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
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
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