Dear Page Six Mag: Ally Hilfiger Is Actually A Monumental Figure In History

Dear Page Six Magazine,

Holy Denim, Batman! It's Ally Hilfiger on your cover, and my does she almost make up for the whole "looking exactly like her uglyass dad" thing with smokin hotness! So first things first: Congrats on the "get." Ally is the reason we're all here, watching roughly ninety hours a week of "unscripted" television programming on the lives of people so hideously privileged/otherwise unremarkable that finding redeeming characteristics within their peer groups becomes something of a strenuous brain exercise. Remember Ally? Sure, she was absurdly wealthy and clueless and ignorant and not even particularly attractive and had no real sense of style, but Gawd, compared to that fugly friend of hers, Jaime, she was frickin Angelina Jolie! And speaking of which, those two invented the reality friend breakup: how is it Nicole-Paris/L.C.-Heidi get all the credit for this? Where the fuck has Ally been all these goddamn years she should have been taking credit for what she hath wrought, anyway? Chicago? A Mongolian yurt? Would you believe it if I said "rehab"?

Well, yeah, since it was your fact-checkers that corroborated all this, but man, it's hard to believe there was ever a time before rehab was just a natural career milestone, like getting fat for a role in a movie, which isn't to say it doesn't get old for some people — ahem, Renee! — but these days you've almost got to do it once or twice, if not to give the public a personal narrative to work with, at least for the networking.

But yo, Ally went to rehab and I never heard from her again. Am I the only one who finds this a little staggering? Look, I'm going to guarantee you I'm not. But your story is pretty standard-fare "Reality TV star claims to be nothing like her character on her reality show" profile, which was a shame — though hey, props for not starting the story with a fascinating anecdote about how she chewed contemplatively on a portobello mushroom sandwich at some restaurant in Midtown — because all those things I have said already are the lens through which you turn a story on a celebrity who is doing nothing into a story on a celebrity who symbolizes some palpable shift in the culture. In this case, the story of Ally, who had a blockbuster reality show based on her friendship with a fellow rich girl, then had a falling out with the rich girl and went to rehab and failed at everything she tried to accomplish after that — ooh, and does the "flash-in-the-pan" thing remind anyone of dad??? — is on a larger level the tale of a generation of reality show stars who were reviled and forgotten and did not manage to emerge unscathed that preceded this current crop of reality show stars, with their shamelessness and Prattitude; a generation imbued in something someone I know once labeled "false meta-ness, the Shakespearean tragic flaw of the generation." Man, so true. Who said that to me? Oh yeah, it was one of your very own editors. Anyway, maybe "false-metaness" is a little smart-for-smart's-sake New York-y, and I'm the last person to advocate couching celebrity fluff in "intellectual" terms, but sometimes figuring out how to smarten up a story is a good way to figure out what questions you'd like answered in a celebrity profile: namely, "What's it like to watch the dynamic of all your interpersonal relationships play out on a television show? What's it like to figure out you have no actual talent?" Etc. etc. You can ask Ally these human condition-type questions, because she came before the era of False Meta-ness. She feels. And I felt for her, reading your piece; just not enough. I didn't feel satisfied. I wanted to empathize. Instead I thought: "oh god does her art sound awful."

Okay, moving on: you hired Fashionista's Faran Krentcil as your gossip columnist; seems like a good move, she knows everyone. I skimmed the stories on New York's best personal shoppers and another on free-birthers because I'm neither rich enough to ever warrant the services of a personal shopper nor enough of a hippie to even want to read about hippies who give birth in their homes, but maybe that's just me. (Though hah = maybe not!) Fashion is, as usual, the high point, and my horoscope seemed pretty accurate, which is to say, I think it said something about "shut up for once," which is what I have to do until next time. More then!

Related: Highlights From The Ally Hilfiger Piece [NY Mag]