Believe the hype. Paris Hilton is even more over-exposed than all her press would indicate. How do I know this? Because I've seen her out in public no less than three times. This is significant because I'm more or less a hermit by L.A. standards. And yet I have managed to encounter Paris three times in three separate locations, and none of them were the airport or the grocery store, my usual celebrity hotspots. Granted, one place was last weekend's MTV Movie Awards (admittedly, not hermit-like, but the tickets were a gift from someone who couldn't go). I suppose you could make the argument that if there's one place one should expect to see Paris Hilton, it's at the MTV Movie Awards, a gratuitous, youth-oriented pop-culture kudofest signifying little more than its own existence. And I'd agree with you. But even considering the scene, one isn't guaranteed of being corraled in the aisle for five minutes because Paris, surrounded by her retinue of three massive body guards, is slowly primping and pouting her way to her seat. I and about fifteen other people received that distinct privelege among the thousands of messy-haired Twenty-tweeners, industry schlubs, and tarted-up stick women in attendance. I can die now.
What's the point of this? Nothing, really. There never is a point when you're talking about Paris Hilton, except maybe to indulge in a little self-loathing when you're done. Or to include a link to the super-snarky gossip blog What Would Tyler Durden Do's rad vitriolic response to Paris's premature release from jail. It almost redeems the dignity I lost in reading it in the first place and then taking the time to write this. Almost.
