In Search of Cordelia

I did the strangest thing tonight. I turned on the TV while I was cleaning house. I never do this because I find TV too distracting on the one hand, and on the other, when it's worth watching, I like to give it my full attention.


Even stranger, I let the channel rest on a reality show. I never watch reality shows; I'm allergic to them.


Even stranger, said reality show was Paris Hilton: My New BFF.


Did I mention I *never* do this? Never.


But this show was like a road accident. I simply could not turn away. It was so repulsive, I had to investigate to see what makes it tick. I do this for you, Dear Readers. May my sacrifice not be in vain.


First, a quick update. Paris Hilton is in search of a best friend (thus BFF: Best Friends Forever). Apparently her last one betrayed her in some vague, unforgivable fashion. So here she is: bereft. She doesn't look bereft. In fact, she looks rich, spoiled, and vulgar. But I digress.


Let the auditions begin. The young hopefuls line up to proclaim their undying love.


What's wrong with this picture?


I mean, besides the fact she puts these foolish, pitiable creatures through all manner of humiliation.


Besides the fact that the very idea of *auditioning* for a best friend is so patently artificial that it knaws at my moral center with a squirmy, maggoty determination.


Besides the fact that not once--not *once*--in all the effusive offerings of trueness and loyalty did anyone ask what Paris was going to bring to this relationship.


And as I watched on with appalled fascination, Paris up on her throne, surveying her little kingdom, suddenly it hit me: Well, it's Lear, isn't it? "Which of you shall we say doth love us most?" Except Shakespeare did it with style, taste, and a considerably better ear for poetry.


But it occured to me then what I was waiting for: I was waiting for Cordelia to step forward and say boldly (paraphrased), "Nothing. I give you nothing. No love, more or less, than what you deserve."


Of course, there is no Cordelia. And even if there were, Paris would never recognize her for her worth. Not until, Lear-like, Paris too was stripped of her power and left naked and raving in a thunderstorm. It doesn't bear thinking about...


Poor Paris. Poor thing.
For thy fake love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.






94 Days til the Burn