The Queen of Hot Messes: Why Lindsay Isn’t Getting My Sympathy


Published: April 13, 2011

As a child, there was one actress whose films I’d ditch playing dress up with my mother’s scarves and dresses for. Her name was Lindsay Lohan. My grandmother in particular reveled in the fact that she could flip on “The Parent Trap” and prop me in front of the television for two hours, all without the slightest bit of protest from my vivacious, 9-year-old self.

Lindsay was supposed to be America’s next sweetheart, but instead she’s become America’s most famous hot mess. (DARLA KHAZEI/ABACA PRESS/MCT)

Several years later, I held a “Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen”-themed birthday party, during which I forced friends and family alike to refer to me as Lola in honor of Lindsay’s character. My “Mean Girls” phase (throughout which I said the word “fetch” more times than I’d like to admit) came and went. By 2005, I was begging my parents to allow me to dye my hair an unnatural shade of red, á la Lindsay.

As the years passed, the former high school drama queen was faced with some real life drama of her own as gossip reporters ate up stories of her DUI charges, failed drug tests and alleged thefts of clothing and jewelry. Eventually, Lindsay’s squeaky-clean reputation was quashed under mounds of her own dirty laundry (maybe that’s why she’s been caught commando so many times).

Nevertheless, we continue to hear more news about this pop tart’s life than those revered A-listers who build houses in third world countries. And though I cringed at her Girls-Gone-Wild behavior as I packed away all remnants of this fallen star, I simply can’t seem to move on.

While I am quick to admit I counted myself among the Lindsay worshippers in my youth, I have since lost any sympathy for the hot mess her life has become. And if I’m still hooked on every scandal-ridden detail, I might as well enjoy it.

During my lazy mornings lounging around on the couch with a mug of coffee and a box of chocolate (as a graduating senior, I’ve earned it), I’ll stalk Perez and wonder why his heinous blog has so many followers before eating up every tidbit of the latest “news” on my ex-idol.

Most recently, the Lohans decided to fan the family flames by dropping their last name as a jab at Michael Lohan, Lindsay’s allegations-ridden father. He’s made yet another half-hearted public apology to the family for his latest series of wrongs, which includes a domestic violence allegation from a former fling.

Lindsay (not) Lohan will be among the ranks of some of the best known and most talented superstars of our time like Madonna, Cher and Bono. And the worst part about it is that if we all stopped caring tomorrow, it wouldn’t matter if she claimed to be the reincarnation of the Virgin Mary.

So why can’t we seem to sever all ties with the attention-hungry diva? It’s really quite simple: sensational, scandal-ridden stories sell. From Miley’s latest pole dance to Britney’s butchered, new, DIY hairdo, we continue to take in the latest gossip like the sites will all shutter for good tomorrow.

Do I really want to read about billionaires trying to save the world with their 12 non-profits while I’m frantically attempting to ward off senioritis, apply for every vacant position in New York and create some sort of life plan that doesn’t involve sleeping in a box in Central Park?

Absolutely not. Give me Lindsay, Britney, Miley and Gaga’s latest otherworldly performance. It beats stalking my exes for news of their latest flings any day.

Maybe I should be sympathetic to Lindsay’s plight. Thrust into showbiz by her parents as a young child, she’s spent her life in the spotlight and under scrutiny. Every family fight was documented. Every precarious position was photographed and plastered over the Internet. But it’s not like she’s been trying to keep her personal life out of the tabloids.

When you are a celebrity and go out in public commando donning a short skirt, what do you think is going to happen? And when the first two terms that pop up next to your name in a Google search are “necklace,” followed by “court,” it’s blaringly obvious you need to step out of the spotlight and get your act together.

It’s time to grow up, Lindsay. Until then, I’m going to continue patting myself on the back for never stealing a necklace from a jewelry store while my old souvenirs from Lindsay’s glory days rot away in the garage.

I might be a jobless graduate in roughly a month-and-a-half, but at least when I party with all of the other twenty-somethings still stuck in their parents’ basements, I won’t be trying to hide an alcohol-monitoring ankle bracelet all night.