It is a strange relationship that we Americans have with our female celebrities. We can’t seem to find an altar tall enough to adore our darlings from, if only so that the fall may be all the greater and longer. Like tribes of old watching their youth sent into the wild, we watch as reality contestants duke it out competing for survival, as young debutants embarrass themselves for us, just to see them eliminated from the fame that we’ve all had to accept never having ourselves. After all, it’s comforting to know other people like me aren’t famous. But it is the ones who go far beyond mere reality that we truly enjoy, who make it to Eden itself, and still can’t resist snorting up a line of the forbidden fruit. Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Ingrid Bergman, Grace Kelly, Rita Hayworth, and the proud lineage of countless other women whose disgraces we boldly define like complaining of dust on a mirror. And yet, dear reader, I must confess I have a certain love for them as well. For those actresses that don’t do too many vices, consistently sleep with the same couple of people, and maybe produce an artsy film or three. The ones who seem to somehow save themselves from us. And so I wanted to take the time to tell the already famous tale of one Rome Facepage and her strange career. I wish I could say I’d known her personally, that we’d had amazing conversations about life and all the incredible things she’d gone through. Instead, I’ll just tell you why I wish for that. I’m a strange fan but Rome’s life is a strange story. It’s the crazy ones who stay loyal.
