriously embarassing network marketed to the seedy stereotype of the urban underclass. Ghetto comedy skits told in unremarkable english with frequent reference to bodily functions; charmed, I'm sure. Snakeoil selling televangelists prevail over the airwaves on Sundays. And C-List Blaxploitations flix fill out the rest of any regrettable week spent watching this schedule. Can you fucking believe that Viacom paid three billion dollars for this channel?

Sci Fi: The repressed sexuality channel. Their niche is the grown man who has a crush on the X Man, Storm and dreams in full-on video games. Somehow the unresolved "sexual energy" gets worked out into a reverence for the "paranormal." B List hot chicks like Shannen Doherty and Tracy Lords end up here after Hollywood is through with them.

Fox: If you go in for Karl Rove's talking points, this is the channel for you. The Corsair has to admit that he watched it during the Second Gulf War. Fox routinely scooped the other networks because it sometimes seemed that Rummy gave them the inside scoop. For a "family values network," the women broadcasters have an oddly pornographic patina about them. Hmmm.

Showtime: Tries earnestly to out-extreme the original programming at HBO, who got there first. Dreams of getting recognized at events like the Golden Globes; not likely, however. This is the place to try to pitch your indie documentary on transexual underwater basket weavers in Micronesia.

Food: For people who's interest in food has transcended the purely phenomenal eating stage.

TLC: This channel is a bit of a mystery to me. It used to have a niche as a sort of Cliff Clavin channel: you know, for the general interest trivia mind-- programming on the imago stage of child development, poisonous reptiles, the Minoan civilization, Roman mosaics, classical biological warfare, the robber barons, volcanoes, that sort of thing. But now it has a lot of "fixing up the home" programming. Go figure what that means.

AMC: Kind of Cool. Old Hollywood glamour with some original programming and commentary on the Gilded Age of Hollywood. This is like a channel put together by the editors of Variety looking backward. Vanity Fair should do a show here. Old school.

FX: Not worth talking about. Maxim lite. Loads of testosterone.

We: Women's fantasy. Lots of Merchant-Ivory Brit productions of aristocrats who fall in love with common women, who are often middle aged American divorcees. Pure drivel.

C-Span: For the ultra political science geek. Viewers tend to look like Michael Barone, wait anxiously for their New Republic copies to arrive, and chuckle over Senate voting record statistics. Can rattle off the precise wording of the Republican Party platform of 1964.

Oxy: Very "sisterhood" oriented; Oprah and Gerry Laybourne's experiment has recently taken a sort of Sapphic detour of late with regard to their programming.

National Geographic: Interesting and kind of cool. This is a channel about animals and exotic cultures.

IFC: So earnest, so hip, so anti-Hollywood: yet as soon as Dinner for Five's indy star John Favreau gets to do a big shlocky Hollywood film like Elf, he jumps like a Cocker Spaniel being offered a dog yummy. Independent cinema is dead.

TCM: This is a less hip AMC. This is like AMC with a broken hip. Lots of old movies with no irony or relevant commentary.

Ovation: The Corsair has a theory that this is a piece of flotsam adrift on the vast media ocean that is digital television. They repeat the same ten or so programs ad nauseum. Is there anyone employed at Ovation? Did the programmer have a heart attack in the 80s? Did anyone notice? Is anyone watching?

ESPNClassic: Oh, dear lord help us. Old men with beer bellies reliving "classic sports moments." (At this point, Bruce Springsteen's Glory Days should be playing). This is the tv channel Al Bundy would most likely be watching on his day off from the shoe store.

TVLand: Tries to be all retro-ironical, but street cred will not be forthcoming by running repeats of Bewitched and Sanford and Son, alone. Poor saps. The other networks have bought all the good old tv shows, leaving TV Land to contemplate Mayberry.

Animal: Television for committed vegans and PETA members. What kind of ad revenue do these guys generate?

Sundance: An edgy IFC; very left wing political, but pure. Robert Redford's pet liberal project.

Trio: Perhaps the coolest channel of them all. What VH1 viewers will most likely watch once they quit being ironic, get real jobs in the media and participate in the economy. Used to be a Canadian station, believe it or not. Culture and media navel gazing.

NWI: A rap up of all the international anti-American news agencies. Al Gore wants to buy this station and kick things up a notch.

DiscoveryTimes: One of the strangest channels in the world. this is actually the New York Times' channel, but it is devoted to showing America militarized or in crisis, which, all told, are the moments when The Old Grey Lady was at its finest. Lots of Civil rights struggles, war footage, terrorism analysis, and --wierdest of all -- endless looks into our military academies. What the fuck?!

FUSE: MTV's unsuccessful competitor for the extreme generation low attention span kiddie market, which is not saying much.

VH1Classic: Could be interesting, as the X Generation is big on nostalgia, but right now this channel is not happening.

USA: This is the sybil channel. It is high testosterone most of the year, but come holiday time it is all about the holidays... kinda like our dads.

Style: If it is possible this is an even more shallow channel than E! Lots of B-List types talking about the beauty business.

That's all, I hope you liked my thoughts. If you did, bookmark this site.

Cordially,

Ron Mwangaguhunga

Katty Kay

The Corsair is fickle when it comes to his women. Sometimes he likes them dark and brainy, like Gloria Borger. Other times, The Corsair leans towards the leggy look, with the glossed lips, like Fox News bombshell Laurie Duhe. NBC's Campbell Brown seems like a southern sorority gal who likes to have a good time: then there is that story that Virgin CEO Richard Branson hid her shoes so he could take her home. CNN's sexy Suzanne Malveaux is a definite honey. But lately, The Corsair has fallen into the old cliche: the blonde with the British accent. It hurts to have unexceptional tastes, but The Corsair cannot help but gasp at the BBC's Washington Correspondent Katty Kay.

That's all I have to say, nothing snarky nor profound.

Are Rock Stars Pure Energy?

Whenever one reads some rock magazine or other there is inevitably a vague New Agey sort of discussion concerning "energy." One reads things like, "dude, the energy of the show was amazing," or, "you could almost feel the energy coming off of Kid Rock, man." That sort of thing. I find that interesting.

I find it especially interesting because I recently re read Janice Dickinson's No Lifeguard on Duty (BTW: The Corsair is also reading former Senator Gary Hart's The Patriot, if you want to know), where the proto-supermodel describes sex with Mick Jagger:

" The man was indefatigable ... He was pure energy -- kind of spooky, to tell you the truth. I woke up the next morning feeling like I'd been through a war."

That, to me, is interesting in light of all our previous 'discussion' of energy and rock stars. In Bebe Buell's Rebel Heart, she describes meeting him"like lightening had struck." And, "both Steven and I felt a spark, an animal magnetism from the get go, even though -- or perhaps because -- Steven knew I was with Todd(Rundgren)."

But the most interesting entry in the book is a line about her flying in Steven Tyler's private plane:

"Being confined in a tiny area with a person who had the energy of fifty wild ponies was terrifying."

So, Bebe Buell found Steve Tyler's energy "terrifying" and Janice Dickinson found Mick Jagger energy "spooky." Is scary the new black? Bear with me guys, The Corsair has a lot of Aquarius in him and is fascinated by these things.

Howie Kurtz: Jumps the Shark Or, Mr. Kurtz, he Dead

You know how it is with Corsair and Howie. We are tight in that I-watch-you-on-tv-religiously kind of way. And why not? Howie represents that East Coast media elite thing that Corsair is both fascinated and repelled by, in a Lifetime movie of psychotic compulsion sort of way (But not so much Burning Bed as Mother May I Sleep With Danger).

Anyhoo: Just like the heroines of those Lifetime valorizations of victimhood, The Corsair is going to have to cut the cord of an abusive relationship in the end, and ask for that pesky divorce. So I'm going to say it, though it pains me: Howie Kurtz's Reliable Sources has, alas, jumped the shark. I've lost that loving feeling.

Allow me to explain: Old Reliable hasn't been the same since K Street came to Washington and stunk up the joint. Sure, DC has been lousy with special interest money, but journalism was journalism, you know what I mean? We all knew that The Baltimore Sun's Jack Germond could drink the equivalent of the Chesapeake Bay in cognac, but he would always get the scoop and give us a great story and that, in a way, that was how one felt about Beltway DC journalism: flawed, but suffused with yummy nougaty scoop.

That is no longer the case. While Howie Kurtz used to be the bellwether of serious journo talk -- real "1 am on C Span" sort of geeky, but good stuff-- he has increasingly become enamoured with the borish fad of putting Hollywood celebrities on, and them asking dumb, fawning questions. Where's the love, Howie Kurtz; where's the love?

K Street made everyone in our gilded capital think they were movie stars, or at least deserving of the attention of Courtney Love. I have to tell you, though, Howie, Courtney Love doesn't deserve the attention of Courtney Love.

One expected that the demise of that magnum of chloroform, "ombudsman" Bernie Kalb, Reliable Sources was on to bigger and better things.

That was not the case. After Howie Kurtz appeared on K Street in a Starbucks, no less, that was the beginning of the end of that significant and formerly excellent media reporter. Starbucks, indeed!

Soon after Howie put on George Clooney and fawned (dear Lord, how Howie fawned that day) to Rosemary's nephew about being on "Vanity Fair's cover." I guess writing for VF is no longer enough after being on K Street, Howie no longer wants to provide the content, he longs to be the subject. What's next Howie, a publicist and harassing diva-like calls to Page Six? When does it end, Howard Kurtz? How much fame is enough? Mus we endure a Mahogany-like ending to this tragic tale before he, like Diana Ross, another diva of sorts, goes back to his long suffering Billy Dee Williams (the excellent Washington Post) and be satisfied that his lot in life is to give life and conversation to the media class?

But the last straw came last week when The Corsair sat by the tv set, coiled, ready-for-media-chat, Sunday New York Times messily undone at his feet, Kenyan coffee at the ready, waiting for Howie to start the media conversation of the week. The guest of honor? Darrel Hammond, the Saturday Night Live impersonator.

Oh, Howie.

So You Want To Be A British Aristocrat?

Mohammed Al-Fayed, the international sleazeball and megalomaniac, is making a bid for the Daily and Sunday Telegraph newspapers in Britain, continuing a never ending quest to become "down" with the thoroughly bigoted British Upper Class system.

Hey Mohammed: When was the last time you saw a dusky member of British Commonwealth contributors in the House of Lords? Are there any Kenyan or Trinidadian Earls? Dukes? Meriticracy be damned in Britain, says The Corsair.

In this quixotic endeavor, Al Fayed has left no stone unturned. From across the pond, as a Ugandan born former colonial of England, the travails of the Egyptian-born Al Fayed strike The Corsair as somewhat sad, almost touching. Eminent sociologist VF Calverton called what Al Fayed is going through as a "colonial complex," like Madonna adopting a British accent as a sign of having reached the "upper strata of existence." The BBC profile of him strikes the right tone:

"Why won't they give me a passport? I own Harrods and employ thousands of people in this country.

"Mohamed al-Fayed
Ever since he arrived in the UK in the early 1970s, Mr al-Fayed has barely concealed his desire to be accepted into the establishment of his adopted country.
It is an ambition that has seen him donate millions of pounds to British charities and assume control of Harrods, the London department store which was once a by-word for Britishness itself.

"(Fayed) has resurrected the satirical magazine Punch and also moved into the mainstream British pursuit of football, buying Fulham FC, and earlier this year offered up the club's manager Kevin Keegan when the English national team was managerless.

"Yet, like an over-zealous schoolboy desperate to muscle into a select gang, it seems the harder Mr al-Fayed has tried for acceptance, the more he is brushed off. "

Brushed off is the key here. The British aristocracy, like a job at Ambercrombie and Fitch is a white only affair. We have better chance of seeing an African American in the US Senate withing the next election cycle than seeing Al Fayed accepted in with the swells.

A note to Al Fayed: Getting a lordship and sitting in the House of Lords might be easier if you didn't accuse the Royal family of killing your son and Princess Diana. Just a friendly tip from The Corsair.