There are few famous people whom I think less of and in fact loathe more intensely than Kim Kardashian, the ultimate empty vessel whose fame and fortune are metaphors for social doom and decay. For the sake of common decency as well as her children’s well-being I’m glad she wasn’t hurt by those Parisian thugs who took her jewelry and cell phones and tied her up in the bathroom, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to briefly muttering “good, serves her right” when I first heard the news. She lives in this completely puerile, grotesquely affluent, Marie Antoinette-like bubble, and then wham — reality intrudes in the form of a robbery. Pardon me for shedding no tears.

Incidentally: Kanye West stopped a Queens concert that he was performing when he heard the news. He stiffs his audience so he can (a) call Kim in Paris, (b) ask if she’s okay, (c) tell her he loves her, and (d) make sure she’s double-protected by private security? What else can he do from 3600 miles away? The phone calls would have taken 10 or 15 minutes. A pro would have finished. The show must go on.