When Lindsay Lohan entered a court ordered ninety-day lock down rehab stint at Morningside Recovery in Newport Beach, California, she fled the facility after a few hours because she “didn’t need rehab.” Prosecutors disagreed; unlike Lindsay they remembered court orders, that New York Times article, and everything else that has happened to Lindsay in the last eight years. Fearing jail, Lindsay replaced her dip-shit attorney with her eternal savior Shawn Holley, who sent her ass to Lindsay’s rehab of choice, the Betty Ford Clinic. Ever the socialite, Lindsay said she was happy to return to Betty Ford–Lindsay “knows everyone” at Betty Ford. It’s practically the Dream Hotel, as far as she’s concerned. As usual, baby boomer journalists feigned concern Lindsay–and all the gays I follow on Twitter tweeted the same thing: Lindsay is #iconic.
I tweeted this hashtag too, of course–I plan to hang LiLo’s mug shots in my apartment’s living room. Lindsay is my favorite movie star–not because of her movies (although I love her movies and hope she returns to cinema screens) but because she’s the perpetual bad girl. Not the addict or the drunk or the criminal. Not the shoeless party monster curled on a sidewalk outside a Manhattan club, vomiting. Lindsay Lohan is my icon because she is bad.
Which doesn’t make any sense, because what the fuck is iconic about discussing Betty Ford as if it were 1Oak?
For some gays, Lindsay is an icon because she’s funny, which makes sense—“Knowing everyone” at a rehab clinic is hysterical. But loving someone solely because his or her troubled life makes a good David Letterman joke is fucked up. As one of my favorite young bloggers, Safy Hallan Farah writes, “Lindsay Lohan and Amanda Bynes, in particular, labored in Hollywood, as young, vulnerable girls, at the cost of self-love and self-awareness. Money and success couldn’t save them, ultimately, from the reality of illness and suffering. They both represent hurt and injury, and are mocked for it. When people are not cheaply waxing political about them, they are fetishized by gay white men and straight white men alike, mocked in the new lowest form of white male humor: White Girl Jokes.”
For some gays laughing at Lindsay and Amanda allows them to reassert their masculine power—to believe that they’re still white enough, manly enough, to possess more power than female movie stars, although in actuality they’re broke college sodomites. Some gays also need to take a lap.
But I don’t think most gays feel this way about Lindsay or other troubled women. Gays have loved bad girls since before Judy Garland’s first suicide attempt.
I can only speak for myself, but I love Bad Britney because I adore Britney because of her sadness. I understood the lyrics of “Everytime,” although the closest I’ve ever come to losing a Justin Timberlake was falling in love with two past one-night-stands. I love “Everytime” because it speaks to me.
Some days I love Lindsay because she’s sad. I cried when I watched LiLo’s pre-rehab David Letterman appearance. But that was a rare moment. Most of the time I find Lindsay Lohan’s troubles empowering.
After Celebuzz announced Lindsay would blog for their site after she leaves rehab, I told a friend Lindsay was the ideal blogger: she’s a rebel self-aware. My friend disagreed, which is weird since right now Lindsay’s job is telling television hosts she wants to pull her life together and makes fun of herself all the time with Charlie Sheen.
Lindsay knows she’s troubled. She hates her troubles. But sometimes, looking in cameras that allow her to look into all our eyes, she shoots a look that says, “I don’t care what you think. I’m sexy and I know it.”
This is an action gay boys do on a daily basis. I know it’s a great time to be gay. Most Americans support gay marriage, Jason Collins came out of the closet, schools choose trans students as prom kings. I go out dancing in shear shirts, grinding against boys and shaking my hair as if I rule the world. But I don’t rule the world. I spend a lot of time tweeting back and forth with gays I’ve never met about how lonely we are; only a few months ago I was called a faggot as I walked home in fishnets. None of this should be surprising. The world approves of gays that wear suits, want to adopt Russian orphans, and watch sports—but society still hates fags. Seeing Lindsay Lohan walking through glitter as she walks into a courtroom–where she will scream, cry, and beg a judge to let her walk free–is a reminder that even as you look into eyes that hate, it’s possible to be a nonconformist in America.
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