Like the bimbo cheerleader who finds herself unwittingly sitting at the lunch table populated by Nietzsche-spouting vegan art geeks, Paris Hilton has joined the cast of the untitled follow-up to director Todd Solondz's Happiness. Although the inclusion of America's favorite write-in candidate in a casting line-up that includes Allison Janney, Ciarán Hinds, and Charlotte Rampling appears incongruous, Hilton's apparent lack of acting prowess is what makes her ideal for the film. Solondz has forged a reputation with work that juxtaposes beauty with ugliness. So what better muse is there for such a filmmaker than an entitled, vacuous princess who's managed to buck jail time and whose previous film credits feature such stunners as House of Wax?

Amid the lack of self-awareness plaguing the American celebrity elite, it's refreshing to see Paris Hilton, Moby, and William Shatner properly motivated to reserve seats on Virgin Galactic's first orbital leisure cruise, thereby saving us the labor of forcibly launching them into space. The trio are just part of a passenger manifest that includes over 150 others who have forked over about $200,000 apiece for said reservations -- although as with all quality carriers, paying more gets you a better/quicker seat. With a scheduled departure slated for sometime in 2010, all celebrities have enough time to attempt a comeback before vanishing into obscurity, and quite possibly, the final frontier.

Quite possibly armed with one of the one of the most agreeable platforms on energy conservation -- a plan that balances both Republican and Democrat policies -- Paris Hilton seems like a perfectly viable presidential candidate. Hilton snugly fits in between Barack Obama and Sarah Palin (sad that we consider John McCain nothing more than a fading footnote on Palin's media escapades). So while she may not inspire faith in Americans, she has no problem courting American currency. And we all know anyone with money can simply buy votes.

The year is 1988. Kate Moss has just been discovered and will soon join the ranks of such supermodels as Cindy Crawford, Christy Turlington, and Linda Evangelista. Fashion, however neon-and-spandex laden it may be, is represented by uniquely beautiful women trained to strut, smile, and pose their hearts out. Magazine covers, drugstore makeup ads, couture ads, television commercials—the supermodel rules all. They represent and epitomize glamour and chic, and why not? It’s their job, after all.

While these women are not the first supermodels—just ask Janice Dickinson—theirs will later be referred to as “the era of the supermodel,” “the trinity,” “the union.” They are supermodels perfected, following in the stiletto-clad footsteps of Twiggy, Cheryl Tiegs, Beverly Johnson, and before them Lisa Fonssagrives. Moss will become revolutionary in no time, becoming the shortest model to do runway and the face of the heroin-chic movement that will make the 1990s as seedy-glam as any scene out of Warhol’s factory. Over the next two decades she will represent Calvin Klein, Chanel, Rimmel, Burberry, a top-shelf model representing top-shelf designers.