I Have a Problem With The Hills. Like a Drug Problem.
Frankly, I think it's pretty much basically sick to be a thirtysomething married woman who is so deeply obsessed with a show that follows a bunch of vapid, rich Los Angelitos in their early 20s who are rich because they are vapid. (Make sense?) I find myself [pathetically] on the phone during the commercial breaks, calling my equally obsessed friends to discuss such important questions as, "Holy shit, do you think LC is gonna sleep with Justin Bobby?", "I think Lo is getting more fake now that's she a show regular," and "Why does Heidi's chin look like Jay Leno's?"
But I also think it has something
to do with how pretty the show is. The cinematographer deserves
an Emmy, folks. The way the girls' lip gloss shimmers in the
LA sunset. The way the aerial shots show a picturesque city nestled
in the Hollywood Hills like a diamond in a velvet-lined box. The
way the lush shots make me believe the whole world could one day be
as perfect and color coordinated as the interior designs of Ketchup
or Les Deux.
If Rock of Love the Bus is the Walgreens brand, then The Hills is Chanel or Prada. (Fitting, I suppose.) And even though I'm really not a Prada kind of girl, I can't get enough of this show. I don't know what's going to happen when and if LC decides to jet after this season, because I don't know if I can stomach Speidi and Stephanie Pratt and the dead-eyed Audrina without my girl LC anchoring it all down. But for the short term, Miss Pop Rocks is sucked in, and I guess I ain't apologizing for it -- much.