Hollywood Ebola and Michael Vick
Background for those of you who don’t live in North America – Michael Vick is the piece of sh-t prick quarterback for the Atlanta Falcons indicted last week on federal charges that he played a part in a dogfighting ring operated on a property he owned. Worse yet, several dogs were allegedly killed and tortured if their performances were below par – some by drowing, some by electrocution. He claims he didn’t know anything about it even after police raided his kennel (he is a co-owner) and found dog fighting equipment and secured eye witness accounts from several sources.
F&cking low life.
And then there are the twats like Hollywood Ebola Paris Hilton. And while I’m not saying that her treatment of her animals comes anywhere near the egregious actions of Michael Vick, no one who truly loves animals would treat them the way she does: as accessories, loved temporarily until the photos get old, until the next party, until the next trip, until the next trend.
Here she is the other day clutching 3 puppies in her arms for no other reason than to make sure the paps snap her with them. As you well know, dogs have four legs. They can walk just as well on their own. Especially at the beach, where most of them would love to scamper around sniffing for something stinky. And still these poor things are subject to a life in which their natural tendencies are neglected and ignored for the pleasure of a selfish twat with only her best interests at heart who will sell them out as quickly as she opens her legs.
Worse yet, inside her home – “large parrots in cages, six (or more) small dogs, and a cat…a large yellow snake living in a cage in one of her rooms and…a small monkey, which Paris had brought back from Las Vegas in her limousine.”
Don’t even try to tell me these animals belong there. And don’t bother arguing she provides them with the kind of quality care they all need. I would leverage my soul before letting Paris Hilton near my dog.
As for the “real” Paris Hilton – have you read the recent article by Jonathan Jaxson? Not surprising in the least but even more proof positive – for the 3 of you who still need it – that Paris Hilton is a disease. And proof positive that nothing ever, ever happens by accident….especially the “one time” drinking and driving incident. Sadly, Hollywood Ebola will never die.
The Strange and Lonely Life of Paris Hilton
By JONATHAN JAXSON
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.
I first met her in March 2005. At the time I was working as the publicist for an actor called Efren Ramirez, who had known Paris for years. We had gone to a Los Angeles Fashion Week party thrown by clothes label Rock & Republic, and it must have been the place to be because at some point during the evening Paris turned up.
Paris, then 24, was with an entourage of a dozen or so people, including her younger sister Nicky and two stylists, and looked absolutely stunning. Efren greeted her with a kiss and then said: "Paris, this is my publicist, Jonathan."
"Hey Paris," I said, grinning like an over-eager schoolboy. "You look beautiful."
Not the most original opening line, I admit. But Paris"s reply totally threw me. Instead of saying "Thank you" she just said: "Wow! That"s hot!" And with that, she was off – circulating the room in a blizzard of air kisses. I don"t think she was at the party for more than ten minutes, but it was long enough to pick up a pile of free clothes and make sure she was photographed by the paparazzi and interviewed by at least one TV station.
I can"t say it was endearing – far from it – but as a publicist, I was fascinated. Despite having little discernible talent – her original claim to fame was being the unwitting "star" of a sex tape posted on the internet by an ex-boyfriend when she was 19 – she was fast becoming America"s most famous celebrity. She was already the queen of the Los Angeles party scene and a staple of the tabloids with her own brand of perfume and jewellery, a bestselling autobiography, a modelling contract and a starring role in a hit reality television series, The Simple Life.
I wanted to know how she operated and how she kept the bandwagon going. 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. There are also plenty of animals around: large parrots in cages; six small dogs, including her pet chihuahua Tinkerbell; and a cat. She seems to have acquired another since then, a Yorkie with whom she was pictured this week – both were wearing matching leopard-print outfits. Sadly, I never had the pleasure of meeting him.
However, I did once see a large yellow snake living in a cage in one of her rooms and, on another occasion, a small monkey, which I was told Paris had brought back from Las Vegas in her limousine. She may well be an animal-lover, but the main reason she keeps this menagerie is to surprise her guests.
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. However, behind her back her friends would quietly snigger at her latest outrageous outfit. They privately nicknamed her Hunchback because of her sloped shoulders. Her staff ensure that her kitchen is fully stocked, but I never once saw Paris eat a meal. She would snack on junk food such as crisps or popcorn and then work off the calories on the dancefloor.
At a certain point in the proceedings, normally around 1am, Paris would decide it was time to hit the clubs and everyone would fall out of the house and into their cars. Paris, as we know from her recent spell in prison, never seemed to think there was anything wrong with drink-driving and would sometimes take the wheel herself.
On the way, a few phone calls would be made and by the time we arrived at the designated club – favourite haunts were Teddy"s, Hyde and Les Deux – security and the paparazzi were waiting. It was then just a short walk from the car, along the red carpet and into the club, handing our keys to the valet and pausing long enough for the cameras. The whole hoopla was a wild, exciting adrenalin rush and Paris was a past-master at it.
Her publicist, Eliot Mintz, whom Paris described as a "short, desperate man", would sometimes accompany us. He was there mostly for damage control – in case she fell down outside a club, for example – but Paris hardly needed a publicist. She"s incredibly astute in playing the publicity game. If someone else of note, such as actresses Misha Barton or Hilary Duff, happened to be heading up the red carpet, Paris knew how to upstage them. She hitched her tiny dress up a notch or ostentatiously kissed one of her girlfriends. Otherwise she"d wait long enough to ensure she had the carpet to herself. Then, she"d pull her dress up even further or perhaps flash her breasts, thereby guaranteeing coverage in the following morning"s tabloids. Naturally, none of us ever had to pay to get into these clubs.
In fact, the clubs sometimes paid Paris up to £10,000 to make an appearance and gave her and everyone with her "bottle privileges" – in other words, drinks were free all evening. Despite this, we would normally stay for only an hour or so – just long enough for Paris to dance with her girlfriends and cast her eye over the good-looking men in the club. If she saw someone she liked, she ordered a friend to ask: "Would you like to meet Paris Hilton?" Needless to say, they always did. Then, after some heavy petting, we would get ready to move on to the next venue.
Again, phone calls would be made to tell the paparazzi Paris was about to leave. She would summon her stylists (she rarely goes anywhere without them) to ensure she looked perfect before coming out to pose for the cameras. 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.
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