What would make this show awesome is if Paula Abdul were crazy in a way that was interesting. What Paula Abdul is, is crazy in the same way that anybody at your job that you avoid because they're weird is crazy. Paula is cat calendar crazy. She's Lillian Vernon crazy. "My ex-husband was a bastard" crazy. She's "bitter about her parking space" crazy. That's not television, that's the Accounting bitches at your place of business, or that lady in Human Resources that won't quit talking about direct deposit every time you run into her. I don't want to watch them on TV either.
The fifteen-person staff of strangers packs her stuff for Philly and the publicist is totally not sincere, all, "I am afraid that they will not have enough time to pack all of her necessary belongings." He's not even worried about it. Who would be? It's boring and stupid. I realize that upkeep is a big deal, and God knows I spend a lot of time looking as hot and camera-ready as possible, beauty is a fucking burden, but maybe the makeup and hair wouldn't take so damn long if she weren't running around crying about imaginary shit and harassing her housekeeper about nothing whatsoever and accusing her stylist of dropping a deuce in her backyard.
Paula whines about her one Grammy and says that the last time she had a hit record was "when Bill and Hillary were having sex." Which is funny because Paula reminds me of the Clinton administration too, because that's when she was relevant, but think about it. That's when she was relevant. Paula stopped thinking about the world at the exact same moment the world stopped thinking about her, and that's where she lives now. She's like if Baby Jane Hudson were really into latchhook and, like, those little figurines of the kids with the giant eyeballs that always get into situations with puppies or angels.
Paula bugs the housekeeper some more, and patronizes the shit out of her. Her name is Marina. She is Paula's only true friend. She doesn't speak English. Neither of them do.
There's an hour and a half left before the flight, and Paula is leaving the Grammies, but the staff has A) lost track of her and B) not packed any of her shit. So the two things they are supposed to do, they did not do, but Paula's going to get upset about some unrelated, irrelevant shit. This is something of a leitmotif.
So Paula's cold and wandering the streets of L.A. aimlessly in the middle of the night, post-Grammies, in an unflattering Valentino gown. She is harassed and adored by the denizens of the night: homeless people, cab drivers, rapists, murderers, people high on crack. She takes this all with an unsinkable charm, apparently deaf to her own fight-or-flight response. She nearly breaks her ankle walking down the middle of the street, and laughs it off. This is all pretty bleak.