Lindsay Lohan’s nth circle of hell

Posted by @ 11:04 pm on April 24th, 2009


Mark Baumer pointed me towards this interesting post on the FSG blog in which Kevin Guilfoile selects Lindsay Lohan’s scrambled ad-libbed rants, and with a quick line break, proposes unlikely poetry authored by her. He compares these ‘collaborative’ poems (see related Rumsfeld poetry post) with Lohan’s lyrics, easily establishing the former’s more literary sensibilities — which gets me thinking: the inadvertent tongue, coked out or not, is often closer to one’s truth. The much inferior ‘utilitarian’ song lyric of hers may implicate how sometimes intent (commercial, aesthetic, whatever) in writing has nothing to do with it.

Of course, stream of consciousness is an old bag and Burroughs an old man. I’m not saying ‘let’s go crazy’ yada yada (dada dada?) I’m just saying there’s a lesson here — stop making sense (the name of this reference is the talking heads). Or,

The Burn Books of Hollywood
By Lindsay Lohan

Oh my God,
I’m not working,
And I have a house
To pay for now. And yes,
The web sites,
The gossip pages,
And all of that stuff
Have hurt my career—
They’re like the
Burn books of Hollywood.

lindsayI heard somewhere that fallen/ing celebrities are our sacrificial lambs. We hunger their demise, and need a new one every year. All Lindsay Lohan wants is to ‘be in Oscar-nominated films.’ There’s something really touching about that, how she doesn’t even need to win. It’s like being nominated for a Pushcart, sometimes that will just have to do.

Emily Dickinson probably never got laid. Lindsay Lohan probably the opposite. I imagine both of them, dick or no dick, braving their lonely and lost days with a barely controllable urge to explode. Life has a way of turning us into human fireworks that can’t reach the sky. Writers have a better aesthetic understanding of this shit, and can mold it into ‘literature.’ For someone ‘normal’ like Lindsay, all she has is her heart. And what a full and bloated heart it is.