Paris Is Not An Island
Paris Hilton wants a transformation. No, she doesn't want some of those little plastic toys that you twist around and change from a robot to a dinosaur that shoots rockets from its eyes, she wants to transform herself from the airheaded bimbo we have grown to know and love into someone we should take seriously. No, I'm serious.
She wants us to forget that she was ever a club-hopping, spit-swapping, firecrotch-laughing, pouty-posing, drunk-driving party animal of an heiress, and she wants to reinvent herself as someone worthy of our respect:
As you may remember from the incessant news coverage, Hilton spent 23 days this summer in jail for violating her probation on a DUI charge. Like so many ex-cons before her, she says that she emerged a changed woman. She's cut her hair and moved into a paparazzi-proof gated community. She's cut back on the clubbing and even—ohmygod—changed her phone number. "There are a lot of bad people in L.A.," she says. "Before, my life was about having fun, going to parties—it was a fantasy. But when I had time to reflect, I felt empty inside. I want to leave a mark on the world."
While I do give Paris props for doing some self-reflection (and I truly believe she has, as much as she is capable at this point in her life), I have to wonder if a leopard can change its pink, sequined spots so quickly. After all, the only life Paris has known is one of privilege, with little to no want or restrictions, save that pesky little stint in the pokey. It's difficult to go from a life of doing whatever one wishes, to a life of self-control.
And just what does Paris want to do, anyway? Well, for starters, she's going on a charity mission to Rwanda. Yes, that Rwanda. If "Paris Hilton" and "Rwanda" sound like oxymorons to you (and no, I am not calling Paris an ox moron), they do to me as well. I'm not saying that Paris' newfound philanthropy is not genuine, because it very well may be. But I'm not so sure that she knows exactly what she's getting into:
She'll be in Rwanda for five days, visiting schools and health-care clinics and bunking in decidedly un-Hilton-like accommodations. "I'm scared, yeah. I've heard it's really dangerous," she says. "I've never been on a trip like this before." She says she'll resort to eating candy bars if that's what it takes to get her through any foreign-cuisine issues.
Well, I hope she is packing them in her suitcases, because I don't think that Rwanda will have a 24-hour Walgreen's on the corner. And she does realize that chocolate melts in warm conditions, right?  I think the last thing I'd be worrying about there is what I'm going to eat or how I'm going to keep my candy bar from melting. And if being in jail caused her to have panic attacks, Rwanda might be even more likely to unsettle her. Continued on the next page
