Lindsay -a note

So let me explain the comments…


Now I know Lindsay has done nothing , NOTHING worthy of note since her desultory documentary series ‘Lindsay’ which highlighted both how screwed up her life was and how out of touch she remains with reality. But even though I don’t have 4 kids (let alone 4 cats, although it’s a dream that my heart very much makes when I asleep) I would almost consider cheering for Lindsay (sans children) on the big wedding day, like I attempted that night many moons ago in London.

My friend and I, having caught a matinee of Speed-the-Plow on the cheap and on an unseasonably warm October day decided for the hell of it to wait after the performance. We did so to see if the starlet (it was doubtful at this point whether she could still call herself an actress, west end play or not) would come out and sign some autographs for the hangers-on.

No show.

My friend and I, very much free of time constraints moved on to the nearest local and settled in for a few ciders, with the bulk of our chat relating to seeing –in person- the hot mess that was Lindsanity. We agreed, merrily, boozily that we should return to our original spots outside the theatre to see if the fateful crowds had grown and, most interestingly, whether the starlet herself would come out. We were not disappointed. There was a sense of near hysteria from the loyal fan boys and girls who spoke in frenzied and revered tones about their personal experiences and rumours on the grapevine about their girl Lindsay – ‘She come out on Saturday, I know she did… because {the speaker adopts a dreamy, faraway tone} I was there’ said one; ‘I’ve been outside three times,’ said another, clearly desperate for Lindsay to show (her misappropriated dedication and unwavering loyalty was both sad and oddly touching); ‘she shows on matinee days, my friend told me, she’ll totally show’.


Lucy with the mega-fans

My friend and I, absorbing the fever pitch around us discussed whether this was akin to either Beatlemania or One Direction fanfare, before I pitched in and argued it was more aligned to the three foot deep crowd desperate to catch a glimpse of the oft-mocked junkie/murderer Courtney Love. ‘I should know,’ I sagely added, ‘as she kissed me. On the lips.’

Did LL show? Let’s not be silly! She appeared in the shadows before seamlessly entering the gateaway car outta there, leaving the coterie of loyal minions to take as many photos of her exit  whilst speaking in a sort of Mean Girls inspired reverie ‘I’ve waited for an hour, but I got a picture of her car, it was awesome!’


The getaway car

You see, Lindsay’s life as a millennial – and I hope I’m not exaggerating here is akin to the other tricky zeitgeist- moments of our lives such as worldwide terrorism, social anxiety over our social media and the more personalised fear that we can’t have *it* all because we currently got nothing, apart from Netflix – and the only way I’m gonna Netflix & Chill is watching Li-Lo’s Labor Pains, you get me?!

In many ways I see Lindsay more than I do actual friends. Her fame helped get my blog another 20-50 hits with the original blog post, a personalised but very much unauthorised-nature-v-nurture biographical piece, We Need to Talk about Lindsay. Similar to the groundbreaking novel the question asked was whether Lindsay had become a pathological liar, occasional thief and sustained law-breaker because she couldn’t be bring herself to follow the laws of the land, or whether it was because, like the Michael Jacksons of this world (my most successful piece by far, although I wasn’t happy when a commenter was told by another commenter that  she could write a far better argument than mine) she had a far-from-ideal childhood. Specifically, with a mother who I’m saying almost certainly (FAO: Dina, I’m saying ‘think’ so you can’t sue me)had drug dependency issues and a father who’s regular absenteeism, embezzling, domestic violence and prison stints made sure they became ever infamous and ever ‘trash’. Whatever happened from my last article, we all knew Lindsay’s career was almost completely derailed.

But how low is too low, how derailed is derailed? I mean I cringed when infamous momager, Dina Lohan proudly announced to the media she had negotiated a generous deal with the owner of the world’s largest animal pornography collection (I read this in Linda Lovelace’s memoir, Ordeal. Truly beyond the pale, that man. Interestingly, as mentioned in the previous piece, Lindsay was meant to play Linda Lovelace, but was too busy possibly/maybe/definitely shoplifting to read the script), Hugh Heffner  for LL to quite literally do a Marilyn for Playboy. ‘It’s gonna be classy,’ said Dina, which of are the famous last words when talking Playboy. Even Glenn Close helped stick the boot in when a paparazzi informed her of Lindsay’s later job – poor girl, she mirthlessly replied.

A weird drawing I found in an LA restaurant of Lindsay just before the premiere of the unanimously panned ‘Liz and Dick’

I live-streamed Lindsay’s performance in Liz and Dick and accepted all of the (devastating) reviews as gospel.  The film, a biopic—cum-unintentional comedy suffered from catatonic performances and truly underwhelming dialogue (to paraphrase: Elizabeth’s never-aging mother to Elizabeth at a Hollywood party – You’ve been married four times and you’re not even thirty! Elizabeth responds to mother within a beat -Who’s counting!), considering this was meant to be the start of her comeback, it garnered her zero momentum. There was also the wig, the worst wig in televisual history, and the worst fainting scene where Lindsay wears the worst wig in history that helped this movie become a worldwide joke.

Away from acting, I watched (for my sins) all eight episodes of the go-fund-me charity project ‘Lindsay’ in which Oprah, dreadful hack that she is helps orchestrate humiliation after humiliation in the hope of ‘rehabilitating’ Lindsay whilst also scoring mammoth ratings. As ever a genius, she wisely (unwisely?) guesses it makes far better television to let Lindsay circle her way into the gutter. At one point her PA, who has an entirely thankless role, which he leaves by the end of the series, harangues Lindsay to move her car. Lindsay, again confused with the laws of the land tells her PA a way of handling the fines without moving the car. ‘Oh no, what I do is just put the old parking tickets there,’ to which her exasperated PA replies ‘Yeah, I know that Lindsay, they just whack another on. Three tickets and they’ll take your car.’

The show wasn’t renewed and few lessons were learnt, apart from the fact vodka pizza doesn’t actually contain vodka.

In her personal life, I read with stunned horror that the bottom had well and truly fallen out of the operation when more and more accounts of Lindsay’s escorting across Europe spread like a Californian bush fire (she I assume won’t be entertaining on one of the yachts in the south of France when I finally visit next month for my cheese and wine trip).

And I inwardly expressed great sadness when Lindsay used Instagram as a conduit for her family strife by announcing to the world, via Lindsay emoji that she was ‘done with mom,’ before a rapid 180 when she directly called out to mom to get in touch and see her children. Needless to say I didn’t need to read the comments to know that Lindsay was no longer the Lohan cash cow.

I, as mentioned was there, cheering when she FINALLY acted in something that didn’t feel put together within about 48 hours (needless to say The Canyons and other acting cameos are barely worth mentioning.) Speed-the-Plow suffered from being a Hollywood story without a convincing plot, but in a nutshell Lindsay Lohan played a secretary who managed to convince a major producer through her sex appeal to reject a commercial (read: crummy)  vehicle by instead going for a post-apocalyptic tale that nobody in the audience could understand, thereby helping craft his downfall. Think Hollywood weighing up a Michael Mann movie or a Battlefield Earth-type movie). The play at about 70 minutes was punctuated by a pointless interval which completely grounded the pacing of the play and, crucially destroyed any potential for pure theatre. Still, the ovation was had and now I’d finally seen *the* child actor from my generation, I could rest easy, knowing that Lindsay might continue acting, possibly hooking, but that her day in the sun was all but had. Yesterday’s hero, yesterday’s news, but at least with a final acting hurrah of sorts.

How good, then to find out that Lindsay had got engaged. So good it created a comment from Adrian, 43, father of 4 and this very article. Unlike others I avoided the glaring pointers – ‘She looks 50’ ‘This won’t last’ ‘if the Russian had a brain he wouldn’t marry her’ ‘What did Lindsay see in the multi-millionaire’ ‘what an asinine comment [to say she’s pulling a Robert Downey Jr.], Lindsay will never work for a legitimate film company again, not even n their Men’s room’ and felt this was a true celebration. The engagement party, for example was so steeped in love that the parents, you know the dad who said he thought Lindsay would die at 27 and the mum who wouldn’t even return her daughter’s calls turning up to congratulate the union, for richer, never for poorer.

At least temporarily, I can put the most divisive questions from my previous article to one side. At least for the present it seems we no longer need to talk about Lindsay Lohan-Tarabasov. Pazdravleniya