Dear Lindsay

Actress Lindsay Lohan parties hard in Beverly Hills, California. (Kevin Winter/Getty Images)

Hey Lindsay,

You don’t know me, but I know you — in fact, thanks to the tabloids and the paparazzi, I know way too much about you. (At least you weren’t drooling when they photographed you passed out in your SUV. At this point you must be thankful for such small mercies.)  Anyhoo, I read the latest chapter in your “too much, too soon” saga — how your dad alleges you’re addicted to, among other things, OxyContin. Once again, a lot of cruel jokes come to mind, but frankly, I don’t have the heart to make them this time.

The truth is, it’s become way too easy to make fun of you and Britney and the rest of the party-girl posse. With your multiple addictions and eating disorders, you’re obviously crying out for help, and we — the media and its consumers — are responding with comedy, like a bunch of envious nerds watching the prom queen fall face-first into the punch bowl. Instead, let me say I’m happy to see you’re back in rehab — although in California they seem to build those facilities with revolving doors. I hope you stay clean this time. You don’t know how lucky you are that people like Shirley MacLaine are still willing to hold their shooting schedules while you try to straighten out your life. Shirley has been in the biz a gazillion times longer than you and she’s seen your like come and go — in fact, she was a rising young actor-singer once, too. You could learn something from her.

I know, I know. The last thing you need right now is another adult scolding you. But Lindsay, think of the children — the little girls, specifically, who idolize you and Britney Spears and Paris Hilton. What message are you sending them? That it’s OK to get trashed at some chi-chi Hollywood club, jump into your shiny Mercedes convertible and risk yours and other people’s lives on the road, just because you’re young and rich, pretty and privileged? That it’s cool to amass DUI citations like they were the latest trendy accoutrement? Your impressionable fans must figure the worst that could happen to you is that, like your rival Paris, you’d have to do a minuscule amount of jail time in some cushy minimum-security spa where the guards make you drink your Cristal out of a tin cup and you can’t use your cellphone after 10 p.m. The Simple Life, indeed.

But I won’t scare you with grim drunk driving statistics. Or dis you for being a lousy role model. The reason I’m writing this letter is because I’ve watched this happen before, and I’m hoping to appeal to your sense of self-interest before you flush your burgeoning career down the toilet. You see, Lindsay, I was a kid once too, and I had a big from-afar crush on a bright little starlet. Her name was Mackenzie Phillips. Mackenzie who? you ask. I think I’m making my point.

Mackenzie played the mouthy little-sister character in the 1970s film classic American Graffiti, a hit movie that launched a bunch of mega-careers — George Lucas, Harrison Ford, Ron Howard. She followed that auspicious feature debut with a cool indie comedy called Rafferty and the Gold Dust Twins, winning a rave review from no less a critic than the great Pauline Kael. Then she landed the role of big sister Julie on the popular 1970s sitcom One Day at a Time. Things were looking good for Mackenzie, but you can’t be the daughter of the late John Phillips, the Mamas and the Papas’ songwriter and a major-league druggie, and expect to get away unscathed. Mackenzie became addicted to coke, the drug du jour of the disco era, got kicked off One Day, was rehired, then fired again and finally straightened out in the ’90s, long after the show had been cancelled. Last I checked, the one-time object of my puppy love was doing bus-and-truck tours of musicals like Annie and Grease. Sigh. She coulda been a contender.

Is your career doomed to the same tailspin, Lindsay? It doesn’t have to be. At the risk of leaving the limelight and the party circuit, maybe it’s time to put the movies and music on hold, take a cue from your Freaky Friday forerunner, Jodie Foster, and spend some time growing up. You don’t have to get a bachelor’s degree from Yale, but judging from that less-than-“adequite” tribute you wrote to director Robert Altman, a refresher course in English composition couldn’t hurt. Then you could come back, smarter and more mature. Maybe not as famous, granted — but I’m sure you’re aware that some other teen princess is already being groomed in the wings to replace you. 

First, however, you’ve got to get clean. Substance abuse isn’t a pretty thing, even when it’s pretty people doing the abusing. Don’t think to yourself, “I’m only turning 21, I’ve got plenty of time to quit.” I have former friends in their forties who started drinking when you did, thought the same way, and are still struggling with alcoholism to this day. I also have loved ones who got their destructive addictions under control and are now leading healthy and fulfilling lives.

Meanwhile, the rest of us have got to kick our own prurient jones. Late-night comedian Craig Ferguson hit it on the head a few months back, when, in reference to Britney’s pathetic head-shaving episode, he said we’re laughing at the expense of the vulnerable.

If we want to watch beautiful stars implode from a distance, maybe we should take up astronomy.

Martin Morrow writes about the arts for CBC.ca.

CBC does not endorse and is not responsible for the content of external sites - links will open in new window.