P Whitney Hilton, as you may have heard, has been airlifted from the indignity of linen with a less-than-300 thread count and back to the arms of her stylist. Reportedly, her shrink feared the onset of, like, a Total Nervous Breakdown. Like, totally.
A night on the tiles with this Floating Signifier could only result in all hues of giddy fun. One hesitates, then, to wish her ill. However, in hauling his patient from gaol, this therapist has performed a great disservice to psychiatric medicine. Surely, a Paris Hilton Nervous Breakdown would command its own fascinating entry in the DSM-IV: characterised by eczema, mildly unkempt eyebrows and the automaton narration of Justin Timberlake’s oeuvre.
Take it to the chorus, yeah.
Anyhoo, now she’s back at home with an oversupply of Kabbalah bracelets and her Martha Stewart bling. And, poor Paris is Burning with a nasty rash.
Spare a thought for the cabana boy who must apply the lotion.
But, do you care? Really? You oughtn’t.
Since the emergence of this Sassy Miss in a “Got Blow” micro t shirt almost a decade ago, much has been written about Paris. And these words appear not only in trash mags, text news and the margins of neocon blogs. They have colonised the middle brow terrain of Cultural Studies as well.
Why are we so intrigued by the Text That Is Paris, ask perky little brunettes from sandstone universities. What does Paris signify, ask earnest w-nkers at Quality Broadsheets.
I’ve actually made a fair bit of money banging needlessly on about Paris myself. Today, in the aftermath of her rash and release, I renounce this habit.
Paris, quite simply, is no longer a question worth answering.
In a moment of intellectual stasis, I once compared Paris to a late model mobile telephone in an effort to Unpack her Text. (Geddit? Text.) That is to say: her pure emptiness and ability to simply convey rather than produce information made her the culture’s most glorious Sidekick. I apologise.
After today’s predictable ending to the Paris narrative, there is nothing more to be said or understood. This Teflon girl represents nothing more than the emptiness of the culture by which she is devoured.
Today, Paris is dead. Long live Lindsay.