Paris Hilton & the Celebrity Trap
Written February 27, 2005

I have Paris Hilton’s address book and phone list.

I’m almost embarrassed to admit this – it may be the single worst lead I’ve ever written – but it’s true. A week ago, the socialite waif that everybody loves to hate was hacked. Some techie nerd found a way to break into her Sidekick organizer and delivered poor Paris ’ contact info, personal pictures and text message logs into the ravenous clutches of the internet. Eager young fanboys (and girls) passed Hilton’s life around like a pack of monkeys tossing an infant from tree to tree.

Oooooh, she has Fred Durst’s phone number. Let’s call and let him know that we want him to die as soon as possible. Oooooh, Lindsay Lohan saw Jessica Simpson doing blow in a trendy bar bathroom. She signs her emails with “God Bless.” Oooooh, there are pictures of Paris kissing a girl.

“Why should I care?” you might ask. “I mean, the last time Paris Hilton was on the internet, I had to watch two aliens having murky green space-sex. I couldn’t touch myself for a week!” And that’s exactly the point. Why do we care?

Celebrity is a curious thing. Although the filthiest sense of the word is reserved for Hollywood , celebrities can be anyone who happens to drift into the public eye: sports heroes, politicians, serial killers, kids who fall down a well. There’s always another famous person that you need to know about. Every day, new faces are added to the cultural lexicon – personalities to memorize in addition to your own.

Celebrity is a juicy by-product of living in a mass society. We need something in common, something to fill the awkward moments of conversation that lie between stoner philosophy and who’s who social gossip. Pop culture plugs the gaps nicely – when we’re too guarded to share ourselves, we share the soap operas of our icons. These people become saviours on a lofty pedestal, a beacon to turn to when we’re overwhelmed by the faceless masses around us.

If you ask me, this is pretty fucked. Don’t we have enough to experience in our own lives without taking all of these prima donnas on board too? Why do we spend our valuable time on the escapades of starlets who’ve never met us and surely don’t give a damn? Shouldn’t we ignore the monolith?

And yet, here I am, a hypocrite of the highest and sassiest degree – writing a column that began with Paris Hilton’s latest ‘tragedy.’ I could’ve told the similarly tragic tale of my beloved Ford Tempo’s recent demise, but I didn’t think that anyone would care. I’m not famous. I’m nothing special. I’m not a celebrity.

I have Paris Hilton’s contact list. I thought about prank calling Marilyn Manson just because, you know, he’s a famous guy. He eats babies! It’d make for a good story, but if I phoned the kids across the street it wouldn’t be nearly as cool. It would be ho-hum in most people’s opinion.

We’re all caught in the celebrity trap, somehow convinced that these nebulous personalities off in the distance are more worthwhile than those around us. We build their exploits to the level of Greek gods. But our gods are just saps who happened to be hot enough, or talented enough, or lucky enough to get airlifted into the spotlight high atop the tower.

Paris Hilton substitutes ‘u’ for ‘you’ when she types. She forgets to use capitals in her emails. She sorta looks like a giraffe. Under the gloss, she’s just a stupider version of us. Maybe, just maybe, the stories of the ‘faceless masses’ are more interesting, more genuine, more real. But we’ll never stop gazing at the pedestal for long enough to find out. If we fall behind in our celeb-gossip, Marilyn Manson will eat our faces for dinner on Entertainment Tonight!

The good times are killing me.