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24 A Vacancy at the Paris Hilton Jeffrey Sconce Those who dismissed the ludic nihilism of Jean Baudrillard’s later works— his final resignation in the face of hyperreality’s triumph, his refusal to advocate on behalf of any illusory remnant of subjectivity, his concretization of evil in the encroaching logic of the object—should refer to a string of simulations reported in November of 2005, a month that—if history still existed—would no doubt figure prominently in its demise. As Iraq continued to explode and thousands of refugees from Hurricane Katrina found themselves cut off from the last crumbs of government assistance and public memory, celebutante Paris Hilton and three members of her roving entourage left a Hollywood nightclub to take their existential maw on the road. Hoping to outwit the paparazzi, Hilton’s boyfriend/chauffeur Stavros Niarchos—presumably out of reflex more than logic—threw a coat over his head and then promptly rammed Hilton’s $162,000 Bentley into the back of a truck. Naturally, they fled the scene, only to later be briefly stopped by the LA police. Despite an on-camera confession by one of the passengers that he “was the only one sober,” the police looked the other way and allowed the merry band to continue their night/week/month/life of menacing all honest working folk who might stand between them and a good time. The following day a spokesperson for the LAPD denied accusations that the quartet had received “special treatment,” while Hilton’s publicist noted, “It’s all very upsetting as you might imagine. But the important thing is at the end of the day what seems to be going on here is that Paris is the only victim. She’s going to be stuck with the tab of repairing that car” (Whitcomb 2005). By inviting us to imagine that any amount of money might actually matter to Hilton, perhaps her publicist thought he had contained the inci328 dent by appealing to the average schlub’s empathy for the common “fender bender,” as if Hilton’s boyfriend had cracked up a ‘74 Gremlin backing into a Burger King dumpster. Such heroic efforts at populist spin were negated a few days later, however, when Hilton and Niarchos made their way to Las Vegas, whereupon Hilton, while purchasing some $4,000 worth of lingerie (and for maximum PR effect, a bullwhip), lost control of her pet lemur, Baby Luv. The lemur proceeded to run amok in the store before at last turning on Hilton herself (no doubt to the cheers of the store’s staff and patrons). Meanwhile, back at the hotel, the terror of encroaching boredom provoked Stavros and his buddies to activate the hotel’s sprinkler system, damaging twelve other rooms on their floor. Trading in levels of embarrassment and shame that would kill mere mortals , the couple remained in their protective bubble of wealth and selfabsorption , and soon Paris, Stavros, Baby Luv, the bullwhip, and the $4,000 in lingerie were on their way back to Los Angeles, no doubt to find a replacement Bentley, or failing that, perhaps a car that runs on the boiled blood of nuns and orphans. Of course, it is easy to take cheap shots at Paris Hilton; in fact, it is necessary —her entire career depends on it. In a culture that refuses to have any meaningful debate over issues of social and economic inequality, Hilton gamely serves as the stupid rich girl America loves to hate, not necessarily because she is rich and stupid but because she so wantonly violates certain unspoken protocols of fame. Americans take inequalities of birth, wealth, and opportunity in stride; but in a cultural economy where fame is inexorably replacing talent as the coin of the realm, a nagging , residual Protestant work ethic still expects fame to be earned the old-fashioned way—through excellence in some form of criminal, political , athletic, or artistic practice. So annoyed was Daily News gossip columnist Lloyd Grove at this injustice that he devoted an entire column to swearing off reporting Paris Hilton “news” ever again. “The arc of Paris’ ‘career’—from rich, witless party girl to rich, witless party girl with a television show—is an insult to the American sense of fairness: the idea that you get ahead by working hard, playing by the rules and acquiring a skill of some sort,” he grouses (Grove 2004: n.p.). As Grove’s disgust suggests...

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