#the00s

Kitson temporarily closed its doors so Britney could shop in peace. The customers they turned away in the meantime didn’t matter, the wallpaper of paparazzi pressed against the glass were creating more than enough publicity to make up for it. The paps had been tipped off, assured the Princess of Pop would arrive no later than noon. Britney, dressed in a light pink Juicy Couture tracksuit and Uggs would make for a pricey photo, a sure seller to Star Magazine, Us, or newcomer InTouch. Perez Hilton would pick up the story, as always - he was paid to. Britney was also getting paid, but she didn’t know how much. As she perused the shop’s lackluster inventory, she assumed correctly that this gig was constructed to put more money in her management’s pocket than her own.

She was required to spend a minimum of twenty minutes in the store, and while she knew she didn’t necessarily need anything, she figured why not pick out something for that night’s party at the Playboy Mansion. Britney strolled alongside the tables stacked with bedazzled designer jeans and statement tees (was she Team Aniston or Jolie?), lightly caressing the velour hoodies as she walked past, her mind elsewhere. She took note of an illustration that read “Jesus Is My Homeboy,” to which she agreed, but felt the message plastered onto a $48 t-shirt a tad sacrilegious. More often now, Britney preferred to keep her spirituality private, a personal subject that wasn’t discussed outside her immediate family. 

In fact, it was her family that distracted her most during this manufactured shopping spree. Her two baby sons, Sean and Jayden, the lights of her life. How she wished she could stay home with them tonight, rather than go out on the town yet again. If only it weren’t for Kevin, how she loved that man. A good father, a loyal husband, an honest friend. If only he wanted to stay home with the kids more often, instead of running around Tinseltown every single night. He was a father now, didn’t that change him? They had a family to raise; they had each other. With everything you could ever want at home, who needs the club?

A shop girl softly touched her arm. Britney, having been lost in her thoughts, came back to reality and found herself staring in a mirror, wearing a plaid fedora. Startled by her surroundings and not entirely unimpressed by the hat, she decided she’d buy it to satisfy her contractual obligation. The store manager rung up the sale, applied a steep discount, and handed over several half-empty bags of cheap, branded merchandise. After all, departing the store with arms weighted down by baby blue shopping bags was the reason Britney was paid to show up at all.

As Kitson’s doors opened, Britney stepped out into a swarm of paparazzi, immediately absorbed over eighty flashes before slinking into the backseat of her white Escalade. The paparazzi blocked the car from moving forward in an effort to capture the coveted ‘head-on angle’ that worked when tinted side windows got in their way. Britney’s driver slowly moved through the crowd, careful not to run over anyone’s foot and launch a lawsuit. Britney looked down and stared at the floor. Eventually the Escalade made its way through the pack, picked up speed, and drove down Robertson Boulevard until they were out of sight.

“Lock the door!!” Nicole Richie burst into Hef’s personal gilded bathroom and hid herself deep inside the empty black marble tub. Her BFF Paris Hilton calmly closed the large oak door behind them and went to sit on the tub’s edge with her friend. “I’m so over this!” Nicole yelled, her face buried in her hands, obscured by dyed strands of blonde and black hair. “This party is like all the rest! We’ve partied every night for years, and they’re only getting worse! Remember when it was fun, Paris? Remember when we could just go to house parties and get wasted and no one would care? Before the TV cameras, before the paparazzi? What does TMZ stand for anyway?? Now I can’t hold a drink without the tabloids saying I was wasted, not to mention how fat or anorexic I am! I don’t want this life anymore! Why can’t I just be accepted for who I am: an intelligent woman with a sense of humor and the deep desire of becoming a mother?”

Paris was glowing. The vanity’s overhead lights created a halo around her platinum blonde hair that cascaded down upon her spray-tanned shoulders. She cocked her head ever so slightly to the side, as she did in every photo, and looked down lovingly on her bestie in the tub. “Nicole, you know I love you, and I understand your frustration, but you know as well as I do that we have a reputation to uphold. Our public personas are a business, and a lot of people rely on our business to keep food on their table. The photographers on the street, the clubs that hire us for appearances, the entire production team behind The Simple Life, they count on us. Not to mention our stylists, hairdressers, makeup artists, trainers, assistants, chefs, maids, managers, PR agents, drivers, lawyers, dog walkers…If we let all this go and sank back into anonymity, it would mean losing their livelihoods. We’re businesswomen  and our personas are the product, you know that. They say we’re not famous for anything real, that we don’t work, that it’s not earned, but they just don’t get it yet. We’re performance artists, and fame is our medium. I’m just as shocked as you are that we’re the only ones doing it. You’re overwhelmed, and that’s understandable, but this is the work that they’re saying we don’t do. The contractual obligations to party at certain places on certain nights, the public scrutiny that comes the morning after, the surreal experience of watching your name and likeness be torn apart by every media outlet. It’s hard physical and emotional work, but what we’re doing is shaping the world. You and me Nicole, everything from the clothes we wear to the catchphrases we coin, we’re cultivating the look and feel of our era. ‘That’s hot’ isn’t just a silly saying, it’s an idea. Look around, things really are hot! Pop culture is blowing up and we’re the fuel! Who we are, what we represent…we’re in the eye of a hurricane that’s leveling America with raw sex, shameless exposure, powerful princesses, and unlimited fame! When was the last time a young woman ran her own empire? We are the feminist icons that womankind looks to for hope and inspiration! As much as the media wants to tear women down, we’re all they can talk about! This decade has been overthrown by women, and because we’re dressed in pink, they underestimate our strength. We are the influential platinum blondes of our generation, we dictate the aesthetics and attitude of Hollywood, and therefore the world. This isn’t something to run away from, Nicole, we are setting the groundwork of the New Millennium for mankind.”