Round and round and round we go
Ah well, the sad saga of Paris Hilton continues. So, now there is a petition on her site, calling for all her fans to let governor Arnie know that her public needs Paris - need her not to go to jail, that is. We can only hope that the guv will answer: I’ll get back to you.
(Mind you, it would be rather nice to have some sort of Free Willy campaign for Paris Hilton. Especially if that would end up with her swimming in splendid isolation in some Norwegian fjord. Better even if she could just simply do what Willy did and leave all of us in peace.)
Life can be a lonely business though, at times - and it’s not only us, humans, who feel like we’re alone in the desert: birds do it, E.T. does it - Hell, even very ugly and incredibly alien creatures like Dick ‘the Vice’ Cheney do it: the whole damn world and its neighbours are looking for LUV…
(By the way, can you imagine the face of that poor working girl when her trick or treat of that night proved to be Dick Cheney? Close your eyes and think of England indeed. Though with Cheney more desperate measures would be needed. Most of the rest of the world has been trying to pretend for ages that he isn’t there and that hasn’t worked so well either.)
Anyway, all of us feel there’s something lacking in our lives. When we’re married, we cheat; when we’re alone we want love: the real thing most of all - but any surrogate will do really, latex or otherwise. And when we’re dead, we’re still at it, reaching out for our loved ones.
(And now the queen of bad taste, the arbiter of cheap feel good values and the undisputed darling of dumbed down, daytime television, yes, indeed, Oprah herself, is now giving away men to her faithful studio audience. Ah yes, the woman knows very well what all of us are looking for, in those deep and lonely pockets of our very souls.)
People need to connect, it seems. Army colonels fall in love with robots and psychopaths & coke-heads find their personalized versions of God. And, over our coffees, on our typewriters and laptops, the rest of us just moan, to our friends or in splendid isolation, with the poet:
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I’m picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
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