The Hoosegow for Paris

On the day that Paris Hilton was sent back to jail, the Los Angeles bureau chief of the New York Times breezed out of her office and announced, "Well, hell froze over today!" I looked up from my work at the front desk and asked, "What do you mean?" My so-called boss lingered just long enough to tell me, with her trademark sneer, that the plight of the pampered, vapid heiress would be on page 1 of Saturday's paper.

Right. In the old days, hell would freeze over before the New York Times put a story about a sobbing society girl caught in the maw of the Los Angeles County legal system on the front page. About how she was taken in handcuffs from her Hollywood Hills mansion and deposited unceremoniously in the back of a black and white police cruiser. About how the first unbeauteous moment of her life was captured and delivered to the globe by one of a swarm of photographers snapping shots from around the car when she turned her blotchy-red face towards the world of freedom she was leaving behind. Gone forever is the image of Paris Hilton as a sublimely entitled, glamorous goddess for whom the rules don't apply.

I've paid scant attention to Ms. Hilton, who appears puzzlingly one-dimensional and frankly vacant. I couldn't comprehend the fuss over this flimsy creature. My sister Carolyn actually cancelled her Vanity Fair subscription when they put her on the cover. "Who is she?" Carolyn exclaimed. "She's nothing! She hasn't done anything! All she is is rich. It's despicable."

One day, I ran into her on Robertson Boulevard in Beverly Hills. Actually, what I saw at first was a gaggle of photographers surrounding a blonde head that bobbed as it crossed the street amidst the flashing bulbs. "Who is that?" I asked an ogling bystander. "Paris Hilton!" Of course. Emerging from Kitson or some such place. If I scanned a future copy of InStyle Magazine I'd likely catch a photo of that moment along with a blurb about the $350 t-shirt Paris had purchased that day. I might even see myself bug-eyed in the background.

Except I wasn't bug-eyed. I stood pensively as she passed within six feet of me. I was struck by an earthy loveliness that contrasted with her smug glam shots, and sensed a sweetness in her aura. Okay, maybe that's just the sweetness of having so much money that you don't have to make a living working for some abusive bullying asshole. But a photographer recently told me that Paris actually is kinda sweet. He said he'd covered a runway show that month, and Paris was the only model who came out afterwards and politely thanked everyone who had participated. "But don't get me wrong," he hastily added, not wanting to seem like an admirer, "I know there's really no excuse for her reckless arrogance!"

Now that she's been ordered back to jail, she will learn some lessons about true character in the absence of the trappings of wealth. All the crying for her mommy and all of her stratospheric privilege could not protect her from the consequences of the indifference she exhibited in the wake of her DUI conviction.

I can't gloat too much about it, though. In fact, I can't gloat at all. I've been there - there in one of those police cars, handcuffed. It ain't fun. It's humiliating. Unlike Paris, however, I got my hysteria out of the way during the arrest and pulled myself together in the long aftermath because I knew the rules applied to me, and like the good girl scout I'd always been, I obeyed them.

Paris did not get hysterical during her arrest or during her probationary period because she didn't think the rules applied to her. Or maybe her publicist forgot to explain. She didn't think she'd have to spend any cold nights in jail. They really do only give you three blankets (actually, in my case, just one, but fortunately the big suede jacket I was wearing the night I was arrested came in handy). I didn't have to wear an orange jumpsuit like Paris does now, because I took every aspect of the DUI legal process seriously and therefore wasn't ever sentenced to punitive jail time. I did not drink. I did not ever once drive in the six month probation period. I signed up immediately for the "drunk class" education courses and spent three hours every Monday night for three months being scolded by a big black guy named Dan. And I went to the mandatory AA meetings.

Paris did none of these things. No pun intended, but I sure hope she gets with the program. Johnny Law takes this DUI shit seriously. There's lots of money being made by those drunk education schools and from fees by the courts. Most seriously, folks die on the road every day because of drunk drivers. When I think about how much I went through and how much it all cost - thousands of dollars may mean nothing to Paris, but for me it meant taking on a second job to get through the ordeal - I'd frankly be really pissed off if she didn't have to get with the program just like I did.

At the same time, I do think the judge is being overly harsh (making a reverse example of her, if you will) and that Sheriff Baca likely pulled her out of jail for good reason (most likely hysterical claustrophobia). But Paris's mommy hasn't helped matters much and that didn't sit well with the judge. Kathy Hilton was there snickering in the courtroom at Paris's original hearing every time the judge mentioned the possibility of jail time. She was snickering because - come on, no judge was really going to send a Hilton to jail. And then when Paris was sentenced, how mommy dearest screamed "No!!!" How reality dawned with a big ugly boom in that bimbo billionaire brain of hers. And now her daughter is paying. Not that it's entirely mommy's fault, of course, but the apple probably didn't fall far from the tree.

So good luck, Paris. It's a real tough way to learn a lesson. I found a way to transform my shame into one of the best turning points of my life. I hope you will too, girl.