I am trying desperately to make Paris Hilton mean something. The way I see it, we’re pretty much stuck with her in modern society. She encompasses our reality to such an extent that I have had more conversations about her in the past year than I’ve had dentist appointments. And that is not a good sign.
What is it about Paris’ vapid blonde exterior that is so interesting? Is she interesting because she’s boring, or boring because she’s interesting? I’ve known plenty of Paris act-alikes in my lifetime (well, if you replace “hotel heiress” with “their dad owns a Canadian Tire”) and people are always drawn to their reliability to miss the punch line, dress like a Bangkok prostitute, and make out with anyone and anything that wears a gold chain around its neck.
Paris Hilton reminds us of that girl in high school who was kind of pretty in a predictable way, parked her Mini Cooper in the lot’s best spot each morning, and, for some reason, seemed utterly intoxicating. People would offer anything for the chance to be with her.
They’d say, “Hey Paris, do you sing?” And she’d say “Yeah, maybe I guess,” and boom, guess who’s singing the lead solo in Les Misérables?
They’d say, “Hey Paris, have you ever thought about expressing yourself creatively?” And she’d reply, “Well, I do like riding the mechanical bull at Shooter’s, so I guess I could take this lead in A Doll’s House.”
Nobody really likes this girl, but somebody has to be the target of washroom stall one-liners, and the bulimic cheerleader posse is becoming totally boring. Plus, your mom keeps telling you that “a friend whose parents own a hotel is a friend indeed,” and that phrase echoes in your head as you carry Paris’ gym bag all the way to field hockey practice.
It’s just not fair. In a world where Janeane Garafolos deserve to win, Paris still calls the shots. If she’s not worth the air we breathe to talk about her, then why does modern culture surround this woman, her every car accident, Greek beau and exposed love canal worthy of sacred celebrity status?
In Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, pop-culture journalist Chuck Klosterman deems Pamela Anderson a more evolved Marilyn Monroe, the “perfect sexual icon because all she wants to do is have sex”. Well, Paris Hilton is an even more modern extension of Anderson. Whereas Anderson is all implants and collagen, Paris’ skeletal frame and marmalade-toned skin showcase the American id. It has been proven on the excellent television series The Simple Life that Paris will make out with anyone, especially if they are underage, have dubious morals, and live in a cornfield. By sticking her tongue down the throats of good ol’ American men, Paris epitomizes the American Dream. Work hard, get a spot on a reality television show, and you too could knock boots with a Hilton.
Paris Hilton has to mean something; she has to explain something deep and ineffable about American culture as an emblematic ideal. (She is, after all, a living Barbie doll with working parts.)
Her signature phrase, “that’s hot” only makes things more problematic, as Hilton has qualified this for everything from gas station uniforms to Tinkerbelle’s mini Fendi. How can everything be “hot?” How can everybody win? America is a culture of survival of the fittest, L.A. a town of at least 1000 wannabe blonde heiresses going out on cattle calls in tube dresses and broken heels, all vying for the lifestyle of swimming pools and Aaron Spelling pilots.
If Paris doesn’t mean anything, then there isn’t anything to aspire to. The American Dream has to mean something. Paris has to mean something. Or everything’s just… well, “hot.”
And I’m not cool with that.
