Starburst

The epic flame and epic-er flameouts of Paris, Lindsay, and Britney

- Lili Anolik

November 29, 2006. The New York Post ran, on its front page, a photo of Lindsay, Britney, and Paris (if last names were even remotely necessary, the story wouldn’t have been), captured together, in a single image. They were in a car, looking rowdy, reckless, ready to bust loose, raise hell, pursue the dark ecstasies of night and the city, the matching gleams in their heavily shadowed eyes telling you just how profoundly they didn’t give a fuck. Stamped across the bottom, the headline: BIMBO SUMMIT. There’s the smug sneer of “bimbo,” of course, yet there’s also the grudging marvel of “summit.” It’s the marvel that gets it right. These three were at the center of the heat and the flash and the noise. Not merely stars, but stars that were simultaneously rising, falling, exploding, and, suddenly, colliding—a new kind of star being forged in the process. They understood what nobody else did: that Hollywood wasn’t a geographical location, it was a state of mind; that rock ’n’ roll wasn’t a musical genre, it was a way of life. And they were, in that moment, more Hollywood and rock ’n’ roll than anyone.

The photograph defined that present. Also, this present. Lindsay, Britney, and Paris weren’t of their time, they’re of ours. The world we’re living in is the one they made 15 years ago.

The Child Star.