I happened on a TV documentary about hookers in Hollywood and couldn't help but notice they all live on my block. At least that's the way it appeared, since they get their nails done where I get my nails done, shoplift at my Ralph's and frequent my Jack-In-The Box on foot through the all-night drive-thru. I never really see them there in real life, so maybe we're on different schedules with our errands. Especially since they seem to be getting work in network television while I can't get arrested these days.I did see a pair of trannies on the street yesterday, one splayed out on the sidewalk in black vinyl shorts and a cotton candy pink wig, the other one cradling her head. Although the pink-haired one was unconscious, her friend was chatting away as though they were a couple of seventh graders at a really fun slumber party. I couldn't hear what she was saying, since I had my windows up and the air on. But it was definitely something out of a Gus Van Sant movie. Something tragic and beautiful, a scene so sexy you're ashamed it's happening in public and you're some ghoulish spectator watching it as though it were street theater rather than somebody else's sad little Hollywood story.
Which brings me to The Paris Hilton Matter. I am deeply concerned that she's been released from the slammer due to an "unspecified medical condition." I'm sure the tranny hookers from my side of town have all kinds of unspecified medical conditions, but when the judge gives them forty-five days, I'm guessing my girls do forty-six. Take away the money, the Bentley and the pedigree, and what is Paris, really, other than another flashy, trashy, overdone Hollywood working girl? I mean if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it's a duck. How is it that this no talent "spokesomedel" "actress" "singer" "entrepreneur" even survived getting caught on tape using a certain racial epithat that got a certain formerly beloved comedian banned from the public eye for life? When she was heard dissing some "public school girl from Compton" on her second most memorable video, I had to wonder if she ever in fact attended any school, anywhere. I can't imagine her having graduated from one of the Seven Sisters colleges in the grand tradition of even the sluttiest and most depraved heiresses from days of yore. As troubled a youth as Gloria Vanderbilt had--one marked by scandals, affairs and tragedy--it's hard to picture Anderson Cooper's debutante mother walking around town with her skirt up around her head and her panties gone missing. Or stumping for Carl's Junior soaped up in some back alley garage with a wedgie up her ass. Or hanging out with a foul-mouthed friend who goes by the name "Greasy Bear" and fancies himself the next generation of American royalty. I say bring back the Kennedys. At least they had that one great generation--the war hero who died young, the guy with the bad back and the great speeches, the one in the underrated Emilio Estevez movie--who came just this close to changing the world, with or without their pants on.
I know I live in a rough neighborhood--you've got Lindsay Lohan's underage drinking at the Hotel Roosevelt, Nicole Ritchie's heroin takedown on the Hollywood Freeway, Phil Spector blowing away the hostesses over at the House of Blues. But if they're going to let the hotel heiresses out of jail to drive around town eating cheeseburgers with their lights off and their legs up in the air without fear of retribution, tonight's the night I lock the door.
