Perez Hilton is not only the new me, he’s a flamboyant provocateur who travels first-class between worshipping and sliming celebs as the world tunes in and makes him one of them. Perez’s new book, Red Carpet Suicide: A Survival Guide on Keeping Up With the Hiltons, takes him to a whole new level—and so does this enchanting exchange we just shared to celebrate it in lieu of throwing cum at each other’s faces.
Q: Hi, Perez. You’re far more loved than hated, but does the occasional bile turn you on sometimes?
A: More than turn me on, it keeps me grounded. The fact that I’m not universally loved helps keep my fat head in check. But what would really turn me on is for my new book to be a bestseller.
Q: Fine, I’ll buy it! Anyway, is there a celeb you can actually call your friend?
A: Michael Musto, although I just have his e-mail. Is an e-mail buddy considered a friend?
Q: I don’t know. I’ll have to text my mother and ask. What’s the secret of red carpet success? Reveal everything or reveal nothing?
A: I think a real red carpet success is a red carpet suicide. If you want to get noticed, you have to do what most others are too afraid or too boring to try. I’ve been on many a worst-dressed list, but, hey, at least I’m on a list.
Q: I know! I dress badly, and no one even notices! Which celeb has most surprised you?
A: Madonna, when she first made me a video and then dedicated a song to me in concert. That surpassed anything I ever dreamt of, actually.
Q: Take a bow! Who’s the smartest (or dumbest) of the Lindsay/Britney/Paris trilogy?
A: The smartest is definitely Lindsay. The dumbest is easily Britney. And the hardest-working is Paris.
Q: And the sneakiest is me. While I have you captive, can I inform you that the director of Another Gay Sequel is telling people that [an actor from the previous film] wouldn’t do the follow-up because you were in it? The guy’s mad you once threatened to run pictures of him with Anderson Cooper. True?
A: I think you mean Mitch Morris. Rumor has it that Mitch was having some kind of relationship with Anderson, but I don’t have any photos. If I did, you would have seen them by now.
Q: Yeah, right—kindly send them to me pronto, along with my comp copy of the book!
Someone who makes long movies out of short books, David Fincher just did a Film Society of Lincoln Center event where he discussed his Curious Case of Benjamin Button, a perfectly fine epic of magical realism that might be better left unexplained. But Fincher was charming about it. After the interviewer urged us to turn off our phones, the director deadpanned, “This isn’t Philadelphia, where some dude got shot at a Benjamin Button screening—which I do not condone.” Much as I’d love to drop dead at a high-toned Lincoln Center event, I obediently slammed off my thingie (after texting my mother).
It turns out that even some people who pay attention to Button have told Fincher that it’s clearly about two people who were fated to be with each other. “That’s the antithesis of what we were trying to say,” he moaned. The theme is actually that “youth isn’t wasted on the young.” (Even Miley Cyrus?) And it’s different from his previous film, Zodiac, he cracked, in that “it has a higher body count.” Especially in Philadelphia.
A less self-effacing auteur, Barbra Streisand went to see August: Osage County recently, and some are buzzing that it’s because Babs might want to direct the movie version. Maybe she can also cast herself as the old motormouthed bitch on wheels.
In a similar vein, does anyone know who the forbidding creature with the eyepatch is who grimly takes your money and stamps your wrist at Mr. Black? Some say he used to be a tour guide at the Vatican, but others swear he worked the camps in a former life.
Speaking of the Vatican—ba dum pum—a source in Italy swears to me that Pope Ratzinger has a young boyfriend in that very establishment. Of course, this can’t possibly be true. There’s never been a gay in the church, least of all a hypocritical one, right?
A saint among men, I judged the four-hour M.E.A.N.Y. Fest band contest at Santos’ Party House, where violinist/rock star Lourds Lane told me that her rock opera, Super Chix, is coming to New Stages. Maybe it can be the new miracle of Lourds.
In a miracle of whores, I’ve got a shitload of blind items for you people, and this time, there’s a heavy emphasis on the old-timers, so let me yank down my mental Depends, release them onto the page, and get ready to start anew:
Which legendary rocker has always had a taste for transsexual prosties? Which legendary rocker hasn’t? What soul legend once found her son in bed with her husband and also learned that her sister was screwing her previous husband? Which old-time movie star made up that drag-queen bit to sell her book? Which really old-time half of that husband-and-wife duo is a total C-word who treats underlings like unrecyclable trash?
Which bizarre comic recently invited two teens to his house for an Emmy party when he wasn’t really having one? Which ’80s rocker’s ex-girlfriend has one breast that’s much larger than the other, obviously because the implant imploded? Should she implode the other one so at least they’ll look even? What more current rocker shamelessly cheats on the highbrow wife, hitting on the babes as if he were single? How long before he will be? Which flamboyant ’80s pop star is mad that I quoted something he wrote to a friend on Facebook? (Does he not realize that’s a public forum for all the world to gawk at? That’s kind of endearing.)
Which unctuous interviewer hung around a director’s house naked in the ’80s, sporting a hard-on while leering at the guy’s daughters, “Hmm. You girls look tasty today”? (No, it’s not Barbara Walters.) What scary yet magnetic chanteuse from the disco days faked a neck accident to get out of paying an overseas hotel bill? Which golden girl is supposedly a late-blooming lesbo who spends summers at gay resorts with her girlfriend? Which dazzling entertainer used to tip waiters with bags of coke? Which magazine whose name rhymes with Sanity Rare had a Christmas party where the food was so disappointingly inadequate that the staff fled to a nearby bar to eat? (To the editor’s credit, he picked up the tab there and even sent an assistant with pizzas.)
Why did Ellen DeGeneres, in trying to get George Clooney on her show, have 12 girls stationed outside his house, holding signs that said, “Come out, George!”? Isn’t it creepy that in Synecdoche, New York, Philip Seymour Hoffman thinks he’s reading an obit for Harold Pinter? What is my Bahamas source gurgling about the Jett Travolta tragedy? (“The resort staff once told me they had no idea what was wrong with him, but he stayed up all night and slept during the day and had to be watched at all times.”) What do I find is effective against my own seizure disorder? (Dilantin.) Who’s the new me? (Just checking to see if you were paying attention.)
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on January 7, 2009