Paris Hilton's teary screams to her mama, pleading with her to save her from the slammer (and just as bad, the color orange which is almost impossible to wear) told me all I needed to know. Acorn, meet tree. Both believed that they were entitled to special privileges and what possessed that numbskull judge not to see that?
On the other hand, the unseemly scene softened my view of Paris, who at 26, is getting a bit long in the tooth for the youthful indiscretion defense. With only her mama to save her, as they reached out perfectly manicured hands to one another, I was reminded of Michelangelo's beautiful cracked fresco depicting the outstretched fingers of God reaching to Adam. OK, maybe not.
Truth is, I know lots of Southern women who had two or three knee babies by the time they were 26, so there wasn't a lot of time for drunken dinners at Il Sole followed by clubbing and homemade porn with one's current squeeze.
Paris, turning to her mama to fix everything, delivered a quintessentially Southern, and possibly even heartfelt, performance.
Sure, her mama's as shallow as a pie plate but, even so, Paris knew that when all else failed, Mama would fix things or at least die trying.
Remember in "Steel Magnolias" how Sally Field gave her daughter a kidney? If she had been a real Southern mama, she'd have offered both of 'em up along with her heart.
I'm not saying that being a protective mama is strictly a Southern quality (curse?), but I do believe that a Southern mama is statistically more likely to plunge a butter knife into the gut of anyone who would ever hurt her baby girl, even if the baby girl is old enough to wear faux denim Koret pantsuits and order "senior coffee."
We simply won't accept seeing our daughters unhappy, even if they've brought it all on themselves.
You don't ever read headlines about a mama in, say, North Dakota, plotting to kill off her daughter's competition for chief cheerleader or prom queen or even valedictorian (if'n she's homely).
Naw. It's always some crazy Southern mama who does stuff like that. That, and banana pudding warm from the oven, is how we show our love.
Oh, and one more thing. I'm tired of the same people who seem to know every nuance of Paris' problems complaining about how she's dominating the news. ("If only they'd stop talking about her, I could resume reading my Mensa journals. Osgood, my good man, another snifter of brandy!") Shut up; you love it or you'd turn the danged channel.
Y'all know I'm right.