Celebutards (6 page)

B
EAT POET
A
LLEN
G
INSBERG
wrote in
Howl
—“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked…”

With apologies to Mr. Ginsberg, I amend that sentiment:

“I saw the feeblest minds of my generation destroyed by drugs, anonymous sex, illiteracy. Bingeing, puking hysterical dead.”

It’s been said that a nation gets the government it deserves. The same can be said about celebutards. Still, a mystery that sometimes keeps me awake at night, at least until the Ambien kicks in, is this: What awful crime must the people of the United States have committed to ensure that, several years into the millennium, the three most famous people in this country, if not on the entire planet, are named Britney, Lindsay, and Paris?

We may never know what we did to deserve them, but stuck with them we are. As long as a girl child bares her navel or bears neglected children to emulate Britney Spears, we must pay attention. As long as a youngster enters rehab before reaching the age of twenty-one, à la Lindsay Lohan, we can’t forget. And so long as a child exhibits no ambition other than to be ushered in to the VIP section of the hottest nightclub, or perhaps receive infection from genital herpes, as Paris Hilton, we don’t dare look away.

In November 2006, the world as we know it ended. That was the night the three bimbos of the apocalypse joined forces. Paris, Britney, and Lindsay hit the scene in Los Angeles, clubbing all night in a fury of estrogen and anti-inflammatory drugs, a scene summed up by a memorable
New York Post
headline, “Bimbo Summit.”

Britney, sans underwear, was photographed, repeatedly, in all her post-partum delicacy, her inflamed C-section scar clearly visible under a skirt so short, she shouldn’t have bothered. Soon, her antics would rival her more experienced rivals’ for sheer insanity.

In the coming months, these women, in turn, would get their mug shots taken (Paris, Lindsay), two would flirt with rehab (Britney, Lindsay), and one would see her children taken from her incompetent clutches (Britney).

All three would claim, at one time or another, to have gone straight. They would be less than convincing.

PARIS

Paris Whitney Hilton was born in New York City on February 17, 1981, an heiress to the Hilton hotel fortune. Her acting credits include co-starring with fellow celebrity slug Nicole Richie on a reality show,
The Simple Life
, depicting a spoiled, skinny starlet who wreaks havoc across America, as she talks sexually to impressionable children, and screws up every job she tries. That is, she was typecast as herself.

She told Britain’s
Sunday Times
in 2006, “I think every decade has an iconic blonde—like Marilyn Monroe or Princess Diana—and right now, I’m that icon.”

The idea of holding up a single female to represent a generation is as old as celebrity itself. Each age honors women who were usually blond and more than likely dumb. In the ’50s and ’60s it was Paris’s idol, Marilyn Monroe. In the ’90s, it was Princess Diana. But Paris is no Marilyn or Diana. She’s not even a convincing impersonator.

While Monroe demonstrated genuine acting talent, Paris has displayed ability only for being pampered, petulant, and engaging in strenuous sexual intercourse on a much-downloaded video that shows Paris performing the nasty with a fellow named Rick Salomon. And while Diana expertly manipulated the media—no mean feat when you’re locked up, miserable, in a dank palace—the only shackles Paris ever wore were those she slipped into on her own, kinky accord.

Of course, the irony is that in the fearful downgrading of celebrity that is honored today, the Paris Hilton sex tape was enough. It turned our useless heiress into an international sensation.

Paris has never earned a seat at the banquet table occupied by the late, great blondes, Marilyn and Diana. It is testament to her idiocy that she doesn’t know the difference. It is testament to society’s collective lunacy that Paris is so famous.

I have proof. One day in early 2007, I decided to make a terribly unscientific survey of the relative fame of Paris Hilton. To do this, I took full-color photographs of two celebrated women—Paris Hilton and Associate Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg—into the Bed, Bath & Beyond store on Sixth Avenue in Manhattan. Full disclosure: I needed to buy towels.

It came with great disappointment, and virtually no surprise, that almost everyone recognized Paris—with the exception of two Hasidic women, who looked scared when I approached with my pictures in hand. Practically every New Yorker in my random survey came up not only with Paris Hilton’s first and last names, but they knew that she lived in California, and that she was known mainly for going to parties, and lived on Mommy and Daddy’s money, a factoid Paris vehemently denies.

“She doesn’t do anything except go to clubs and hang out,” said Tara Serrano, age seventeen.

“She seems like she had too much given to her in life,” said Regina Pegg, age thirty-four.

But only one man in all of Manhattan, store manager Keith Goldberg, was able to pick Ruth out of a lineup.

In coming months, Paris would get even more famous, although it probably was not what she had in mind.

In January 2007, Paris’s personal stuff—diaries and notes, naked photos, even a prescription for the herpes medication, Valtrex—was purchased at auction for a measly $2,775, after Paris failed to pay a $208 storage bill. “I love shoes,” read one vapid note in the heiress’s hand. Another talked of performing oral sex with her former fiance, Jason Shaw. She is heard wielding ethnic slurs, including the so-called “N” word, in footage included among the collection, whose contents were viewed, like an electronic peep show, on the Internet.

But even that seeming lapse in dignity would be eclipsed in May 2007. That day, a Los Angeles judge made history. He sentenced Paris to forty-five days in jail.

The sentence was for a traffic stop the previous September, in which she’d failed a sobriety test. The next January, she pleaded no contest to a charge of reckless driving. Displaying either a complete lack of regard to the rule of law, or proof that she did not possess two brain cells to rub together, she was subsequently stopped behind the wheel—twice—while her license was suspended. The first time, cops had Paris sign a document acknowledging she was prohibited from operating a motor car. The second time she was picked up, she had her lights off. The smoking document was in her glove compartment.

Her excuse? She said she never read it. She hired people to read for her. She blamed her publicist, Elliot Mintz, for telling her it was okay to drive. She blamed her pathetic excuse for a dog, nitwit Chihuahua Tinkerbell. Everyone was to blame, except herself.

To the thrill of much of America, and certainly its motorists and vulnerable pedestrians, Judge Michael T. Sauer was to make an example, and prove that, in his court, even in the notoriously fame-friendly state of California, a celebrity might be treated like anyone else. Paris’s sentence was already reduced on Day One to twenty-three days. This was still too harsh for Paris’s well-heeled parents, Kathy and Rick Hilton.

Paris’s mom taunted the judge on sentencing day, “May I have your autograph?” And when she approached the bench, Kathy was blocked by a court officer. “You touched my breast!” she squealed like a banshee. As if.

In June, Paris was booked into the Century Regional Detention Center with extreme swiftness, as Paris does not wish to wait in line. There were conflicting reports as to whether she was able to skip the standard body-cavity search, though it was unclear whether this was due to her fame, or to the difficulty of finding someone willing to perform the deed.

But just three days later, Paris was back on the streets. She was freed by Los Angeles County Sheriff Lee Baca, a buddy of celebs such as Mel Gibson, who claimed Paris had to be switched to house arrest because she was suffering an “imminent breakdown.” So much for the rule of law.

Judge Sauer hit the roof.

The judge ordered Paris back into his courtroom immediately. There, he told her she would serve the rest of her sentence, behind bars. No mansion. No parties. No whining. As he did so, Paris wailed, “Mommmmm! It’s not fair!” And back to jail Paris went.

She was released, finally, on June 26, 2007, after serving twenty-two days, including her single day at home. So tell me, Paris, what have you learned?

Paris wore a matronly, lacy top for her coming-out interview with Larry King, where she presented herself as reformed—and a victim. In one breath, she mumbled that her sentence was unfair. In another, she said it was the best thing to ever happen to her. She denied she was an alcoholic. She said she never did drugs. And she vowed to help women in prison in some vague way.

But then Larry King, who seemed to have lost interest in his subject along the way, inadvertently tripped her up. Paris told him she read the Bible non-stop behind bars. So he asked, “What’s your favorite Bible passage?”

Paris looked frightened. She stalled. Then she said, “I don’t have a favorite, but…”

“You read it every day?” Larry asked, incredulously. Paris answered, weakly, “In jail, I read a lot.”

Within a few days she was back on the party circuit.

Maybe she’ll use a driver from now on.

LINDSAY

Born on July 2, 1986, Lindsay Dee Lohan is the baby of this unholy association, though she runs a good race for the title of World’s Most Troubled Starlet.

She was born in the Bronx and raised on Long Island, New York, to mother Dina, who has long claimed to be a former Rockette. But the Rockettes have no record of Dina ever dancing for them, nor do they know a Donata Sullivan, as she was once known. One thing is certain, mom Dina has long competed for her actress daughter’s fame, as was evident in the April 2007 issue of
Harper’s Bazaar
, in which she revealed she sometimes introduces herself as her daughter’s personal assistant. She even lied about her identity to actor George Clooney.

“I don’t want them to know I’m her mom,” she said. “It’s a whole ’nother demographic. People just go dark.”

Her father, Michael, was sentenced to four years in prison for securities fraud in the late 1980s, and spent much of his daughter’s teen years behind bars. He was sent back to prison for nearly two years in 2005 for aggravated unlicensed driving and attempted assault. Given a choice, I guess Michael wins the title of worst role model. Lindsay’s parents are divorced.

Lindsay started acting as a child, and quickly developed into a freckle-faced breath of fresh air, playing wholesome girls with good heads on their shoulders in such films as
Freaky Friday
and
Herbie: Fully Loaded
. The camera did not divulge what lay beneath.

Billionaire and professional celeb pal Brandon Davis gave Lindsay a name that has stuck to her, like a worm to a bottle of tequila. He called her “Firecrotch.”

Long before she hit the legal drinking age of twenty-one, Lilo, as I think of her, was on the booze. In July 2006, the head of the company producing Lindsay’s flick,
Georgia Rule
, wrote her a blistering letter complaining about her all-night partying and frequent sick calls.

“To date, your actions on
Georgia Rule
have been discourteous, irresponsible and unprofessional,” wrote Morgan Creek’s chief executive officer, James G. Robinson. “You have acted like a spoiled child and in doing so have alienated many of your co-workers and endangered the quality of
Georgia Rule.
” He advised her to take heed. She should have listened.

I think the best way to know Lilo is through her own, incoherent, written ramblings. Her words can be hard to take, painful even, but march through them we must—if only to demonstrate that proper education, good nutrition, and sufficient sleep are paramount to the healthy growth of young women.

Here, then, is the letter Lindsay released to the family of director Robert Altman upon his death in November 2006. Punctuation, spelling and grammar are Lindsay’s:

“I would like to send my condolences out to Catherine Altman, Robert Altmans wife, as well as all of his immediate family, close friends, co-workers, and all of his inner circle.

“I feel as if I’ve just had the wind knocked out of me and my heart aches…

“I learned so much from Altman and he was the closest thing to my father and grandfather that I really do believe I’ve had in several years.

“Look in the mirror and thank god for every second you have and cherish all moments.

“The fighting, the anger, the drama is tedious.

“Please just take each moment day by day and consider yourself lucky to breathe and feel at all and smile. Be thankful.

“Make a searching and fearless moral inventory of yourselves’ (12st book)—everytime there’s a triumph in the world a million souls hafta be trampled on.-altman Its true. But treasure each triumph as they come.

“God Bless, peace and love always.

“Thank You,

“‘BE ADEQUITE’

“Lindsay Lohan”

Good gracious—there is more.

Even as Hollywood collectively reeled from this letter, Lindsay did it again—sending this e-mail to pals and associates barely a month later. You’d believe Lindsay would have learned to think before she hit “send.” At the very least, she might look up the spelling of “adequate.” Here it is:

“Subject: The way of the future-Howard Hughes once said. I am willing to release a politically/morally correct, fully adequite letter to the press if any of you are willing to help. Simply to state my oppinions on how our society should be educated on for the better of our country. Our people. Also because I have such an impact on our younger generations, as well as generations older than me. Which we all know and can obviously see. People are just mean…People cannot lie and think that it is okay to continue on having done so. Simply because they will do it again to someone else, and that is not alright with me. Al Gore will help me….