MC5,000,000

Some nights I lie awake and wonder when it it was that everything seemed to change... was it post 9/11? At some point around the millennium the culture shifted. The cult of mediocrity took hold of what was edgy and original.  Jagged corners began to be filed and rounded.  People's faces began to be cosmetically genericized. And while fashion continued to push boundaries of sexuality, it, too, lost a bit of its iconic style and elegance. 

Popularity trumps quality.  Celebrity and social media far outweigh what is original and good.  One can no longer even trust criticism because a good review could be an arrangement-- payment for a favor, an advertising contract.  The old tried-and-true publications are suddenly rife with errors and less-than-stellar writing. As the concept of pronouns expanded, their usage in journalism and language is sadly battered and incorrect. Does no one learn grammar these days?  Is not the Manual of Style part of an AI editing app? 

I read today that the average radiologist cannot distinguish between a clinical X-ray and one generated by AI.  What does this do to the science and credibility of diagnostics? The fact that  artificially generated music sounds passable is not as much a credit to the technology as an alarming critique of what is being actually humanly released. It's depressing.. .like a large muddy pond with few sparkles and waves and dull slow fish swimming close to the bottom.

Three AM last night-- a variety of musical programs on various PBS stations.. one after another.. I could not name a single artist today-- nothing seemed compelling or passionate... the live audience was startlingly receptive and happy and the sound systems were excellent.. but the material? Forgettable.  Boring. Much ado.

We old souls send each other video footage and YouTube clips of exciting bands from our teenage years-- the MC5, early James Brown.. .today it was the 1966 Blues Magoos. The visuals are rough and generally black and white... the audio is flawed... but what is perfectly clear is the originality-- the break-through sense that these bands were doing something new and exciting.  Even now this comes shining through.

In 2001, I was super fortunate to attend the annual R & B award ceremony with John Lee Hooker's manager who was accepting a posthumous honor on his behalf.  On the heels of 9/11, it was a modest under-attended event hosted by the legendary Ossie Davis and Dionne Warwick.  Neither performed but got down to the business at hand. Today, I barely recognize half the names called at the recent Grammy awards-- music and songs less so; regrettably it's a chore to watch even a few minutes of the show.  I feel silly.  But back in the day, every single artist was someone I knew well... someone for whom I had massive reverence. Icons. Winners.

After the program we all sat for a meal at a few simple tables upstairs at the Beacon Theatre, I think we were. I was at a table with Sly and the Family Stone.  Sly himself was not able to attend, but his mother was there accepting the award on his behalf, and I sat next to the amazing Larry Graham who was polite and a little more subdued than I would have thought.  Prince was alone-- shockingly tiny even in heels-- impeccable, with a true aura as one imagines.  Anyway, all of these people had at some point shaken my world, caused a minor musical earthquake, came onstage with a presence and a concept and a solid performance the likes of which had not been seen or heard before. But the ceremony?  It was simple, unassuming, inexpensive.  No one performed or put on a huge spectacle. The stars were the award recipients.  It was enough... we could sing their songs in our heads.

Today-- we have spectacle... masses and masses of product... choices in galactic numbers that garnish billions of live-streams and instagram looks.  Overwhelming choices. A virtual ocean of brands. Everyone clamoring to create a brand but really less mattering product than ever. And the ones among us who remember... we share a certain nostalgia for what once mattered. The recent extraordinary prices at Christie's for Jim Irsay's collected guitars and things is monetary proof of this nostalgia.  But one thing I am sure of-- whoever paid $14 million  for Dave Gilmour's guitar is not going to be making the kind of music that made it covetable in the first place.

In the current urban Trump-world I find myself disqualified for the health plan I relied on.  As a musican/writer I have slightly more money than a welfare recipient but less than an average teacher.  So what do I do?  I go online to find literally hundreds of choices---all of which are similar but indistinctly different and obviously profiting anyone besides the patient and doctor.  I also learned that one MUST have a prescription drug plan which covers very little until one has paid in close to a fortune to purchase medicines that cost a tiny fraction of what we are charged.  It's a kind of medical blackmail here... and hidden costs and the freedom to change these figures at any time while we the poor subscribers have our banks and social security checks auto-deducted for the privilege of this false security.

I keep reading the phrase 'Original Medicare'. There is nothing original about these plans which dance around the core concept which most of us suckers paid in for our entire lifetime to find we are utterly out in some medical winter.  What is affordable for the likes of me who walks everywhere and has yet to buy a plastic bottle of water?  Am I untreatable? 

So I listened yesterday to the Morphine album Cure for Pain.  May Mark Sandman rest in peace... at least he belonged to a time when music genuinely made us less or more morose, as we chose... when the choices were not overwhelming and the pickings were fewer and fatter. Now every expensive vapid television segment comes with boutique drug marketing of emotional stability in a bottle and unfortunately we Americans are sicker and less happy than ever. The morphing of medicine is beginning to parallel the streaming platforms for music... the thinning quality, the lack of originality and analogue diagnosis.  Even the healthplan names and the insurance companies are designed to entice and deceive the end user. And back I must go diving into this quagmire or I may lose my home if God forbid I should need a prescription. Excuse me while I mutter an 'Ah, humanity'.

Pity the Poor Immigrant

I walk the streets with a running monologue in my head; sometimes it's a poetic kind of voice, other times it's a soliloquy-- a kind of rant or commentary.  The barraging urban incidentals feed this, redirect and influence... sometimes it is chastising and harsh, otherwise gushing and passionate. Most of it evaporates... one cannot document or note everything, and inspirations are corrupted like a warping digital file.  It's a wrap, I think, occasionally, as I invent a short story... and then it is lost in the ever-washing tide of temporary memory. Aging brains have less capacity to compartmentalize these things.  One fails to make notes, and then there is nothing... like a dream which disintegrates as one wakes.

It occurs that as one ages, one is shaped by what one forgets, as much as what one selectively recalls. I texted a friend yesterday that my life is defined more by what I have not done than what I have-- the way I consistently avoided opportunities of success or even a kind of minor celebrity... how I felt compromised by this kind of thing, and adhered to this stringent discipline of seeking my true voice rather than an audience. It probably has not served me, I note, as frothy influencers collect more than my annual income for a shallow momentary display of 'meme-dom'.

We musicians circulate periodic youtube fragments of odd under-known geniuses-- gypsy guitarists, random Eastern European instrumentalists whose personal style has developed unaffected by trends and online platforms.  Some take one's breath away... one discovery from last week, on further research, had died several years ago; fortunately he survived into the mobile phone culture enough to have had dazzled witnesses capture a few performance moments for us. It's humbling.

Fast forward to my regular life-- the email, the constant stream of notifications and requests... it's mind boggling, the number of attachments that accumulate-- the statistical impressiveness these marketing tools provide... the spread of mediocrity like bad mayonnaise on packaged white bread which affects not just taste buds but critical faculties.  We are intellectually worn like smooth stones by the incessant traffic.  I feel like variety has suffered... for every celebrity there are easily 5-10 others who look alike.  With cosmetic procedures, each of these changes facially with every appearance.  Maybe I'm just old and losing visual acuity-- but everything seems to be leveling off. The dumbing down of America which produced the current state of affairs... the rounding of corners...the filing of edges, the general whitewashing disguised as red-white-and-bluewashing.

Since I rarely consult a cellphone, I am inclined to talk to human beings like a crazy person.  It's interesting. Many of those willing and anxious to speak are from other countries.  Their trajectory, even in a five-minute conversation-- is often adventurous, and their take on America reminds me of what I used to believe in.  The drum circle on the North end of the park is comforting somehow-- the camaraderie and the colors... the warmth.  My young Senegalese friend who took me to the hospital after my accident last year--  still struggles but his huge smile and sheer ability to find joy are contagious.  

The Philippine farm workers who come weekly to my neighborhood and sell great vegetables for less than half of the pricey city Greenmarkets... I look forward to their Sunday stand, although they speak little English.  And then in East Harlem-- a new grocer-- with piles of exotic rice sacks and slightly damaged produce that is affordable.  On my block they sell Honeydew melons for $13.99.  Not even spelled right.  But here... they were $3.  I asked a very thin Middle eastern worker to help me pick a ripe one; he offered to cut it... if it is not good, he said, you don't have to buy.  So he disappeared and returned with a knife-master's slice... it was heavenly.  Then he wrapped the two halves in plastic.  Where are you from, I asked? I am Palestinian, he replied. Images of emaciated children and clamoring crowds of hungry desperate parents.. I was overcome with tears... we pray, he assured me.  I am the lucky ones... but fear for my family here.

Outside the 96th Street Mosque a man sells fruit from cartons on the sidewalk.  A blind man with a beautiful face and pale eyes sits in a portable chair for long hours.  If one has no money, one can take something.  These small human dioramas comfort me.  The diversity often disguises a kind of goodness... the hidden geniuses in quiet rooms and the generous gifts of the poor who give not for the deduction or reward but because it is inherent.  

Now that the whole city is being sued... one wonders... where is the sanctuary? I am quick to apologize to these people that the American Dream they sought has let us all down lately.  How many amazing souls are being deported with the bathwater?  Encroaching tides from both sides-- it overwhelms.  Like the general pool, a few from desperation turn to crime as a quick fix, but we in our cracking and chipped glass houses, may we see via our hearts' vision.

Memorial Eurythmics

I attended a zoom memorial tonight for the inimitable Buddy Fox, a true stalwart of the NewYork music scene and a friend and supporter for many years.  It got me thinking-- reminiscing, in the true spirit of memorial services-- afterward watching YouTube footage of various events he produced and organized with the greatest enthusiasm and spirit.  These people who dedicate themselves to the arts for sheer passion are of a dying breed. 

It occurred to me on Thursday that the death of John Lennon, 42 years ago, was a sort of wake-up call for my generation.  Like the assassination of JFK, we all remember where we were.  In 1963 I was a little young to sense the generational significance... but in 1980, the shooting at the Dakota was like a massive loss of innocence. 

Of course, the pre-internet spread of news was slower and the moment of apprehension maybe more memorable.  I was at my job in a highbrow art gallery and of all people my mother called to tell me the news, knowing I'd be devastated.  At the time I worked in an Upper East Side townhouse and took the call in the downstairs kitchen-- on a black rotary wall-phone. The kitchen was visible from the street-- it was a huge vintage 1940's/50's room with the classic red and white vinyl floor-tile and antique, rarely used appliances.  It was like a movie set, and several film directors rented the house out for shoots.  I remember the future Mrs. Spielberg did a romantic comedy there; although they paid for the downstairs rooms, I was allowed to keep working, and I somehow bonded with the actress. She had a nude scene and sat with me on a daybed, between takes, shivering and wrapped in a blanket while we drank coffee.  They also borrowed my old Armstrong silver school flute for a scene... I remembered this all these years later, because it happened close to the time of Lennon's death. 

On that December afternoon I was first disbelieving then inconsolable when my mother phoned; she was still beautiful then, and sympathetic.  Surely I had not yet broken her heart and become a full-time bassist in LES clubs. She knew I'd come across John many times-- in the club he supported, in his home where I visited his neighbors.  We in the city took his presence for granted.  Yes, there were photographers on Central Park West and 72nd Street but for the most part he lived like any New Yorker-- shopping, walking, eating out, etc.  People gave him his freedom from celebrity.  New York was like that in former days.  On December 8, 1980, the news spread quickly-- not instantly like today-- and people began to gather in dazed grief outside the Lennons' home. It was the saddest day in the city... and there we were at the epicenter of a generational wound. 

It occurred to me today that the sorrow of that killing may have had something to do with my commitment to music-- as though one could somehow remedy a tragedy by following a path. I moved shortly thereafter into a loft apartment in a converted factory building... and I felt forever changed, redirected;  it had been a kind of coming-of-age.  The image of that vintage kitchen in the townhouse on 92nd Street (where I met people like Claus von Bulow and Gregory Peck) is forever linked to the sad news.  Time-stamped.

My son and I laughingly confessed to one another that we'd secretly binged on Sex in the City episodes during the pandemic.  I'd shunned this kind of television long before, but I was so homesick for my city during quarantine that I obsessively trolled the Manhattan-Before-1990 site, and watched almost any film with vintage scenes of New York as it was, with the Towers watching over from downtown.  This is the version my son recalls; we spent a year or so of his childhood looking at apartments-- seeking a permanent home, exploring neighborhoods and breathing in the air of old rooms.  We surveyed our home-island from the roof Observatory of the South Tower and sneaked into Windows on the World a few times where I knew a guitar-playing waitress.  

So 9/11 was the second loss of innocence of my life.  My son was only 11, had been to the post-Lennon Dakota for a playdate, but we both felt a sort of cement-bond here, in the tragically sad widowed version of New York.  Things heal, but loss remains like a scar, no matter how many new buildings have changed the skyline and face of the city.  They distract but do not replace.

After the memorial tonight I remembered the also-inimitable Stan Bronstein, who played saxophone in Lennon's New York band, and passed away some years ago.  I was lucky enough to share stages with so many of these fallen heroes of the music scene, many of which were 'orchestrated' by Buddy.

I'm reading World's End by Upton Sinclair.  At the beginning the protagonist, more than 100 years ago, is studying the Dalcroze method of Eurythmics-- an academic and obsolete unique approach to music education.  Thinking back, recalling not just the memorial speeches but the vanished dazzle of the local New York music scene, I feel a little Dalcrozean-- brown-edged vintage, 'on-the-shelf', like a dusty box of souvenirs and old postcards.  I remembered how once I tried to keep up a column where I reviewed $1 cds-- for the surprise, for the back-ended discovery.   There were bins of these-- mostly demos and overlooked efforts, but occasionally I found something-- some gem among the proverbial garbage and flowers.  The shops are gone, for the most part.  Instagram and Tik Tok have their own popularity analytics...  anything can make the statistics today.  

But we are all changed since the Lennon days.  Maybe we were punished for the freedom he was allowed to wander publicly, unprotected.  We were taught some kind of lesson.  But celebrity without instagram, etc... well, it seemed a little more tolerable, a little more human.  One had to earn it.  Not to mention that fame and notoriety were a little more separate... artists were more original and unique... even comedy seemed better.  

As we age, our memories are less accurate; it took a roomful of people to describe the deceased tonight and still we did not do him adequate justice.  Thank goodness most of us can recall the landscape we find in old photos-- and can honor musicians not for what they are but what they were.  Many of them are still here in the city-- the scarred and human version that remains in my mind and heart and will not necessarily rest in peace. 

King of Hearts

About a year ago I found a fat envelope in my mailbox from a man in rural Pennsylvania.  He is 88 years old and enclosed a cover letter explaining he is an artist and wants a gallery show.  Then there were maybe 20 small drawings, collages… he tried everything-- abstract, Miro-esque colors-- even a few erotic line drawings like Picasso-- a Calder-ish piece…  "Hurry up," his note urged-- "I don't have much time left."

I've been meaning to write him, to acknowledge how I appreciated actual paper in this digital email universe, and that among the 'samples' I really could frame and enjoy one or two.  I have yet to do this.  After all, this is not the response he wants.  He wants to be acknowledged, to be known, like so many in this world of cheap fame and public narcissism.  Or maybe he wants to be loved, and he is 88 and this is maybe a path to some kind of invitation.  And like so many artists and musicians in this culture, he is prematurely exhibiting work that has yet to find a purpose-- he is promoting a passion that has not quite matured, and offering goods that are half-baked.  He'll figure this out-- or he won't.  He may be a member of that majority of Americans who walk into MOMA and say their kids are better artists than Pollock or de Kooning.  He can't see the process or the soul-- he can only see his own need.  
And there are just so many examples of contemporary artists whose fame far exceeds their merit-- anything I write him would be a little useless, so I still struggle with this task, see the envelope on my desk every month or so-- worry that his obituary will precede his exhibition, and hope he has found a more productive occupation, or a wall somewhere.

My father died last week.  I should say 'passed away' but he was not an easy man and nothing was peaceful or smooth.   He seemed to have inverted his life in a way; he was a true decorated hero of WWII-- one of the Band of Brothers-- Captain of the 101st Airborne, awarded silver and bronze stars, several purple hearts-- led his troops on the beach at Normandy, the Battle of the Bulge-- suffered wounds, took bullets-- and in the end refused to self-aggrandize for the television journalists, knowing the true heroes went to their graves, and for the survivors-- no matter how admirable their victory-- it's not military macho-ethical to bask.

Then he married my Mom-- a true love story-- 75 years together, 70 as husband and wife…had kids-- and somehow suffered in silent stoic self-denial the post-traumatic stress of his heroism.  He didn't like me much.  I was slated to be the ivy-league hero of his version of the fairy tale.  But I took a hairpin turn.   Not exactly a rebel-- just an independent thinker-- someone who learned from watching the parachute of his life become a claustrophobic soft-fall of personal angst and a kind of failure.  I mean, military accolades and medals--presidential commendations at 25-- like starting out playing Madison Square Garden, the Kennedy Center-- where do you go from there?  Having some kind of fame or acknowledgment too young can fuck us up-- all rock and rollers know that-- it comes with guilt and regret and self-doubt and success is not always good for ambition.

In my generation failure became a kind of cult.  The alternative-- the nerds-- the skinny girls were suddenly beautiful -- the confessional songwriters and Leonard Cohens went straight to our hearts.
I watched my father, witnessed his tough love, his disapproval of my poorer decisions.  He never forgave me for rejecting a Harvard Law scholarship-- I guess to him that was a version of his military medals-a curt and potent reply to the question How is your daughter?  Action that speaks.  And here I am-- farther and farther from his paternal dream… the Princeton girl playing in dive bars, struggling home on subways,  having a baby in a public hospital, raising kids on my own-- wearing used clothing and eating shitty food.  It infuriated him, disrespected him, humiliated him.  I'm a woman now-- a failure, in his esteem… no closure, no accolades that he could comprehend… no house in the country, no husbands he could play tennis with.  He did love my son… an apple that fell just far enough from the tree to please us both.  Then again-- I don't expect kids to fulfill my dream-- I pray only that they fulfill their own.

My artist/'stepmother' who took her own life 2 summers ago at 96-- craved fame.  At the end of her life she had an acclaimed show which could have been a vanity exercise-- we'll never know-- the gallery owners simultaneously took over half of her coveted townhouse, so it was complicated.  But as they say, it didn't suck… and then there was the aftermath-- the future which inevitably comes with more speed than ever, these days… and last month's darling is next month's crumpled flyer.  Her work was difficult-- her physical discomfort at 96 was not conducive to execution and she suffered, more than anything, from a kind of denial of loneliness-- fear of death, fear of losing control--  it obsessed and compelled her to suicide in a sort of elaborate ritual.  She was angry at me at the end.  So was my Dad--
not for anything I did, I must remind myself-- because this is painful-- but because I failed to enhance their personal version of celebrity.  I tried-- I tried hard… but I failed both of them.  After all, as I said-- I embraced the cult of failure long ago.  It is kind of an oath you take when you commit to your own work.  Above all, you must be honest and you must dedicate yourself to finding your truth.  But grieving for these people who are supposed to be your role models and heroes-- is difficult when you have failed them and know that you are not an honored presence at their burial.

On the day my father died I'd planned to attend another funeral-- a waiter I'd known at BB King's for years-- a proud African with a world-beating smile and a sweetness that oozed from his shining skin.  His hugs were healing and wonderful; he never failed to ask about my son; he was playful and affectionate-- had known him since he was a boy.  Anani got cancer and died quickly; I was only notified after his death.  We knew little about him-- he had no family here, a sole brother in Africa.  He lived in his Jersey City church and the small service was held there.  I received the news about my father that morning; somehow I felt disloyal attending another's funeral and my tears might have been duplicitous.  But at my father's spartan burial, I realized I hadn't loved him; I mean, I honored him and respected him as a daughter; but I had never for a moment felt loved.  Me, who weeps over a fallen bird, and finds lyricism in a key trapped in asphalt.  I failed to love my Dad.  Dropping the shovel of dirt on his grave, I thought of Anani-- the lovely, loving human who was so alone and gave every single one of us so much of his heart.   But I also forgave my father for not loving me.  I apologized for my choices, and thanked some God-- not his-- that I had followed my passion because we can never make anyone happy in this world.  We can love-- we can give generously-- we can comfort-- but for happiness we are on our own.  

When my stepmother died, she was so angry at me for not furthering her career that it was easier to let her go.  I have learned to protect myself when someone withholds.  I am no longer the girl that falls hard for men who cannot give love, like my Dad.  I love easily-- I love strangers, I love my band members.  I looked at my son during the burial service and I know how I love him, but how I would never put a price on that.   I love my nephew and my niece, even though they are cautioned not to trust me.  My Dad was a military man; he chose sides and he chose my sister.  I don't see things that way, but I accept her enmity and do not waste my heart.  We were once children and I had her back and now is now.  I know too much.  I think I have his brain, but as for the rest, I feel even physiologically allied with my Mom.  She has lost her mental capacity, but I know she loved me.  I love her as a daughter and as a woman.  At the lovely cemetery in the country, I looked skyward for strength on a cold and sunny day.  How many deaths were being celebrated and mourned that day… so many… even right there in that place-- they were all around us.  Happy families-- sad families--  widows and orphans--life goes cruelly and mercifully on.  In the sky above formations of birds were providing a silent funeral dance-- visual music.  They fly in unison, these birds-- a kind of harmony we humans must learn and practice.  So many of us do not find comfort in our own kind or kin… but that is okay.

When I got home I cooked dinner for my older upstairs neighbors and some newer friends.  I love my friends.  I felt loved and I felt better.  It has been a week now; I've worked and written and found a version of closure.  Tonight I put one of my pen-pal-artist's pieces in a frame.  At least he will have a private exhibition here, he will be quietly acknowledged, wherever he is, among my home collection of celebrated and uncelebrated artists.. .and that is more than many of us will have.  My friend came by and noticed it-- I love that little collage, she said, and who did that?  I gave his name, without the history… and now Mr. Aubuchon is having his quiet Warholian moment.

A few extraordinary things have happened this week.  Maybe in some version of the story my father will become my angel, my advocate from the afterlife.  As I thought that thought today, the word angel appeared on my screen from elsewhere.  I am remembering going to work with my Dad, having breakfast with him at the Trattoria near Grand Central, and him showing up for Grandparent's Day at my fatherless son's school picnic.  This is progress, this is better.  I will always have my stepmother's lovely paintings on my wall--- the best of these are the ones she liked least.  They speak to me with clarity and strength; they inspire me.  Anani, I will never forget you.  The King, your commemorative poster at B B King's called you… because you had a royal soul.  You were an angel in life and death; there must be some medal for that in heaven-- a gold heart?  Amen. A-women.

Let Her Eat Cake

So… how long ago was it that we had the cartoon of Paris Hilton in her little sexy devil costume entering Hell, with Satan himself licking his chops like the Red Riding Hood wolf, the flames all around, and the caption, of course: ‘It’s hot!’

Well, I guess prison, or the version poor Paris experienced, was not air-conditioned. Paris got a heat-rash…or maybe it was a yeast infection, or prickly heat or jock-itch or something unattractive. And she was afraid to pee, or worse. Like the entire world audience hasn't seen everything and more. A potty shot, compared to that video, would be fairly demure. Can you imagine what the press is offering those prison guards for such contraband? Better than a winning lotto ticket and certainly worth losing one's job over. Heck, even if you'd have to do time-- I'm sure prison-guards get special inmate-status. It would be like getting a huge gratuity from Paris. A pay-back. Because there's no actual tipping in jail. But can you imagine the paycheck for that one little Kodak second? And then the book deal...

Did you ever notice how pathetic your child looked in time-out posture, with that sad, tilted face, all baby-cute and sorry…and the second you give the signal, he is back again pulling dog tails, smashing his little sister over the head and whacking balls around the living room? I wonder occasionally how many times the Hiltons actually punished their children. They are so apparently lenient and doting through all the unattractive public displays from which their lovely daughter has not only emerged unscathed, but profited. She and Britney Spears have written the new book on shame because any behavioral deviation is now processed not as embarrassing or incriminating, but with a shrug and a new interpretation of the word pride. Complete lack of shame is a punk-rock thing. Edgy and bold. Not too long ago Fergie, who peed in her pants onstage, shrugged her shoulders, and actually was admired for what might have sent an older-generation celebrity to a sanatorium. The new breed of publicists taught these girls: don’t be embarrassed, flaunt your errors. Own them and smile. The rest of the world will be wanting one, too. Your popped boob will be looked at millions of times worldwide on Youtube, your celebrity stock value will skyrocket. Shame is in the eye of the beholder.

Has there been any other frontpage news since poor little Paris went to grown-up jail? And I thought she had all that practice slumming it with her friend Nicole in those reality shows where they actually had to cook and shovel things and vacuum. I guess when you’re earning millions it’s fun to take out the garbage on camera. So was it the lack of entertainment in prison? The lack of audience? What caused our girl to break down during her little time out? I’m sure no one touched her. I’m sure she didn’t have to use the community showers or feel threatened. In fact I’m sure her little cell is nicer than your average low-income motel-room. Better than some college dorms. But whatever—it provoked a full-blown anxiety attack or tantrum which required some unspecified psychotropic drugs to subdue.

And our Paris was so contrite—had learned sooo much from her 2 or 3 days in the cheery quarters which are cleaner and larger than the average New York City apartment. Until they decided to send her back for just a little bit more time. Obviously 'No' is a word not often heard in the Hilton household. What does one do for a celebrity tantrum? We all feel so sorry for her. NOT. How in Hilton Hell did that LA sheriff make such an insane decision? It took a Bob Dylan epic song and years of pleas and political demonstrations to get Hurricane justice. But the Hilton brat? Well, it seems her grandfather partly funded this particular sheriff’s re-election campaign and called in the favor. Rich people are smart. Why, in this day and age, Marie Antoinette would have an ankle bracelet and plenty of cake.

And did anyone else notice the tiny item in the Post on Friday relating how the younger Hilton had been mugged near Penn Station. I’m sure he was innocent, too… maybe copping some drugs, flashing his wallet around, whatever. Maybe he was jealous of the attention his sister was getting. Maybe he wanted to join her, keep her company---a Hiltonian sacrifice for his family.

So now what? Jail didn’t hurt Martha Stewart any, but she didn’t have a public melt-down, either. She wore her poncho for the photographers and went home. Personally I can’t afford any more summer holiday than a daytrip to the Rockaways on the A train. That jail cell looks to me like an all-expenses paid holiday from my whining teenagers. No such luck for the mildly and uncelebrated wicked. I won’t get a book deal or a prison sentence and if I did it wouldn’t be worth a mention in the papers. Crime doesn’t pay, for poor people. Not like for Paris and Martha and their fortunate jurors and guards.


My kids have their Free Paris wristbands which someone has already made a small fortune out of. They wish their parents had named them after a European hotel, also. Then they wouldn’t need a stage-name in the future. The Hiltons had it all figured, I guess. All under control. And if little Paris has to spend two weeks without alcohol and drugs in her little cell, at least now she’ll be prescription medicated and it won’t be so bad. Like nitrous oxide for the rich at the dentist’s office. And she’ll lose a few pounds, be able to swap clothes with the anorexic Nicole, write the 23-day Celebrity Prison Diet book. I spent worse summers at Girl Scout camp. With poison ivy.

Here’s a little game: Remove the word ‘prison’ from Paris Hilton…what’s left? All you anagram fans can go to town on that one. Maybe she’ll get to play solitaire scrabble in her cell and figure it out. I wonder what she is reading: Dostoevsky? Kafka? Arthur Koestler? Tough to concentrate when you have cell-phone withdrawal. My son just lost his and he is having a Hiltonian tantrum. Maybe he can borrow one of Paris’ while she’s not using it. Just think of all the rollover minutes she’s socking away.

And a little sisterly caution to Paris: Don't forget to flush.