An open letter to Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger
By: Gilbert Garcia
As you surely know, the state of California is currently suffering through a crisis of unprecedented urgency. I’m not talking about the Griffith Park fire, the state health-care mess, the looming budget crunch, the immigration debate, or prison overcrowding. I guess those issues are kind of important, but let’s face it, they’re pretty boring. If you worked for US Weekly or In Touch, would you want to get a picture of some balding, number-crunching Calfornia assemblyman or an exclusive shot of Paris Hilton ordering onion rings at the Carl’s Jr drive-thru? You don’t have to answer that question. It sort of answers itself.
Anyway, as Billy Bush recently reported on Access Hollywood, some gavel-pounding grandstander in a pervy black robe has sentenced Paris to 45 days behind bars simply for driving her sweet new Mercedes when she wasn’t supposed to. You responded by saying you would not get involved in this matter. I appeal to you, however, by noting that in the movie Commando, you eloquently stated: “Remember, Sully, when I told you I was going to kill you last? I lied.”
On behalf of millions of Paris-ites out there, I can only hope that when you promised to leave Ms. Hilton hanging, you once again lied. I enthusiastically join with Paris’s friend, Joshua Capone, in calling for you to use your executive powers to pardon Paris. As Capone wrote in his petition: “She provides hope for young people all over the U.S. and the world. She provides beauty and excitement to (most of) our otherwise mundane lives.”
Speaking for myself, I can say that when Paris lit up the silver screen with her indelible performance as Paige Edwards in House of Wax, she gave me a good reason to persist with my monotonous, dull-ass existence. Let’s get real, Conan: Halle Berry walked, Winona Ryder walked, and Brandy’s probably locking up a big-screen version of Moesha as we speak. And none of them have nearly as many MySpace friends as Paris.
By the way, Paris is very good to her friends. When her buddy Brandon Davis started riffing in public about how Lindsay Lohan is a “fire crotch” and “has freckles coming out of her vagina and her clitoris is 7 feet long,” Paris giggled with girlish delight and whispered “I love you” to him while pretending to carry on a cell-phone conversation. It may have been the most inspiring moment in the history of this great nation.
And remember the time Kimberly “Do Ya Think My Dad Is Sexy?” Stewart crashed her motorcycle in front of a million photographers at a Maxim party? Paris instantly defused the tension by laughing at her. And don’t forget, Paris convinced Britney Spears to go Brazilian Wax-commando on their week-long blitz of LA nightspots last fall, so Britney could finally prove to the paparazzi that she’s a serious artist.
I refer you to The Running Man, in which you and Maria Conchita Alonso had to run for your lives while Richard Dawson, that smarmy, futuristic game-show host, hunted both of you down. I feel that Paris is The Running Woman of our time. All she wants to do is lead the simple life of a filthy-rich hotel heiress: eat corn dogs, hang out backstage at Fall Out Boy shows, text-message Tom Green, make out with Greek shipping heirs, drop the n-word like a greasy old Klansman, and dish dirt about all her skeletal pals. But the cops and judges are playa-hatin’ nerds sitting by themselves in the high-school cafeteria of life, and they all despise ’cause they can’t get a rise.
Let’s forget for a moment that Paris’s hit song “Jealousy” was about Nicole Richie. Those two have patched things up, and I just saw them together at Mr. Chow last week, and they were looking good, girlfriend. The message of that song transcends the specifics of any incident in which Nicole possibly invited friends over to watch, and laugh at, Paris’s sex tape. Here’s a quote from that song: “I was always happy when I was watching you become a star/ but you were only happy when the world was opening up my scars.”
Governor Schwarzenegger, you were the kindergarten cop, so you know what it’s like out there in the streets of Bel Air. It’s dog eat dog, then dog go back to the toilet stall and purge dog, and slip back to the VIP room and blow some powder with the other dogs. I mean, it’s a vicious, canine type of thing.
Show the world how compassionate a steroid-crazed, action-star governor can be. Save Paris from the slammer. And good luck with that global warming thing.
The Paris-itic Warrior