I (Don't) Love Paris

Ok, it MUST be said. I HATE PARIS HILTON AND SHE NEEDS TO GO TO JAIL. RIGHT NOW.

She is a useless product of the celebutard culture this country is sooo fucking addicted to, and it makes me want to puke. It makes me take to my bed and writhe in despair and pain (which, considering my recent circumstances, I am already doing) from complete bewilderment and disgust. Let's be honest, kiddies: If this spoiled, snot-nosed little bitch was black, latino or poor? HER ASS WOULD BE SITTING IN A JAIL CELL RIGHT NOW. Money does not only buy privilege in this godforsaken fuck-up we call a country, it also buys bullshit, lies, and special interests for those who can pay it while crying crocodile tears.

Throw this fake-ass BRAT in general population right now. I would pay good money to see, on YouTube, a beautiful violent re-enactment of an episode of "Oz"--pick any one of 'em, they were all the same--for her hair extensions to get yanked out, burned, cut off and shoved down her throat. Then we can move on to the shanking, the stuffing of her head down the flushed toilet and the crying as she gets kicked and punched into a corner. That would teach her not to use the "N" word so freely or to insult Lindsay Lohan, a nice blue-collar working class Irish girl with a wacko mom and a fucked-up dad (gee, sound like me yet? Other than the fact that I don't do red carpet events. Not yet anyway.) To use a phrase from Lindsay's greatest movie, "Mean Girls", Paris's latest perfume "creation" makes one smell, and I quote, "...like a baby prostitute." Firecrotch? How about "You My Beeyatch Now, Miss Thang!" I'm sure Lindsay's giggling at this one.

A trip to Sephora last year confirmed this for me. I quickly walked up to one of my favorite queens and asked for a wet washcloth or towlette to wipe the catastrophe off me. It was sweet, sickly, and utterly consumed by vanilla, powder notes, and musk--all three fragrances which I hate, but 14 yr-old mall rats--without a care in the world--seem to worship. Cat piss, gasoline, and lower Manhattan post-9/11 in late September smelled slightly better than this overpriced shit in a bottle. Yes, it was that bad. To quote RD, "It makes me want to go to Newark and inhale. Deeply."

In other news, watching Left Eye's documentary last night moved me in a way for which I was not prepared. She and I shared a quick moment together back in 2000 when I was standing in Times Square. We were at a red light. I looked to my left and there she was. Eyes, glowing and giant and brown, unmistakeable. She was all of 5 feet 2 inches tall, but what a presence. I was tickled that we, two different people from two totally different walks of life were standing there together, going in different directions and yet right next to each other. I said nothing. I thought, eh...let me let her be a person, not a rock star. I regret not saying hello. She had less than 3 years to live. I was hit very hard by her passing and I now know how deeply she was looking for the meaning of life. A life cut short at the age of 30. Maybe her work was done, but I'll never forget those eyes. Playful and vibrant, childlike and omniscient, till the end. Her eyes were unmistakeable. Full of questions, joy, sorrow, and a response to, "What is she made of." Stare at pictures of her and you might see what I saw that day, standing there near the Victory Theatre.

I should have said something. I should have said a lot of things. Ohh, this weird life....