Oh, Lindsay!

This is a hilarious article on Linday Lohan's troubled life in last month's issue of Rolling Stone, written by Rob Sheffield.

Lindsay! It's been way too long, what are you up to, besides Page Three of youre to-blow list for the day? I know, that crazy DUI thing. Wait--another one? Busted at the corner of Pico and Main? After allegedly flooring your Denali in pursuit of your assistant's assistant's grandma? Lindsaaaaaay! I'm in no mood! Don't! Ever! We are not having this conversation. No! I'm disappointed. No product placement for American Apparel hoodies? No paparazzi shots of you reaching nirvana on the windshield? I expect a little more from a Lindsay bust. You've let me--all of us--down. Cocaine in your pants--why the hell were you wearing pants?
Can't you get pinched for dogfighting or something? We'd like to see you busted for running Fyrecrotch Kennel, training bitchy Pekingeses for walk-offs against Britney's Yorkiez of Doom.
Still, I have to hand it to you, and by "it," I mean more drugs. You don't waste any time, do you? Heck you just turned twenty-one, right before you got out of fun-hab. That SCRAM ankle bracelet should be a Denver boot. Your knees haven't been on speaking terms with each other in years. But nothing stops Lindsay. I love the email you sent out the next day: "Did not do drugs they're not mine" and "i appreciate everyone giving me my privacy." Of course, the strain of sober writing might have jumbled you words--clearly, what you meant was "Did not do privacy" and "I appreciate everyone giving me my drugs."
It's been quite a big year for the Big Three: Britney, Lindsay, and Paris--the Beatles, Stones and Dylan of party-tardism. If shaving her head was Britney's White Album, and Paris' jail term was John Wesley Harding, Lindsay's new bust is her back-to-basics "Jumpin' Jack Flash." Together, they've achieved whole new levels of probation-flouting, tabloid-humping and career-throttling, but I worry they're not mentoring the next camera-whore generation. What about the new breed--who will be the Guess Who or Elton John? Who will inherit the torch? Hayden Panettiere? Kim Kardashian? Not likely. This troubles me. Brit, Lindz and Gay Paree need to start grooming protogees to crash tomorrow's Denalis into tomorrow's assistants. For the sake of the legacy, they need to reach out to freshly fallen child stars and daddy-punishing heiresses. It's called giving back ladies. It's called the future.