Like Fugger, Like Daughter

Okay, Dina Lohan. It’s time. We need to have some words.

First off, I hate what you’re wearing. No drop-waisted shift should plunge as far down as your crotch. You look misshapen. I’m sure you figured this was a savvy, alluring technique for getting people to stare at it — and, mission accomplished, because indeed they are, but only to wonder why you are treating your groin like some kind of marquee spot on your body when you can’t even muster any concern for what’s happening to the child who shot out of that groin 20 years ago.

Because, Dina, she is f’ed up. MAJORLY f’ed up.

Look at her a month ago:

She has a bit of sparkle — there’s something in her eyes, at least. It’s almost impish. I call it “life.” It’s charming.

Whatever it was, though, seems to have been extinguised of late. Take, for instance, this photo from yesterday:

Check out her dazed quarter-smile and heavy lids, Dina. I wish I could say the other photos were better, but honestly, she’s either got this expression of cracked-out bemusement on her face or she’s mugging excessively — there is maybe one photo that’s in between, and even there, her eyes aren’t quite focused.

And then there’s this photo from the day before:

It’s not as bad — but then, she’s probably on better behavior, seeing as she spent much of the red-carpet portion of A Prairie Home Companion’s premiere standing between Lily Tomlin and Meryl Streep, neither of whom would likely appreciate being the bread in a drooling-starlet sandwich. But you can’t ignore that spaceyness in her irises. It’s there. They’re not connecting.

And day or so before that, here it is again:

Look into her face, Dina. Again, I wish this were just one bad photo, but they’re all like this. Do you not see? How are you letting this happen? You’re very clearly around her a lot, and you have a reputation for liking to club and schmooze through The Scene almost as much as your child does, so you can’t plead ignorance of all the temptations. You know. And, I’m not insisting she’s skiing down a mountain of fresh white Colombian snow or anything, but… LOOK AT HER. I’m not kidding, hag. Something’s either missing or overmedicated or has been beaten into submission, and not for nothing, she was parading around with Kate Moss recently like they’d been surgically conjoined.

Even if her recent inability to look sober or cognizant in photographs is a bit startling, Dina, it’s still not surprising given that for years now we’ve watched her turn into an undirected party girl. Where have you been? Yeah, I know, your husband, the rage, the jail, blah blah blah, it was all really tragic. I get that. But I don’t think a competent mother would have let that deter her from protecting her kids — actually, wouldn’t it have made most moms more protective even under normal, non-Hollywood circumstances? Don’t you GET that child actors need a lot of common-sense support so they don’t lose their heads and fry their brains? Don’t you get that a feud-prone child actor with severe Daddy issues might need even more of that common sense support? And as you watched her go through a heartbreaking public breakup and the subsequent Russian roulette of one-night-stands, did it not occur to you that she might need all the aforementioned help plus a dash of tough love? Have you NEVER watched the E! network? Are you somehow, impossibly, ridiculously confused about what exactly goes into a True Hollywood Story, and how the franchise has sustained itself largely on coked-out men and women who shot to stardom too fast and couldn’t cope? Remember the cast of Diff’rent Strokes?

Know what scares me the most, though?

The fact that you have more of them to ignore. I can only hope they don’t get sucked into the vortex. How creepy is this photo? Your younger child — you remember her, right? — looks sort of tragically amused that Lindsay is squeezing onto her to tightly, perhaps because she’s aware that if she leaves, Lindsay and her droopy eyelids will go careening backwards into the brick wall.

So here’s the deal, Dina: DEAL WITH THIS STUFF. Don’t just sweep it under the rug or line it up the evidence and snort it into obscurity. In the words of what’s becoming our GFY mantra, “Sack UP, ho.” Stop partying like you’re 19 and help your oldest child. If she had any energy left she’d probably be crying out for it. Be her mother, not her playdate.