Andy Warhol predicted we'd all get 15 minutes, but Ashley Dupre, former Gov. Elliot Spitzer' vivacious escort barely got 15 seconds. As soon as word of the scandal broke, the public braced itself for the book, the Playboy pictorial and the ABC Movie Of The Week about the woman and her scandal.

Monica Lewinsky was able to turn her lemons to lemonade quite nicely: she got herself a book, a HBO special and—inexplicably—a line of purses. I don't know what the job prospects are for an intern with her qualifications—pretty good, I'd think!—but it's probably safe to assume she's won't be on the streets of New York with a "Why Lie, I Need a Beer" sign anytime soon.

 
Infamy in this country can bring with it a certain financial security. I couldn't think of any reason why Dupre shouldn't latch up the horses on her gravy train. In fact, I was counting on it. Good for her, I said.

But in a flash it was all over.

Outrageous offers for nudity came from far and wide but were rescinded within milliseconds as topless pictures of her soon became passé'. It seems that as soon as we knew her name, we knew her measurements, her address and exactly where her tan-lines were.  And then, we knew too much. This may sound disingenuous, but I kinda feel sorry for her: she was so famous, so fast, she had no time to c ash in. No one is famous for 15 minutes anymore. This is the age of internet celebrity and Microwave Fame: just find a rube, add a little sex, put media coverage on HIGH for five minutes and they're done.