photo by David Shankbone
I mean it. Let’s stop feeding her ego and her enormous pile of press clippings by even mentioning her name. All that buzz about her supposed fling with the baseball star–let’s not say his name either–has only seemed to strengthen her marriage and pump up her tour. Even her brother’s book, while threatening to whittle away at her enormous sense of self, has only served to give her more fucking press. She’s more of a legend than ever thanks to the nonstop stream of gossip about her (and from her) in the last month alone. So hush up about the woman! I don’t want to hear about her cheapness, her dalliances, her red ribbons, her seating charts, or her rules for child rearing and rear ending. All right, maybe I do–but I just don’t think we should call her by name anymore. I feel every time we utter her appellation, a fairy’s wings will get clipped or an African child will scream. So let’s just call her, I don’t know, Refrigerator Jones. Or Trixie True, Teen Detective. Or Mariah Carey. Deal?
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on July 21, 2008