It struck me as I shed my subway-commuter Monday morning stress over coffee and AOL-supplied shots of club girl Lindsay Lohan wafting in and out of rehab and nightspots with her perfectly mussed hair beneath hip gray ski cap that the paparazzi and tabloids have made the world into her (and Britney’s) concerned parents. I have gone from a fellow club creature to a concerned parent, all thanks to the internet!
Of course this is probably not the most original reading of a national obsession. Most of the world has no life to speak of outside of work, kids, blah blah, so these sacrificial lambs become our proxy bad neighbor girl. We gossip at the water cooler as if Britney’s mom is in the next cubicle and now we will shut her out of our bridge club to save the rest of our good names from scandal. Meanwhile we secretly relish every debauched deed for it bespeaks of a noncastrated freedom we have willingly denied ourselves.
We hate to be made aware that the cages we live in have, in fact, no locks. We need to punish the sexy gamins who would remind us how un-free we are. So cower in your hospital beds, o mediKated America, Lindsay Lohan is giving the finger to the Nurse Ratchet system and riding the Big Chief white rails to freedom!