By now you have probably heard that last night, Lindsay Lohan was arrested in New York City for allegedly punching a woman in the face outside of a Chelsea nightclub. Oh fucking hell. (Somehow it seems worth noting that the night club where the incident took place, Avenue, actually banned Lohan from the premises years ago, because that is how long this whole thing has been a mess, America.) This comes only a couple of weeks after she was accused of hitting someone with her car. Meanwhile, a judge in Santa Monica has chosen today of all days to charge Lindsay Lohan with three separate crimes related to a traffic accident she had last year. In the past two months alone, her publicist has quit, her father staged an emergency intervention, which caused her to seek an order of protection against him, all while it was being revealed that he had a secret love child with another woman dating back to when he was still married to Lindsay’s mother, who herself is a real piece of work. Oh, whoops, I can’t believe I failed to mention that she also secured a $100,000 loan from CHARLIE SHEEN to help pay off her taxes. THAT IS JUST IN THE PAST COUPLE OF MONTHS, GUYS! Even Liz & Dick was a bust. OOF!
We need to hold an intervention on OURSELVES. This cannot be good for us. This weird, overpowering, drooling obsession with the personal tragedy of another human being just because they remade Parent Trap one time. Lindsay Lohan is only 26 years old, and she has an entire nation of creeps stretching their claws out towards her, hoping for just the tiniest taste of that sweet, sweet flesh. Come on. I know that we aren’t better than this, or above this, but let’s pretend like we are better than this and above this. Let us fake it until we make it. “Hey, if you really want to complain about something, how about drone strikes.” Oh yeah, let’s also chill with the drone strikes!
The argument that celebrities know what they are signing on for when they go to that audition or shoot that pilot or wherever the threshold lies for when you supposedly willingly sign yourself over to an onslaught of public abuse only holds so much water. It does mean that no one gets sympathy for decrying the loss of privacy when they’re just trying to drink their kale and diamond smoothie on the patio at Spago. It does mean that if a celebrity has kids they are almost inevitably going to raise a brood of horrifying garbage monsters of pure entitlement and undiagnosed existential despair. But no one signs up to have people hang on their every difficulty, any single one of which would throw most of us into a borderline catatonic depressive state or at the very least give us chronic diarrhea, but compounded together genuinely makes you at least start to understand the underlying psychological principles of suicidal ideation. No one willingly accepts that as part of the deal, and even if they do, hey, HOW ABOUT WE LET THEM OUT OF THEIR CONTRACT?! The notion that they understood that this was one of the possible outcomes of their ambition does not therefore make this outcome JUSTIFIED and CORRECT. It is like saying that a woman who got raped was asking for it with her outfit. A highly specious argument even in the 1980s when people actually still made it, but again, even if we were to somehow agree (and we do not agree) that someone’s outfit could inherently elicit a rapist’s desire, that doesn’t MAKE THE RAPE COOL. Stay with me, America.
We can’t do this anymore. Maybe Lindsay Lohan will continue to struggle to find the help that she needs to give her life balance and meaning and to bring her to a place of safety and self-worth outside of the craziness of her family and the entertainment industry. Maybe she truly is doomed and too far gone and the years of wealth and attention of deteriorated her sense of reality to such an extent that there is no return. That is for her to work through, in private if possible. But while she’s doing that, what if we all worked on ourselves a little bit. Step one: enough with this Lindsay Lohan business. Let’s go cold turkey. There are a lot of good books out there, we could read a book. Or catch up on Downton Abbey. Let’s take a walk outside, America. Or learn how to cook. We could clean out that box of stuff in the closet we never unpacked after our last move, or try and figure out what this “fiscal cliff” actually is, or at worst just go back to bed. That sounds great! What about going back to bed?! At the very least, we could make a slight adjustment to our celebrity obsession, and choose to focus on the ways in which our celebrities represent all of our hidden desires: for love or money or physical beauty or whatever it may be, and celebrate that. In turn we could allow the aspects of our celebrities that are all too human, and which represent in the brutalist of lights our hidden fears, of death and abandonment and someone seeing us on our worst day when we really thought we could run to the store for some toilet paper and half and half without running into anyone we know, much less that person having a long lens camera and hiding on a yacht anchored 300 yards away so we didn’t even know they were there, to fall outside the scope of our attention, to be dealt with behind closed doors, as we ourselves would choose to deal with them.
JUST KIDDING, LET’S DRINK LINDSAY LOHAN’S BLOOD OUT OF HER OWN SKULL AND POST THE PHOTOS ON FACEBOOK!