Ah, the sweet sounds of a train wreck. Not the thundering boom and the screech of twisting metal followed by screams, wailing sirens and crackling flames. No, this train wreck has more subtle sounds. These sounds are the click of camera shutters, the whispers of rumor and conjecture, the frantic chatter of spin doctors and talking heads doing damage control when the tabloids hit the stands, and the thump of doors being shut on a career. I love to see a good come-uppance.
The latest batch of train wrecks include Paris Hilton, famous only for being born into hideous wealth, and her former “BFF” Nicole Ritchie, famous only for having been adopted by Lionel and for interrupting her status as Paris’ chief boot-licking toady to lose so much weight she made a resident of Auschwitz look plump. But these wrecks are actually mild, and I think the best crashes are yet to come from these two.
Lindsay Lohan has been wonderfully entertaining with her starvation, party binges, faux rehab attempts, and generalized scandalous idiocy. She was such a Disney-dreamland fresh face 3 years ago. She was downright hot with her flaming red tresses, curves, big smile, and even bigger jugs. Then she turned 18 and started dropping pounds like a B-52 dropping bombs on a Ho Chi Minh Trail arc-light mission. In an attempt to hide her Irish freckles, she began fake-baking her skin into bomber-jacket leather. She then lost her tasty shape, dyed her hair Goth black, and became almost as big a party fool as Paris, wrecking a couple of $100,000 cars in the process. She managed to get the nickname Fire Crotch after getting her thongless snapper snapped pretty much simultaneously with Paris and Britney’s hoo-hahs hanging in the wind. I guess the black dye only covered the hair on her noggin, not her scroggin. There’s still some hope for her though I think, if she can realize rehab means you can’t just leave whenever you want, adds about 20 pounds, and goes red again. The whole incident where the movie studio exec called her out publicly for staying out partying & showing up for her job late made her look like a fucking idiot, and she still has enough pride left to not end up with her own celebreality farce on VH-1.
I get a special sort of twisted glee to watch the flounderings of the Olsen twins. Everybody’s child-star darlings, by the time they were old enough to decide on pad vs. tampon they were worth more dough than most Third World countries. The way everyone was counting the days till they turned 18, you’d have thought they already had brokered a deal with Larry Flynt to violate each other with strap-ons in Hustler as an act of rebellion. However, it’s by far more entertaining to see their emaciated carcasses in all the tabloids with that deer-in-the-headlights stare, expensive rags hanging from them like wet blankets, and sunglasses so huge they could pass for welding goggles. The glasses may look almost normal on someone who takes in more then 9 calories a day.
And then there’s Britney. Oh yes, there will be Britney. Squeaky clean Britney. Everyone’s little Mouseketeer turned Mouseketurd. Who couldn’t see THIS shit coming? The lookouts on Titanic, maybe. Each successive album saw her start to ho it up a little more, writhing with a python on stage and showing up pretty much naked in the “Toxic” video, and then sticking her tongue in the well-traveled cock-holster of Madonna. And along came K-Fed…..Y’know I really blamed him for her decline at first, till I realized he was just a symptom of a greater apocalypse, the “bad boy bad choice in men” phase. But Federline is smarter than he looks. He was a background dancer, not even a singer, with no better prospects of a career, who’d previously knocked up some B-list actress a couple times and then fled to Britney’s sheets looking for 15 minutes of fame. So her starts banging Spears and manages to marry into the bankroll to boot , then starts to spend her money like there’s no tomorrow before she could wise up & kick him to the curb. Another smart move: he foisted two more kids on her, in order to secure more bankroll by proxy.
In a rare moment of lucidity, Brit left him, got a makeover, and hit all the talk shows. And then you’d expect her to be all successful & shit, recording more pre-packaged vapid pop dogshit while Federline the wannabe rapper should have been back to washing cars and trying to be an extra in “Electric Boogaloo 3: Rise of the Moonwalk”. His CD was so bad it made William Hung look like Pavarotti. Enter Murphy’s Law….
In a truly fucking majestic stroke of irony, Brit turns into a party whore of Courtney love proportions with Paris and starts to meltdown like Chernobyl. Meanwhile, Federline shaves, washes his hair, puts on a suit instead of an oversized set of trackies and gold chains, and starts being seen in public with his first two kids at Disney like a model citizen. He got a cameo role on CSI, which always helps the resume, and was astute enough to parley his image as a fast-food escapee into a very funny investment company ad shown during the Super Bowl. All of a sudden, he’s the responsible dad. Meanwhile, Britney is photographed every night partying, dating K-Fed look-alikes, falling asleep in clubs, getting tattoos, piercing her man in the boat, and shaving her head. Now she’s in rehab again after leaving twice in the same week ala Lohan style, and I can’t stop cackling with demonic glee.
I haven’t laughed so hard since Kurt Cobain martyred himself and thus secured himself a place in the pantheon of saints in the Grungy Church of Emo Whiners. Money may not buy you love, or even happiness, but it’ll buy you some panties, a cheeseburger or two, driving lessons, and some couch time with a good shrink. Hop to it, kids.