Paris in the Springtime

Changes: This post has been tinkered with since I first put it up this morning.

I’m not about to get going on a long rant about Paris Hilton (in retrospect, this appears to have been a lie), but I just wanted to say that I agree with Christopher Hitchens that there is a most distasteful flavor of vengefulness in the way her recent travails have been covered by the press and discussed by the public. [FN 1] It is apparently perfectly ordinary for the L.A. County sheriff to change the terms of a prisoner’s confinement, whether for the good of the correctional facility or of the individual prisoner, meaning that Paris might currently be getting less justice than the average citizen is eligible for (and, indeed, news reports do suggest that the average citizen guilty of Paris’s “crime” serves less time behind bars than she already has).

So what are we all so mad about here? Maybe we’re just tired of hearing about the silly little thing, but it’s not Paris’s fault that the press has taken her up on her offer to make every one of her warts visible to us all, and it’s not Paris’s fault that news about her sells papers and moves click-throughs on web sites. Yes, she is a completely inconsequential person – “well known for being well known” – but it’s her right to be one, and, if you don’t like her, then stop paying attention to her.

But if, instead of stopping paying attention, you’re rubbing your hands together with glee at her tear-stained visage behind the tinted window of the SUV carting her back to jail (and, given how utterly poorly served this woman-child has been by, apparently, every single person alive with a duty to care for, educate and shape her, isn’t this sort of like throwing things at the village idiot?), ask yourself what it is you really hope to see her punished for. As Phil Nugent wonders, might it just be for “society’s oldest crime, being a sexually active woman”? He continues:

“…[P]eople didn’t seem to spend that much time talking about what she could be seen to represent in a culture where people who are born rich are rewarded for not amounting to much, not even in the simple terms of being stable adults who don’t stupidly, recklessly break the law and then boast about their presumption of being above it. There were a few feints in that direction, but mostly, the jokes were about how she’s such a slut. Lots of knee slappers about lube trucks and loofahs and experimental uses for hot dogs and long cylindrical vegetables. And aside from the fact that Paris sets a pretty sleazy level all by herself and it would be nice to see people rising above it, it’s just too easy, in too ugly a way.”

It all reminds me of the glee that used to attend every new piece of “evidence” of what a poor mother Britney Spears supposedly is – glee that evaporated into embarassed silence, at least for people with the slightest shred of decency left, when it recently became clear just how troubled and confused and alone the 26-year-old and essentially single mother really is. [FN 2] Never having been a mother myself, I can’t say this with certainty, but I suspect that those of you who have been or are might be pretty grateful, if you stop to think about it, that there wasn’t a camera there to record every decision you made as you learned the ins and outs of that job.

If you really think that what you’re applauding, in Paris’s case, is justice finally being served, you might want to look the word up in a dictionary. I just did, and I can’t contort any of the definitions into meaning something like “punishing someone for non-illegal activities accruing semi-naturally to being born into an essentially abusive or at least negligent family as well as being given too much money too young.”

Yes, I know: “poor little rich girl.”

But tell me, are you so sure you would have turned out differently under the same circumstances? And, on the flip side, does making the poor little rich girl sit in a room for the remaining three dozen or so days of her sentence really do anything to correct the very real injustices perpetrated every day by this country’s legal system? (Remember, her sentence seems to be approximately 1,000 percent longer than the average one for this offense.)

Late update: The two young African-American women checking out magazine covers in the checkout line at Safeway just now did not seem disposed to feel charitable toward Paris. “Man, those white chicks be partying like rock stars,” said one, in a statement that is interesting in a quite unintended way. “Please, ‘Paris is devastated,'” read the other one out loud from a tabloid headline. “She’s devastated because she’s in jail like the rest of the common folks.”

I did not pipe in and try to convince them of the viewpoint I expressed above. Soon enough, they moved on to a discussion of a local hairdresser whose bona fides they seemed to doubt. “Please, if he so great, why isn’t he up in Pennsylvania or down in Georgia, where the hair shows are? If he so great, what’s he still doing in this town?”

The other one picked up a magazine with Rihanna on the cover.

“She’s so pretty,” she said. “That’s what my baby’s going to look like.”

*****

Footnotes

FN 1: As a useless aside, let me just say that I also could have called this post “We’ll Always Have Paris,” of course – because we will, won’t we? Wonder which generic, hackneyed song reference is getting more use for posts like this in the blogosphere.

FN 2: Although let me just point out that I’m not going on record here as believing that shaving one’s head should be considered prima facie evidence of madness, unless you want to send some good pharmaceuticals over, in which case, OK, I’m bat**** insane, too.

Monday

1.
The early morning sounds are what I love best. The birds greeting the dawn. The trash truck downshifting. Bush on the radio saying that the planned “no-confidence” vote on Gonzalez is “meaningless.”

True, I guess, at least in the sense that such a vote can’t force the president to take any action, but it’s always nice to hear what the man thinks of the opinions of the nation’s elected representatives.

2.
Some people who use the gym at the same time I do clearly don’t know how to use the weight machines. A woman who is there almost every morning puts her elbows too far forward on the biceps machine, enabling her to lift an artificially high amount of weight but defeating the design of the machine, which is intended to isolate the muscles in question. A diminutive man who is also a regular turns the ab crunch machine into a sort of chest press: you are supposed to sit in the machine, push the handles forward, then lock your elbows – holding the weight out from your body – and repetitively bend forward from the waist, but he just sits still and pushes his arms out and back, over and over, exercising an entirely different part of his body than the machine is designed for (and there is, of course, another machine he could use to exercise his chest and arms). How did it get to this point? Why didn’t they ask the attendant for an orientation? Have they never noticed how others use the machines? Have they never glanced at the directions printed on the machines?

Should I say something?

No, obviously I should not.

3.
My mother, who was visiting this weekend, did me the favor of picking up some groceries. I was excited about the matter-of-factness of the label on the bag of coffee beans she bought. “Pleasant Morning Buzz.” Pretty much all I’m ever looking for in a cup of coffee. (This would be like labeling a bottle of wine “Smooth Mellow Drunk.”) The bag was of the stiff plastic variety and looked tantalizingly as though it should just pull apart at the top; there was a little bit of plastic tape, presumably for resealing the thing. But I just couldn’t find my way into the bag. Finally, I grabbed the utility scissors from their holster, magneted to the fridge, and made a tiny incision, figuring this would allow me to pull apart the opening at the top.

The tiny snip instead suddenly enlarged, the whole bag ripped asunder, and I was on my hands and knees sweeping up coffee beans for the next five minutes.

4.
“Whitefish feast in aspic” is, by far, Her Highness Miss Zuzu’s favorite canned food.

She will also never receive it again.

I’ll admit that it’s the most food-like of any of the varieties of canned cat food I’ve seen so far, resembling nothing so much as a tin of white tuna.

But man does it stink. Even though the amount left on her little plate after she was done with her morning meal was so miniscule that to call it “particles” seems an exaggeration, the aroma filled the dining room and kitchen. I could only imagine the olfactory treat that would be waiting for me after the plate had been sitting out all day.

I threw away the rest of the can.

5.
From the “Not One Thing, Another” Department: as we look ahead to renting out our house, we are curious how the insurance coverage will need to change. A call to Amica elucidated that we would just carry fire insurance on the structure. However – if we’re going to insure a house that we are renting out – Amica requires that the insurance for our primary residence be through them, as well (that’s where any liability coverage is carried, too, including for the house we’re renting out). Fine and good – and, yes, rental insurance counts. But apparently, because Montana is “really rural” (in the words of the customer-service representative I spoke to) it’s not a given that they will be willing to cover any possible rental we might obtain. And if Amica won’t cover our Montana residence, this means they won’t insure the Baltimore house we’re renting out, either, meaning that – if we pick the wrong house in Missoula – we’ll need to find a new insurance company.

The customer-service rep recommended that I call the Montana Amica office to find out what parts of the state they cover.

This turns out not to be an easily answered question, even when phrased as “would you cover a house within the city limits of Missoula?” Apparently we will have to (1) get the address of our rental and (2) submit same to Amica; Amica will then (3) “write up a policy” and (4) “submit it to the underwriter” so that we can find out (5) if they’ll freaking cover it or not. I badgered them further and I think that the main potential problems just have to do with the fact that even houses fairly close to the town of Missoula may not be near things like fire hydrants and the like, meaning that they are more likely to burn down, meaning that Amica stands a higher risk of its customers actually needing to use the services they’re paying for, which of course is contrary to the standard insurance-company business plan. So I think we’ll be safe if we stick to places within the town limits (and they may cover places outside the town limits, too), but this is just an unwelcome wrinkle when you’re in the position of house-hunting from 2,200 miles away. “Um, yes, I’ll put a deposit down on this rental – just as soon as my insurance company underwriter gets back to me. In the meantime, please don’t rent it to someone else who walks into your office and puts money on the table!”

Every time I asked the customer-service rep anything, she put me on hold.

Is “Another One Bites the Dust” really appropriate hold-music for an insurance company?

6.
At Safeway, I bought a lime green “water tumbler” to replace my convention-giveaway white plastic mug I smashed against my office wall on Friday.

I love it already.