Meg's Blog

Every Boy’s Got One Tour Days 6-8

Dear Paris,

Hi. You don't know me, but I've been staying in a lot of your hotels lately—well, I guess they're your dad's hotels. Or your grandpa's. I must admit, I'm not that familiar with the Hilton family tree.

In any case, I just thought I'd write and say good job with the hotel thing. I know you probably need a little pick me up right now, on account of that New Jersey school district refusing to let you and Nicole Ritchie substitute teach there for your new season of “The Simple Life 3: Interns.”

But, you know, you really shouldn't feel so bad about that. It's just kind of a fact that most school districts want teachers who don't show off their hooha as often as you seem to.

I know! So old-fashioned! But what can you do?

Anyway, I've stayed in two of your hotels this past week, one in Lexington, Kentucky, that had a fun horse racing theme (get it? Horse racing? Lexington, Kentucky? Cute). All of the walls had paintings of horses on them, and my room was on the “Triple Crown Floor.” Even the hotel restaurant had a horsey theme—it was called “Polo's,” and it was all done up in green vinyl. When I wrote to my friend Michele to tell her about it, she said that there is a certain point where “themed” hotels take on a level of divinity. I think it is safe to say that in Lexington, Paris, you guys have totally reached that level.

I had a great signing in Lexington at the Joseph-Beth's there. Everyone was really nice to me, both at the bookstore and at the hotel. I was sad I had to leave, and all, but a great surprise was waiting for me in Toledo, my next stop…another Hilton!

I have to admit, Paris, when I first saw your hotel in Toledo, I was kind of scared, because it was located in a big field seemingly in the middle of nowhere, with just the Ohio Medical College/Hospital across from it.

And I of course immediately feared that guests at the Toledo Hilton on Glendale were being gassed in their sleep, then dragged to the hospital for their organs to be harvested and transplanted into rich South Americans, a perfectly natural assumption that wasn't helped by the fact that the hotel restaurant was shut down for renovations, with all these signs showing teddy bears saying, “Please BEAR with us while we renovate for YOU!”

And then your employees were giving away bags of Teddy Grahams, you know, for “bearing” with the renovation (I didn't take any, on account of my no sugar diet…you wouldn't know about that. In fact, I hear you eat a lot of oce cream. Enjoy it while you can, Paris, because just to let you know, it all goes south when you hit thirty).

Anyway, I was kind of down on the Hilton in Toledo, on account of the strong probability that I was going to wake up the next day missing a kidney—if I woke up at all–until I asked the front desk clerk (whose eye shadow pleasantly matched the green scarf around her neck) where the hotel gym was, and she went, “Oh, sure. Just go down to the basement, walk through the tunnel for seven minutes, take the elevator to the third floor, and you'll be there.”


This is not the kind of response you expect when you ask where the hotel gym is. My immediate thought was that maybe if there WAS an organ transplant black-market thing going on in Toledo, I would probably be the one to blow it sky high in the press! Just because I'd gone to work out! Like, I would totally find all the bodies in the tunnel, and I'd be a celebrity, like Amber Frye! I'd be all, “I'm sorry, Barbara Walters, I want Jane Pauley to interview me, because she's a Hoosier and married to Gary Trudeau.”

So, psyched to be on my way to uncovering an organ blackmarket ring, I took the elevator to the basement, and found the tunnel—a real tunnel under the ground!–that twisted its way for what seemed like miles past labs called “Endocrinology,” and “Infectious Diseases.” It was like being in the movie “The Andromeda Strain!” I kept waiting to pass through a room that would radiate the first layer of my skin off.

Imagine how thrilled I was when, at the end of the tunnel, I found—no, not bodies–but the elevator, and it took me to…

…the hospital's cardiac rehab gymnasium! It was HUGE, with an indoor track, tons of fitness machines, racquetball and basketball courts, bulletins boards urging me to stay fit, and a giant inspirational mural…and tons of cardiac patients learning how to use the Stairmaster, with lots of cute interns in scrubs taking a little job on their break!

I have to say, Paris, I was really impressed. It was clear that no organ harvesting was going on there.

As someone who is convinced she has cancer three or four times a week, it was a real thrill to be working out in a hospital, where I knew if I had an embolism while exercising, I'd be well take care of…plus, I could totally go up to the person on the treadmill next to me and be all, “See this mole? Does that look asymmetrical to you?”

So, good job with the Toledo Hilton, Paris.

I had a great book signing in Toledo, too, at a bookshop called Thackeray's. The staff was super nice and friendly, as was the clientele….many thanks to Maryann, Claire, Irene, and Paulette for the cupcakes, which were delicious, and congratulations to Paulette, on her way to becoming Miss Ohio. Good luck. Your CD rocks! I am listening to it as I write this. Paris, you should get a load of this kid, she's got real talent!

Not that you don't have real talent, Paris…I'm sure your CD is really good, too. I haven't had the privilege of listening to it, yet. But if it's anywhere near as good as that video I saw of you online, you have a hit on your hands!

By the way, I was talking to my friend Michele about you, Paris, and she said you are number one on her list of celebrities she is most tired of. I thought that was a little harsh, because I am not sick of you. I feel the same way David Letterman does about you–at least, judging by his reaction when he met you on his show: that you're a nice girl who has been done wrong by the men in her life (David and I, both being Hoosiers, tend to think the best of people, I've noticed).

Anyway, I reminded Michele that there are way worse celebrities than you. Because however much people might be sick of seeing your hooha, Paris, at least you didn't have a baby and name it Apple. For that, I and the rest of America really must thank you.

I actually think Tinkerbell is a cute name for a dog. Even if you did think Tink had been dog-napped that one time, and made up all those flyers and scared us all, until your Grandma called to remind you that you had left the dog with her the whole time. Hey, we all make mistakes.

And at least you aren't super into yoga. There is nothing wrong with yoga, of course. It's just that some celebrities are so In-Your-Face-Holier-Than-Thou about it, with their rolled up yoga matts and their soy lattes. Whatever works, but just so you know, I did some yoga at the cardiac fitness center and I have to say, my neck still hurts from gazing past my fingertips towards the celestial heavens.

I much prefer YOUR chosen exercise, Paris…jumping in the limo and going to a club to show off your hooha.

Plus there's the whole macrobiotic thing. I try not to eat sugar or white flour—as we've been encouraged to do, by the new US guidelines food pyramid thingie—but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy a nice Rueben now and then.

And what about Tab? That isn't macrobiotic, but I couldn't live without it. I know you, Paris, love Red Bull, which is a lot like Tab, except it tastes like Big Red cola, which I actually find
kind of gross, but whatever.

So, you know. Overall, I think you're doing pretty well, Paris. At least from what I've seen so far. You hang in there, and keep doing such a swell job with the hotels.

Only you might want to cool it on the dressing-the-dog-up thing. That's just sick.

Well, I'm off to Denver now. I'm sure I'll be seeing you when I hit LA next week, so, until then, remember…that's hot!!!

Just kidding, Paris. Talk to you later.


Meg Cabot