Z100 premiered Paris Hilton's new song on Monday morning. Billy and I listen to Elvis Duran and the Z Morning Zoo every day in the shower. We love their phone taps and their banter and the (usually) good music they play in the morning. As I finished my shower on Monday, Billy came into the bathroom to shave. I heard Elvis talking hyping up the fact that they were about to play the song, but I couldn't hang around in the bathroom to listen to it (I have a routine to stick to, you know). I had, however, heard bits and pieces of the song on the internet, having watched Paris attempt seductive, come-hither moves on a white sandy beach while accidentally flashing her nipple on TMZ. I'll admit, I wasn't as repulsed as I thought I'd be by her "music." But, in my defense, I hadn't heard the whole song.
I went back into the bathroom minutes later, to find that I'd just missed her vocal stylings. "So," I said to Billy, reaching past him for my new Pantene Hair Serum. "How horrible was the song?"
"Not bad, actually," he replied, rinsing his face in the sink.
"Hmph," I uttered, flipping my head over to apply product to my hair. I began scrunching the serum into my strands.
"Actually, it sounds a little Gwen Stefani-ish," he offered.
I stopped scrunching. How dare he compare Paris Hilton to Gwen Stefani. One is an icon, one of my heros. The other? She's an airhead. And kinda slutty.
"I don't think so," I replied, haughtily. "I heard some of it online, and I hardly think it sounded anything like Gwen Stefani." I followed my statement with a snort of contempt, a sort of half-laugh that was meant to illustrate my superior taste. "Gwen is a muscial genius. Paris is just, Paris." My voice dripped with disdain.
Billy loves Paris Hilton. Because she's hot. And naughty. And stupid. All of the things men admire in objects of lust. (He would not, however, choose to be stranded on a desert island with her. I asked.) And he knows how I feel about her. I think he enjoys defending her to me because it gets me all riled up.
"Why do all women hate Paris Hilton?" he asked, purely curious this time. Not at all mocking, as is his usual M.O.
"I don't know." I finished my hair and flipped my head back to the upright position. I grasped for a tangible reason to hate her. "Because she's stupid, I guess."
But that's not the real reason. The real reason is that I'm jealous. It's just not fair that she got to be born with all that money, and an incredible body. It's not fair that she gets to dress in high-end designer clothing without having to work for it. I hate that she fucks up over and over again, and still has the balls to keep going back out. I'm jealous of her confidence. She thinks she's the hottest, best, most amazing thing in the world. And no one could convince her differently if they tried. She suffered the embarrassment of a sex tape, and yet she still wouldn't go away. She didn't hide in shame. She just kept on doing what she was doing. She made no excuses. She's unflappable. And she's not ashamed to try acting, to try singing. To just try. And, I'm sorry, but I can't help but admire that about her. And that makes me mad. So I just decide to hate her instead.
Because ME? I make a mistake and I'm crucified for it. If not by someone else, then by myself. I have to work for everything I have, and my purchases are made at TJ Maxx. And, God, if I went through that sex tape scandal, I'd hole myself up in my bedroom and never come out. And I'm too chicken shit to sing kareoke. I'm afraid to even attempt to write for a living - and that's something I know I'm good at it. So, yeah, I admire her guts. I'm covetous of them.
But I still think the song sucks.