The Paris Hilton Experience

Now I know I usually stay out of the Paris Hilton hoopla but this article is well, just sad.   It’s written by Jonathon Jaxson, a publicist, who over the last year and half has been invited into Paris’s inner circle and paints a picture that will surprise no one:

As I stood by the pool of the Setai Hotel in Miami, sipping a lychee martini, word went round our circle that Paris Hilton wished to leave for the beach.

It sounded like a simple request – but nothing is ever simple where Paris is concerned.

The heiress had decreed her ‘exit’ was, like so many trivial moments in her life, a photo opportunity.

Within minutes she had phoned half a dozen journalists and photographers and told them where she was and what she was planning to do.

Others in her entourage did the same: "Paris Hilton is at the Setai and she’s about to leave. Get down here straight away."

As if from nowhere, two hair and beauty stylists appeared and slipped behind a partition with Paris.

She re-emerged 15 minutes later, primped and preened within an inch of her life.

Then, with one more check of her appearance and a glance to make sure the paparazzi were in place, she fixed her smile and stepped out to face the swarm of photographers.

As a celebrity publicist, I’ve worked with a lot of famous people and encountered plenty of colossal egos, but I have yet to meet anyone who manipulates the system quite like Paris Hilton.

~~~

So, over the next 18 months, whenever Efren or another of Paris’s friends invited me to join her on a night out, I accepted.

I never became a close friend of Paris myself – I wasn’t rich or important enough for that.

But I did gain a unique insight into the self-centred, wild and ultimately lonely life she leads.

An evening’s entertainment for Paris always started at her house, a gaudy £1.5million mansion in West Hollywood, just above the clubs and bars of the Sunset Strip.

Her home reflects her egotistical personality. Paris’s own pop CD, the imaginatively titled Paris, blares out from the speakers and there are pictures of her everywhere.

Some are straightforward portraits while others show her with friends, posing provocatively in bikinis.

~~~

During my visits, there were normally about 15 or 20 people – some of LA’s most fashionable young things – at the house.

Brandon Davis, grandson of an oil billionaire, was a regular, as was Paris’s then fiance, Greek shipping heir Paris Latsis.

Unsurprisingly perhaps, they all have towering egos, diamond jewellery, pearly white teeth and a superior attitude towards anyone, like me, who’s not wearing the right designer labels.

They would spend the evening drinking shots and Paris would indulge in one of her favourite pastimes – bitching.

Paris is not blessed with ample communication skills. In fact during all the time I spent with her, I don’t think I ever saw her engage in a proper conversation with anyone.

All she does is giggle and pose or text friends on her mobile phone.

If there is a verbal exchange, though, it’s always short and to the point.

She either barks questions, such as "Where are we going?" or criticises someone’s behaviour. "Oh my God, did you see what she did?!" is a favourite refrain.

Many girls are ‘skanks’ – another word for ‘sluts’ – or ‘white trash’, an insult levelled at anyone whose father isn’t a multi-millionaire.

Whatever she says, people laugh. If you don’t laugh, well, you aren’t her friend.
 

~~~

Her manipulation of the media was astonishing – the best I’ve ever seen.

Of course, everyone in Paris’s party had to dance to her tune.

On one occasion, we had just left a club when I realised I had left something behind.

When I re-emerged seconds later, the limo had left without me – proof, if any were needed, that the evening is all about Paris.

I’d be lying if I said that at first the kudos and the VIP treatment wasn’t fun, but the thrill wears off pretty quickly and you soon realise what a shallow world it is.

Paris chooses her friends – and boyfriends – purely on the basis of how much publicity they can offer her.

In return, those who hang out with her are hoping some of her fame will rub off on them.

~~~

When she was arrested earlier this year for driving with a suspended licence and sentenced to 45 days in jail, I wasn’t surprised.

She thought money and fame made her untouchable, and of course they didn’t.

I hoped she might use her time inside to reassess her life.

I didn’t believe her claims that she’d found God, but I thought she might tone things down a little.

When she left prison three weeks ago I saw a small sign that gave me hope.

Walking past a crowd of wellwishers, she actually reached out and grabbed their hands.

It was the most genuine thing I’ve ever seen her do. She then told reporters she was ‘sick of partying’ and was going to devote herself to something more meaningful.

Unfortunately, this repentant phase lasted about two weeks.

Last weekend she was back at two of her old haunts, Les Deux and another nightclub called Area.

And instead of the demure white she wore in the run-up to her trial, she was in more familiar garb: a racy black dress and fishnet stockings.

The Michael Jackson of a new generation. 

Curt

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