During an MTV special on the making of the album that aired two weeks prior to its release, I was transfixed by a scene that shows Paris hard at work in the studio with Storch. She claims that this is how the songwriting process went: he’d mess around on his keyboard with the beats while she’d grab a pen and write whatever came to mind. Wait a minute. Didn’t she hire someone to do that for her too? The camera pans down to her paper. I try desperately to make out what she’s scrawled on the page. Just as quickly, the camera flashes back to her cleavage. I’d kill for a better look at that notebook — it’s probably just a shopping list for new sex toys. The next minute, I’m watching her undulate to her own songs in a stretch limo, smiling that Cheshire Cat smile. This is another part Paris pays to play. But she’s discovered how to ensure that she’s no longer the punch line — high-rolling with the right staff is all it takes. When you’re signing blank checks, the transformation from celeb-trash-princess to chic pop star is even easier done than said.
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