At this point, what with everything everywhere being sad and sucky, two things are at the very top of the list of things we don't need: 1) things that will make the recession worse, and 2) things that will worsen as a result of the recession.
Suffice to say, news of George Clooney - actor, writer, director, Oscar winner, People Mag Sexiest Man Alive hall-of-famer, politician, jet-owner, etc. - having an "intimate meeting at the Whiskey Bar at the Sunset Marquis hotel in West Hollywood," (says Life & Style) and then later supping together with a bunch of fameheads and powermongers like Ridley Scott and the guy who runs Marvel "We Own Iron Man, So This Recession Business Doesn't Apply to Us" Studios, is not the glimmer of hope this country needs. As the ladies (and some gents) of America roll out of bed and steel themselves to face their foreclosure notices and nonexistent retirement funds, morale is fragile. And the thought of America's most eligible bachelor spending a night in Paris (not ours, stolen with full credit from Defamer) is just plain bad for morale.
See, Clooney has a history of shacking up with (admittedly hot) waitresses and other ladystaffers he meets in his travels. Which theoretically puts him within the grasp of anyone, anywhere. This is powerful, mythmaking, dreamy stuff. And this Paris Hilton business takes a big dump on it. We're not about to list her sins here (though our favorite may be the item alleging that Hilton's housekeeping crew is constantly coming across puppy remains in closets, because she locks her dogs away when she grows tired of them), but let's just say that Clooney and Hilton being an item is kind of like finding out there's no Santa Claus. If the only ladies who can nab him are billionaire heiresses, why get out of bed?