I’ll have you know that Paris Hilton is my friend on mySpace. The real Paris Hilton. I know this because several months ago I received a bulletin from her pointing me to a secret page with select tracks from her forthcoming album. They were awful. Embarrassing. Perfect. I sent the link along to some close friends, all of whom essentially called bullshit. “This can’t be for real,” they said. “It can’t actually be this bad.”

Paris’s eponymous album, released this week, contained all of those tracks and more. In spite of all the Scott Storch hype, the disc is childish and amateurish. It’s predictable, I suppose. The beats are danceable, and Hilton’s voice is an amalgam of that nasal, pimple-faced darling of your local community theater and Jenna Jameson masturbating. “Scott Storch,” she whispers not ten seconds into the first track, and your stomach buckles. It’s all going to be like this.

The first single from the disc, “Stars are Blind,” which you’ve all heard 8000 times by now, is a respectable showing. The album has one other bright spot, “Screwed.” Hilton battled Haylie Duff (of Hilary fame) for the rights to this song, but the real losers here are songwriters Kara DioGuardi and Greg Wells, whose catchy, true-love-means-you-can-put-it-in-my-ass number would have been sexy and fun in the hands of a Kelly Clarkson; on Hilton it just looks bitter and slutty.

Other can’t-miss tracks include “Jealousy,” an anti-Nicole Richie tirade (in which she implies implausibly that it was Nicole whose ego couldn’t handle Paris’s fame) and “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy,” where Rod Stewart picks up a writing cred.

Hilton cowrote about half the songs on the album (the more difficult listens, not surprisingly), and one quickly gets the feeling she put more effort into the liner notes, in which she thanks each of her pets by name — names like Napoleon, Cinderella, Baby Luv, and Kim Kardashian.

Will this album get spun on the club scene? Yeah, probably. Paris is marketing the hell out of it. The beats are solid, the vocals are on-key, and alcohol and cocaine can be serious mitigating factors in that always-on-appeal case of The People vs. Bad Music. So roll up a dollar bill and get to it, because we’ll always have Paris.

Check out the album:

When is Britney due again? This is so frustrating. Items being circulated as news today:

• Paris Hilton released the album you and your best friend recorded on an 8-track when you were ten years old. Honestly, I had pretty much made up my mind that I was not going to listen to this album; I was going to hold out for weeks, at least, and possibly months; my resolve was strong and my motives were pure; and around 3:15 pm a coworker dropped it on my desk, and it was all over for me. I’ll write a more thorough review later.
• No one will ever marry Brittany Murphy. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Makeover!
• Kate Hudson thinks she can just skip out on an overseas premiere of a movie nobody cares about just because she’s divorcing a man nobody cares about without it being big news. And any other week, she’d be right.

I asked for it back and she got all fussy.

Remember that day back in ninth grade when all the guys came over to your garage to kick-start that jam band that was gonna be huge at Battle of the Bands this year, and you were very impressively demonstrating the three power chords your big sister’s boyfriend taught you last week when your mom walked in with a plate of her sugar cookies with the cutesy icing smiley faces and exotic icing hairdos and announced that she’d made your very favorite! To share with everyone! Remember how humiliating that was?

Okay.

Now imagine that you’re a 20-year-old international superstar with an (alleged) drug problem and well-known work-ethic problem, and your incarcerated, alcoholic, shoe-assault-y father has drawn a motherfucking cartoon about your estrangement from him and sent it to Lloyd Grove at the NY Daily News, who ran it immediately, and just when you think things can’t get any worse, it turns out your nutcase of an absentee father thinks you still wear Uggs.

Because that’s how Lindsay Lohan feels today. So call your folks right now and tell ‘em you love ‘em, okay?

Clips day continues. You know it’s a slow news day when you’ve tracked down a clip of Christina Aguilera on Letterman to use on your blog. But after the Federlesion horror you endured in my last post, Ms. Xtina rocking out should be a welcome treat. I love this girl and I love this song.

The “news” I found on the floor of the gas station bathroom this afternoon:

• Kate Moss, the inarguable Queen of Good Ideas, took it upon herself to plan a wedding to the King of Better Ideas, Pete Doherty. He didn’t show. Johnny Depp pokes his head out from his swimming pool of gazillion dollar bills and critical acclaim to laugh.
• Osama Bin Laden plays his own sick game of Fuck, Marry, Kill. The choices are Whitney Houston, Bobby Brown, and novelist Kola Boof. Play amongst yourselves first.
• Jessica Simpson’s new single sucks so hard that she has lowered herself to warring with Kristin Cavalleri at the Teen Choice Awards. Yeah, that’s right, the chick from Laguna Beach. Who Stephen Colletti called a slut. Who is 19 years old. And who probably banged her ex-husband. These are stars that won’t stop rising, kids.

Apparently it’s clips day on The Beet.

Up now, Kevin Federline delivers a particularly uninspiring rendition of his “song” on the Teen Choice Awards. The good news here is that it turns out his wife can introduce a mediocre performer and chew gum at the same time. She just keeps getting smarter.

A wasted Kelly Clarkson gets pulled up on stage at some metal show (is this Yellowcard? Does anyone care?). It’s a 10-minute clip and it’s worth every. Single. Minute.

I voted for this girl like 100 times a night, and I’m not ashamed to admit that today.

[Sorry I Got Drunk]