Lohan was cited for a DUI - the tart's diploma of choice - after crashing her Mercedes in Beverly Hills on Saturday. Traces of cocaine were found in the car though not, as yet, in her.
Not providing the tabloids quite enough fodder for a traditionally slow news cycle, Lohan gave a command performance Memorial Day, falling outside a club before passing out in her SUV while forgoing a seat belt, clearly the preferred form of safety negligence for the famous.
In a sad, ironic twist, three medallions claiming 30-days sobriety swung from the vehicle's rear-view mirror.
Lohan reportedly checked into rehab Tuesday. Promises - sounds like a feminine-hygiene spray - is dubbed "the Ritz of Rehab." It promotes "healing and luxury," ideal in a spa but counterproductive for detox.
This marks five months since Lohan's last rehab tour and four months after pal Britney Spears spent time at the $48,000-a-month Malibu facility.
LiLo turns 21 on July 2. Understandably, Svedka Vodka pulled out as a sponsor of a planned two-day party extravaganza in Las Vegas celebrating her legal right to drink, an achievement for which Lohan appears to have been studying as assiduously as her peers might prep for the LSAT.
Meanwhile, Paris Hilton, the third "Bimbo of the Apocalpyse," as the New York Post dubs them ("No clues, no cares, no underwear"), is scheduled to check into the Century Regional Detention Facility in Lynwood Tuesday for 23 days, after violating terms of her DUI probation.
The correctional institution promises neither healing nor luxury.
Hilton is scheduled for release in time to fête Lohan - that is, if they're friends at that moment.
OK, so they're wrecks and gossip fodder, but the problem is they seem to be aspirational models for young women who would be better off without them.
Over the holiday weekend, it was possible to see an endless parade of teenagers and tweeners aping the Bimbos of the Apocalypse slatternly attire at the shore. Bimb-Apo style favors low baby-doll tops, obvious strappage, tight shorts, occasional thong eruptions and those egregious, oversized bug sunglasses, usually white or metallic, which I thought experienced their sad moment in the sun two years ago, although clearly I was wrong.
The glasses have the misguided effect of making the head, and its contents, appear very, very small while the vanity of the affectation seems too grand and important for the wearer.
Only Jacqueline Onassis and Audrey Hepburn could get away with such an emphatic sartorial gesture.
Meanwhile, I am sorry to report, that cryptic messages posted on posteriors have not gone away. I don't know why people want strangers reading their chests, let alone "Princess" on their rears. Four summers ago, when "your ad here" shorts first appeared, I thought it would amount to but a blip in bad taste.
Here, I am sorry to report, I was wrong, too. Bad taste is like a cockroach. You can't kill it, and it will just multiply.
It's unclear to me why lovely girls want to mimic vapid strumpets whose greatest talents are for trashy behavior, tabloid portraiture, rehab and perp walks.
I thought Paris would go away. And she will, but only for 23 days. I thought Lindsay would go away, and she will, too, but only promises to go to Promises and then she'll be back. I was smart enough to know that Britney is never, ever, ever going away.
I miss the plucky redhead Lindsay of Mean Girls and Freaky Friday before she found a misguided calling of creating 48-hour news cycles of continued crack-ups.
Contact staff writer Karen Heller at 215-854-2586 or email@example.com.