Tara Reid goes wild again (and again)

For today's lesson in celebrity, we propose a latitudinal study of one Tara Reid in relation to, and notable contrast with, her alleged bestest friend Paris Hilton.

Tara can't seem to catch a break. This week's latest round of snark has been dedicated to a detailed examination of Ms. Reid's curiously contoured stomach, and the lingering (but still unconfirmed) speculation that she might have engaged in a bit of reconstructive magic — speculation, incidentally, that has also been invoked about other parts of her anatomy that she inadvertently displayed to the world during a little dress-strap mishap last fall.

I can't really speak to her stomach, which hasn't yet been granted a close-up on her new E! show, “Taradise,” (new episodes debut Wednesdays at 10 p.m. ET) though her knees remind me of those belonging to friends who've had unfortunate moments of arthroscopy.

But recent weeks have offered reminders of why Tara seems to invite scathing media pile-ons.

Frankly, I suspect it all comes back to Paris.

It was Paris, after all, who was offered up as bait in the premiere episode of “Taradise,” an offering so hastily renamed from the far more apropos “Wild On Tara” that my TiVo was confused Friday night as to just what it was called. E! has a long standing series, “Wild On,” and Ms. Reid was apparently intended as the latest in a line of luminary hosts, but perhaps she and her handlers realized that “Wild On Tara” mostly connoted (a) her reputation for enjoying adult beverages, not always in moderation, and (b) the vigorous-if-not-romantic endgame that might result from (a).

Drinks, drinks, more drinks
The premise of the “Taradise” opener: Tara shows up in Athens. Tara goes parasailing with Paris and fiancé Paris Latsis (and his family), and generally dabbles in watersports. Tara wears any number of perilously low-cut tops. Tara waxes about the hotness of said fiancé and brags about trying on Paris’ engagement ring. Tara, Paris and Paris pig out, go clubbing repeatedly, enjoy an good number of drinks and … that’s about it, honest.

Somewhere in the middle of this mindless fray, as Tara gushed about the utter gorgeousness of Greek men, I finally realized who she reminds me of.

My college years involved an unhealthy amount of time behind a frat-house bar, accosted for cups of nasty beer by drunk, rowdy women whose vocal chords were shot and whose clothes were in various states of dishevelment. They were determined to party, even if the beer in our kegs would have been better used to mop floors and remove epoxy.

Whenever I see Tara, these memories instantly come flooding back. I suspect I'm not alone.

There are differences, of course. The women I'm remembering spent their days contemplating Kierkegaard before spending nights contemplating Jagermeister. Many were still too young to be drinking legally.

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