I have just finished work on a series of short promotional films for a certain music television network. They are pimping a video music awards show, even though they no longer show music videos on their network. Strange, I know, but mine is not to question. I actually quite like working on things like this from time to time. It keeps me humble to be in the presence of such genius musical artists as Panic! in the Disco and All American Rejects. Yeah, there was a scene we shot with some classic rockers named Anthony and Flea from some band called the Dynamite Jalapenos or something like that. Of course, I work in a managerial position, in an office that I have to drag around with me everywhere I go. It's something of a pain, but well worth it when someone asks for a stapler and I can lend them my Swingline.
Our final day of shooting took place on a sound stage in Hollywood on Sunday. Our set was built next door to the set of the new Lindsay Lohan movie, Georgia Rule, which wouldn't be a problem except for the fact that our own diva, Paris Hilton, and Miss Lohan have a rather sour relationship. Luckily for everyone, their bodyguards played football together and now do their best to keep their respective clients away from each other. I saw Lindsay on Saturday at the commissary catching some rays on the patio. This was just days after a scathing letter surfaced, basically saying if Lindsay didn't show up on time, she'd be fired. Needless to say, LL looked less than thrilled to be there.
When Paris finally arrived, there was no drama. The divas were oblivious to the fact that they were so close to each other.
Now, the latest Paris news has her taking a one year vow of celibacy. (Which shouldn't be that hard, since she says she's only slept with two guys... One of which, she made a video of. I wonder who the other one was?) Maybe she just meant two guys at a time, anyway, that's trashy gossip and I am here to talk about the facts. What really happened.... True dirt... Well, they shot her scenes and everyone was really happy, despite the fact that the whitest kittens we could find were tabbies. It all worked out perfectly and Paris retired to her dressing room after the shoot was over. Here is where it gets interesting...
Some of you might remember this painting I did of Miss Hilton eating a hamburger. Well, on my way in to work that morning, it occurred to me that Paris might like to see it. So, I called JR and asked him to bring it to me at the stage, in the off chance that I would have an opportunity to meet her. And so, I waited outside her dressing room for her manager to finish a phone call. When he did, I explained that I would very much like to meet Paris and show her the artwork she had inspired.
Even though previous posts claim that she and I are close friends, it just isn't the case. Although, my general feelings for and about her have been drifting towards a melancholy acceptance. Her manager said that he would ask her and a few minutes later, I was summoned into the dressing room for an audience with the Queen of Reality TV/Hotel Heiress Paris Hilton. This was a highly surreal moment for me. Paris sat in her makeup chair admiring her reflection as I approached.
"Hi Paris..." I said, shyly. "I did this painting of you, it's not a very good likeness. I thought you might like to see it." She took the painting from me and admired her reflection.
"Oh, how sweet!" Paris cooed. "It is for me?"
"If you like it, I would love for you to have it."
"I do like it." Several of her assistants had gathered around to see what the fuss what about. They all seemed to agree. I asked for an autograph and photo, in exchange for the painting.
"Does that sound fair?" Paris nodded and stood, still holding the artwork.
"It's the Carl's Jr. thing," she commented. "And it even has Tink."
Her manager volunteered to take the photo. Paris slid her hand around me and pulled me close. I was still reeling from the latent Carl's Jr. comment when the camera flashed. As a result, my eyeline is off. I am thinking: This is weird.
At the wrap dinner the following night, her wardrobe stylist for the shoot told me how much Paris liked the painting.
"Think about it," she said. "Paris can have anything she wants, but it's hand-made stuff like your painting that mean the most and you gave it to her because you love her. She totally dug it." I coughed a little when she said that I loved Paris. I suppose she was right, though. That is not the kind of thing that money can buy. I feel bad that I didn't try harder to make it look more like she really is. Several people have suggested to me that I shouldn't have given it to her, but sold it to her. For some reason, that just doesn't seem right.
After the photo, Paris searched the room for something to sign for me. She chose a copy of the "script" and wrote some kind words. I thanked her and put it into my notebook, which happens to have my autographed photo of the Backstreet Boys on the cover. "Oh!" Paris said. "That's my ex-boyfriend!" Having completely forgotten that Paris had once been romantically linked to Nick Carter, I felt like an ass. I just grinned and backed out of her dressing room, thanking her again.
My Paris Hilton experience was short and sweet. She really is a nice person and I will have a hard time dissing her from now on. She's just a girl who owns one of my paintings and half the hotels in the world. I think she might even own a little piece of my heart.